For those who wonder, I've decided to rework this story, which I've realized had a number of canon errors and some serious inconsistencies in language usages.  So, I'll be reposting it, and hope that this time I can get those crucial middle chapters written and thus tie the beginning and ending (which has been written for three or more years!) and so post the whole of it!  Some chapters require but little editing, while others need total rewrites, so it should be worth a re-read as it's posted.  Thanks!  BLS

Stirring Rings

Prologue

            Throughout the Second Age he’d passed almost unnoticed, a single Elf wandering the shores of Ennor, of the Mortal Lands, his hands terribly scarred by an ancient burn, his laments sending thrills of various sorts through those few who heard them.  He sang his grief for those who had died before his eyes, those he believed he’d failed to protect and those who’d died by his hand.  He sang of the land of his birth, and how sorry he was that he had left it, driven by a vow he’d given freely at the time but that he’d not pondered with sufficient care before following the lead of his father.  He sang of the murders of his grandfather and father, and their estrangements from those who’d cleaved to them.  He sang of his own wife and child, left behind to dwell with his mother and remaining grandsire when he and his brothers followed their father to the slaughter of Alqualondë.  He sang of the betrayal of his uncles and other kinsmen who’d had to follow over the treacherous ice of the Helcaraxë when he failed to stop his father from burning the ships stolen from the Teleri rather than sending them back as promised to bring the rest of the fleeing Noldor to the shores of Endorë.  He sang of the realms he and his brothers had created and held—and then lost due to treachery and the lasting hatred of their foes.  He sang of his own foolishness and of his horror at his brothers’ betrayal of Finrod and the folk of Nargothrond, and of his and Maedhros’s perfidy toward those who’d dwelt in Sirion, and of the horror he’d felt as he’d seen Elwing throw herself out into the stormy sea rather than allow his bloodstained hands to touch the holy jewel she wore by right of inheritance, come to her by the steadfastness of love known by a mere Man for her grandmother.  He sang of the dark years of struggle against Morgoth’s power and darkness and the loss of his brother’s hand as Maedhros was rescued by their cousin.  And he sang of his own disbelief that he’d still been driven by the vow he’d made so long ago to betray all and seek to steal the jewels taken by the might of the Valar’s forces from their brother’s Iron Crown, and of his shock at how his brother had ended his life in fire, casting himself into the depths of the earth to escape the burning of his remaining hand.

            Few truly saw him, and fewer still purposely sought word of him.  Throughout much of the Second Age Sauron’s minions hunted him at times but never found him; by the time Sauron had returned to Middle Earth after the fall of Númenor he was all but forgotten even by the Lord of Mordor.  For Sauron the hatred of Fëanor’s sons for all who had served the Black Enemy was of far less moment than his own hatred for those who had witnessed his abasement before Ar-Pharazôn and who had continued to defy him on Atalantë, and who had survived the foundering of the Star Isle only to flourish on their return to Middle Earth.  What mattered the wanderings of one who had fallen from lordship to an eternity of exile even from among his own kind?

            But he who had been named Macalaurë by his mother and who’d been known as Maglor during the wars against Angband never forgot his hatred for Morgoth’s former lieutenant who now sought to take his former Master’s place as the Dark Overlord of all of the Mortal Lands.  From time to time Maglor would disguise himself and enter what Elven lands and settlements of Men he came to, and would sing of ancient enmities, reminding all that although Morgoth might have been vanquished and thrust out of Arda through the Doors of Night, the same was not true of Sauron, who once had been called Aulendil, friend of Aulë, the Smith from among the Valar.  Had not Sauron helped to topple the first Lamps set up by the Valar to light the world?  Had he not led his Lord’s people against the forces of those amongst the Eldar and the Edain and Khazad who’d ever sought to preserve Ennor from Morgoth’s darkness?  Had he not encouraged others of his own kind to take the forms of Balrogs and vampires and werewolves and other shapes too terrible to imagine and to attack those Morgoth named as his enemies?  Had he not taken many prisoners for his Lord, and aided to break them, corrupting their bodies and spirits to create orcs?  Had he not enslaved many to work in his mines and fields?  Had he not tried many arcane arts too dark to contemplate on Elves and Men and other creatures, and learned somehow to harvest sufficient power from the deaths of his victims to recover from the losses he knew when first his temple to Morgoth was drowned and later he lost his Ring to the shards of Elendil’s sword wielded by Isildur?

            None might recognize the singer and bard who came and went unseen save when he sang; but his songs served to inspire many to remember that evil still remained within the Mortal Lands and must be opposed ever.  And ere he would stand to take whatever harp was being passed from hand to hand to offer his own song for the evening, he would listen closely to the news discussed around him as he nursed his drink, and use it to inspire what he should sing and to craft new songs of warning against the perfidy of Sauron.

            And now and then he would find himself facing one of his own kind, usually those who were headed West toward Mithlond who would hear singing north or south of them along the shoreline and who would turn from their path to follow the song to find him.  It happened rarely, perhaps but once or twice in five hundred years, but there were a few who would seek him out.  Some sought to confront him for the evil he’d wrought.  Some begged him to give over that long-ago vow and return with them.  Some merely offered to bear messages for him to those who’d remained behind, who’d stayed true to the Valar and Peace, those he’d loved dearly.

            He knew that one of his fosterlings had founded his own small kingdom in a hidden and protected vale near the roots of the Mountains of Mist, and that the other had chosen mortality and had founded a great—and now lost—kingdom within sight of Eressëa.  He knew that Findaráto, Finrod Felagund, had died and that he’d been among the first of the Noldor exiles to be reborn in Aman.  He knew that a remnant of Elros’s descendants had returned to Middle Earth and had created great kingdoms here, and that both were threatened by Sauron’s forces led by the Nazgûl.

            When those few who offered to bear messages came at last home to the Undying Lands, it was always with the same request, that the Valar be implored to send aid against Sauron and his creatures.  For had not Sauron proved himself as treacherous and hateful of those who served the Light as had Morgoth?  Always Maglor had opposed Morgoth; now he opposed Sauron as he could, which was little enough.  No longer would he carry anything more lethal than an eating knife, recognizing that he was far too violent in nature and easily swayed to betrayal to be trusted with weapons of war any longer.  So it was the echoes of his songs and his pleas and his hatred for those who would impose Darkness on all that reached the Undying Lands and that were passed unto the Lords there.  And at last the day came that he who’d been known as the Friend of Men and past King of Nargothrond prevailed upon his father to seek audience before the Valar themselves, again begging aid for those who dwelt in the Mortal Lands and faced the antipathy and tyranny of the Lord of Mordor.

Debate in Valinor

            Arafinwë, or Finarfin, as he was known in the Mortal Lands, and his son Findaráto, who’d been called Finrod Felagund and the Friend of Men during his years of exile, stood before the Valar, their faces utterly serious.  “You know the news carried by the stones and the refugees,” the King of the Noldor said, his voice hard as adamant, “that the darkness of Morgoth is still not totally banished from Endorë, from Middle Earth, and that Sauron seeks once again to introduce it from Dol Guldur, and that his ring slaves seek to take the city of Minas Ithil founded by Isildur and make of it a place of dread and fell magics.  Sauron has sought to take the place of Morgoth since shortly after that one was vanquished and banished by you beyond the Gates of Night, and gathers together those of Morgoth’s fell creatures and servants he has been able to find and free, and then makes even more as he can.  His own creations of rings of enslavement have brought him a harvest of ones who have lost their own nature through their betrayal of their friends and brothers and peoples; but unable to totally corrupt others he instead tricked Celebrimbor to create more rings of power as taught by himself, knowing that the trust most hold in the integrity of the great Elves of Middle Earth will make them more likely to accept such gifts, making but one Great Ring himself to rule the others.

            “Yes, Isildur cut It from his hand and It is lost to him—but It was not destroyed, and remains a threat to all of Middle Earth until It is found and returned to the fire from whence It came.  Until It is found Elrond, Artanis, and Círdan are able to protect their own lands and keep alive in Middle Earth the dream of peace and the memory of blessedness through the wielding of their own rings; but when It is found again all they have wrought will be laid bare to him for the destruction and corruption of all.

            “What help can we send them?  We cannot allow them to stand totally alone, hearing your counsel in their hearts only.”

            Manwë looked at the Elven Lord from his great throne.  And how is it you know that the one who seeks to rule from Dol Guldur is indeed Sauron and not another seeking to follow Morgoth as did Sauron?

            “Do you think that after over two ages of Middle Earth Macalaurë does not know the taste of Sauron’s foul breath upon the wind?  He has sent word by….”

            The name of that one may not be uttered here, Aulë pronounced in a voice as stony as that of the Elf.

            “Does his very name taint this place?  I think not.  He is heartily sorry for what he and those who took part in the kinslayings here and there have wrought, and has accepted his exile as right and proper.  Surely his repentance must earn him the right for his name at least to be spoken?  Or are you indeed as faint-hearted and as desirous of control over others as sworn by Fëanáro?”

            It was a dangerous utterance and he knew it; but Arafinwë placed his trust in Manwë’s sense of fairness.  Aulë and Oromë mantled, but the gaze of the Lord of the Valar was steady, considering, even sad, while that of Varda showed deep compassion.  Nienna and Estë drew closer to their sister and ruling Lady, and Yavanna’s lovely face was thoughtful.

            At last Manwë raised his head slightly, again closely examining the two Noldor who stood in the midst of the Valar and Maiar who’d chosen to observe this audience.  In this you have the right of it—Macalaurë has indeed professed repentance and accepts his assigned punishment with remarkable grace; and the word he has sent to you is confirmed by messages sent by Círdan as well.  But what aid would you have us send to the peoples of Middle Earth?  We have vowed not to enter again bodily into the mortal lands lest we destroy far more than we protect; nor may we invoke the intervention of Ilúvatar, for none offers offense against His will to the point He must act against them openly.  Already is the world of Arda broken due to the overweening hubris of Ar-Pharazôn, with no view any more of Aman from anywhere within Endorë.

            “There must be some aid that may be offered to them,” Finrod stated with a hint of desperation in his voice.  “My sister did ill to leave this place in search of the chance to express her own power; but she remains my sister nonetheless, and has offered no true offense against others here or there save the sin of disobedience.  I would not see her and all she loves destroyed by this renegade Maia.  Is there no way in which you can act against him?”

            Yavanna sighed.  Child, she said, look what happened in the War of Wrath.  Beleriand sank beneath the waves of the Sea, while other lands were lifted up, and in the end the turmoil of the rage we expended against our rebellious brother left the lands of Middle Earth totally changed and most of its creatures destroyed or traumatized beyond recovery.  Long Vána, Nessa, and I labored to see the lands again clothed in vegetation and capable of sustaining a variety of life.  Long did the tears of Nienna fall to cleanse away the memory of anger and destructive pride.  Long the waters of Ulmo served to ease the distress felt.

            And then Ar-Pharazôn listened to the blandishments of Morgoth’s lieutenant, and again destruction was loosed upon Arda.  Atalantë foundered beneath the Wave; the world was bent and broken, and Aman almost totally cut off from her sister-lands across the Sundering Sea.  Middle Earth was itself again damaged beyond the effects of Sauron’s atrocities, and only the return of the Faithful to it effected its redemption.

            Varda’s attention was fixed for some moments on the Lady of the Fruits of the Earth, then returned to the two Elves.  For us to enter again into Endorë would indeed wreak more damage than good.  It would be similar to sending a Mûmak to rout a mouse when the services of a cat would be more appropriate—and far less destructive.

            Finrod gave a great sigh and shook his head.  “I certainly would not liken Sauron to a mouse, no matter how destructive such creatures might be.  He is more a ravening wolf, its mind destroyed through the water rage.  Against such, a Mûmak might indeed serve well in finishing his destructive rampage.

            “Well, since Sauron himself was from among the Maiar, is there no way we might invoke some from that number to assist in fighting him?”

            Those of that company that were present looked from one to the other, and at last one among them fixed the son of Arafinwë with its attention.  It was intended that Sauron himself be a servant and messenger, but as you say he has chosen the way of the ravening wolf over that of the mouse or the dove or eagle—or that of the cat.  However, if we send some of our own number to counter his evil, how are we to assure they do not seek to become Mûmakil themselves rather than the clean arrow that most efficiently stops the career of the maddened beast?  And how do we choose the ones most effective in countering his evil?

            It is yet a worthy suggestion, Manwë said thoughtfully, to send those of Sauron’s own order to counter him.  But your objection is noted and is most worthy of consideration, he said to the Maia who’d entered the debate.

            Oromë shook his own great head.  I like it not, to involve the folk of our realm in a battle for ultimate power in Endorë, he said.  It is best that the residents of the mortal lands should themselves stand against Sauron’s tyranny.  You, Findaráto, have stated perhaps a Mûmak might be needed to slay the ravening wolf.  Yet the Mûmak will destroy more than the wolf when its ire is raised, and its ire must be raised to bring it to such actions.  No, in such a case the arrow of the hunter is best—or better yet, the arrows of many hunters working together.  And in the case of the ravening wolf, those hunters who will do the best hunting and will make certain the beast is indeed dead are those hunters whose lives and families and stock are worst threatened by the beast.

            “Yet there is often the need for instruction in the use of the bow and in tracking in bringing farmers and husbandmen to the ability to slay such beasts,” Arafinwë pointed out.  “It might not be best to have Maiar slaying Maiar; but to have Maiar advising the residents of Endorë in how to best stand up to one of their own kind and how to most effectively counter him would be advisable, or so it appears to me.”

            There was a good deal of silent discussion amongst Valar and Maiar in response to this.  At last Manwë again faced the two Elven lords, and with a slight nod he noted, So be it, then.  We will send Maiar to serve as teachers and advisors in countering the evil of Sauron.  But they will have limits imposed upon them that indeed they not release too much power and destroy more than they aid; and their primary purpose will not be to slay their failed brother themselves, but instead to inspire those of Middle Earth to stand against him effectively.  There is always the danger that those intended to counter may themselves be corrupted and thus seek to replace Sauron in the final service of Morgoth.

            But how are those sent to be chosen? asked Estë.  We would do well to choose carefully and with much thought.

            Varda added, And we would do well to give much thought also to how we should impose limits on their actions and their appearance and personal power that those who follow their advice do so not out of awe but out of choice.  To obey the commands of one known to be sent by Eru and ourselves solely because of his rank and nature as a Maia does not teach the one who obeys to choose to oppose Sauron because he has become evil; it simply teaches blind obedience to authority.  If those who seek power as has been taught by Morgoth and Sauron are to continue to be opposed, it must be due to the free choice of those opposing them. And, those who oppose evil must recognize fully that freedom is a careful balance between obedience and free will, and that humility is necessary for that balance to be reached.  The ones sent must be examples to be followed, not authorities to be obeyed if the lesson is to be learned thoroughly.

            Yet they must have sufficient power and ability to wield it effectively in case they find themselves facing those of their failed brethren who have followed Morgoth and Sauron and who have been frozen into the shapes of evil they have chosen, objected Tulkas.  They cannot be among the weakest of the Maiar.

            “What about Sauron’s Ring of Power?” asked Arafinwë.  “If It survives, Sauron will only return again as he does even now; and It remains a threat of corruption to all others.  Does It yet exist?”

            All looked to the Smith of the Valar.  Aulë lowered his eyes.  Ulmo had not attended this conference, and it took an effort of will to contact him and enlist his aid.  At last Aulë broke off his communication with the Lord of Waters.  The gold which hosts the spell and has served as vessel to hold so much of the spirit of Sauron has not come back to me, he noted.  Therefore I must assume It still continues in the purpose given It by Sauron.  Nor does It rest in the depths of the earth.  I have a sense of It, but It lies between my realm and that of our brother Ulmo.  I have just spoken with Ulmo, and he says It does not lie near him in the heart of his realm there within the Sundering Sea; instead he says the waters of Anduin carry occasional word to him and the taste of the foulness that fills It.  Therefore It lies yet in the bed of the river in which It was lost.

            “In which case,” Arafinwë said, “It remains a danger to all within Middle Earth, and particularly should It fall back into the hands of Its Master.  How shall any ensure It is destroyed that such does not occur?”

            Manwë paused momentarily, and finally spoke slowly.  The means by which that might be accomplished are even now under consideration by Ilúvatar, and I, at least, will not seek to second-guess Him.  When the time is right we, His servants, will be apprised of His will.

            One of the Maiar stepped forward.  I studied by our fallen brother’s side and served also in the forges of Aulë, he noted.  I am knowledgeable in the lore of Middle Earth and the great struggle against Morgoth, and have learned of the making of rings.  I even understand somewhat how Sauron reasons, and so am in a better position than most to devise counters to his plans.  Perhaps I should be one of those chosen.

            Aulë nodded with approval.  Curumo would be a good one to send, I believe.  I will support his claim to stand against Sauron.

            The Weaver of the Valar straightened.  I will agree that this one is sufficiently learned and powerful to stand against his brother.  However, Curumo has ever been one proud of his accomplishments, and such pride as he has shown may in the end lead to his destruction.  The patterns such leads to….  Vairë said no more, but shrugged eloquently.

            Curumo’s form grew still with offense.  I have no intention of failing if I am indeed chosen to go to Endorë and face Sauron, he communicated coldly.

            The Vala straightened, her gaze steady and evaluating him thoroughly.  Few intend to fail when they set themselves to go against such power as is wielded by he who was a brother to you, she indicated with equal coldness.

            Oromë ignored the argument between the Maia and the Weaver as he fixed his attention on the Lord of the Valar.  If Aulë will send Curumo, I would see Alatar go also.  Of those of the Maiar who have served under me, he is the wisest and most powerful, and in following my hunts within the mortal lands he has learned much of Endorë, particularly in the eastern lands that have in the last two ages lain most strongly under Sauron’s influence.  I would think he could be most useful there in teaching the people of those lands to fight the black one’s will.

            Yavanna also sought to gain Manwë’s attention.  I would wish one who holds an interest in the earth itself and its creatures sent also.  We have seen what Morgoth did with all lands he laid claim to; and Sauron follows the example set for him two ages of Middle Earth past.  Everywhere he and his creatures go they do their best to destroy all of any use to others or of any beauty that no one may benefit from them or know any delight in them.  Aiwendil delights in birds and beasts and fertile places.  He may not choose to seek to oppose Sauron directly; but in encouraging life to flourish in spite of Sauron’s will and in helping to restore the world once Sauron is vanquished he can do much to bring Endorë back to the point of balance.

            And why, demanded Aulë, would we send one not intended to face Sauron directly?

            Because to encourage growth is yet another way to oppose him, his consort responded.  As was true of his master, Sauron has lost sight of the need for growth.  He would rather consume all to his own engorgement, mistaking possession and consumption for his due.

            Oromë objected, But the purpose of sending these will be to teach the people of Middle Earth to deal with Sauron.  If he would be unwilling to face Sauron or his creatures, what good is he?

            Yavanna’s expression was fixed.  There is more than one way in which to oppose Sauron’s tyranny, brother.

            We will consider it, sister Yavanna, Manwë decided.  I will consider others as well.

            How many would you send? asked Estë.

            We will consider that also, Manwë said with finality.

            “And what of my sister Artanis?” asked Finrod stubbornly.  “Is there no manner in which the ban on her return might be lifted?  There in Middle Earth she keeps alive the memory and awareness of the Valar and Lórien here, defying the memory of Morgoth, defying the will of Sauron.  She was born here in Aman, and stood beneath the Light of the Trees.  Must she be forever banned?  She has sought only to oppose evil since she went to Middle Earth.”

            The Lord of the Valar examined the son of Arafinwë dispassionately.  Our daughter left this place in search of the chance to know power and to practice it.  She accepted one of the three rings of power created by Celebrimbor to heighten her abilities.  Is she willing to return here, no longer a ruler but subject to us?  If she were offered the chance to heighten her personal power, how would she react?

            No, child, until she demonstrates she realizes there must be a limit to power grasped she will not be allowed to return.  The test will be offered to her, and if she accepts that in reaching for more she will lose herself then the ban will be lifted.  Otherwise, she will only follow Sauron and Morgoth into the abyss.  Will you accept this as fair?

            Finrod looked to his father.  The lord of the Noldor sighed, and then answered for both, “Let it be so, Lord Manwë.  If she reaches for more power, then she demonstrates, once and for all, that she has lost herself completely.  But to know that there is a possibility that she might indeed return here to the land of her birth eases much of our worry and grief at her absence from our company.”

            Nienna fixed her own attention on Arafinwë.  You stated that we cannot expect the peoples of Middle Earth to rely on our voices spoken within their hearts.  Why do you say this?  Why must we send messengers instead?

            Arafinwë weighed his words carefully.  “Even here in Aman it can at times be difficult to separate the words of the Valar from our own imaginations, sweet Lady.  It is even more difficult in the Mortal Lands, particularly with the need to fight also the influence of Sauron and his minions, the urging of those who would corrupt others for their own gain, and the whispering of Morgoth’s own voice, a whispering still audible to the hearts of too many.  Often it is only the ability to see the face of the one doing the urging that allows the listener to sort out the false words from the true.”

            And too often even then a pleasant aspect may convince the listener that lying words are true, Nienna noted.  Look how Sauron, in the guise of Annatar, convinced Celebrimbor to trust him, and later did so again in Númenor as Zigûr.  Until the peoples of Endorë realize that a fair face can easily mask foul advice and motivations, all will ever remain in danger of being overwhelmed by evil.

            Even so, agreed Manwë.  He rose.  So be it—we will send a number of Maiar to Middle Earth as advisers, but in such guise they will raise feelings of respect rather than worship from those whose hearts are guided by their own honor, and with limitations on them that they shall not be easily tempted to follow the example of Morgoth and Sauron and will not do more harm in Middle Earth than it can bear.  Are we agreed?

            The rest of those present looked at one another, and finally turned to their ruler and indicated their assent.

            Arafinwë and Finrod bowed deeply, their hearts lightened for daughter and sister and for all she’d come to love within Endorë.  There was hope that Sauron might at last be vanquished and banished after his chosen Master.  “Thank you, our lords and ladies,” Arafinwë said as he accepted his dismissal.  “For Artanis and all our kindred who remain in Middle Earth, we thank you.”

Marching Orders

            Curumo stood before Manwë and Eärendil.  What appearance would you have those who accept this duty assume? he asked.

            I have asked the Mariner to attend on this to arrive at a better appreciation of what forms would be better suited to evoke honor among Men and Elves both, he was answered.  What think you, my lord? the Lord of the Valar asked the Peredhel.  What form would Men and Elves of honor both most instinctively honor and respect in return?

            Eärendil thought carefully as he examined the shape the Maia had assumed.  At last he indicated slowly, Not that of an Elf, for there is too often estrangement between Elves and Men, with Men suspecting Elves of secret motivations for their advice or envying their apparent immortality, and Elves reacting to that envy with suspicions of their own.  Nor that of a Dwarf, who are viewed, perhaps too often rightly, of being guilty of greed, avarice, and disdain for those who live on the surface of the earth.  Nor is there easy love between Dwarves and Men, while there is all too often outright enmity between the Children of Aulë and the Firstborn.  Not that of a Perian, for all would look askance at advice offered by one so small and given to the filling of larders and bellies.  No, it would have to be that of a Man.

            Curumo immediately took on the aspect of a Lord among Men, tall and straight of carriage, his face fair, his eyes filled with wisdom and authority, his jaw firm.  He wore white armor and carried a great sword at his hip, a shining helm under his arm.

            Manwë examined the Maia’s new form impassively, but the lips of Eärendil compressed in reaction to the new appearance, and he automatically shook his head.  “No,” he said aloud, surprising both Vala and Maia, for he’d not spoken so for well over an age of Middle Earth.  This will not do, he continued.  I have seen the form Sauron took as one of the Children of Ilúvatar, and this is too close to that form, although this is plainly that of a Man while that of Annatar was more that of an Elf in appearance.  Yes, it would evoke respect, but that respect would answer to authority and not to wisdom itself.

            The Maia went pale at the perceived rebuke, but straightened when he saw agreement in the eyes of the Lord of Arda.  Manwë asked, Should he look more a youth, perhaps?

            The Peredhel slowly shook his head.  Alas, no, for such would be ignored as one too likely callow and certain of his own perceptions when in actuality his wisdom is untried.

            Then perhaps he should take the form of a man well advanced in years, suggested Manwë.  With the agreement of the Master of the Vingilot, the Vala turned again to Curumo and indicated such a change in aspect would be in order, and with slight grimace the Maia complied.

            Now Curumo appeared a Man of his late middle years, hairs beginning to grey at the temples but overall dark and thick.  Again his carriage was proud, his eyes filled with thought, his face full of authority.  He wore now a rich robe and still the sword at his hip.  When, however, he saw that Eärendil continued to shake his shining head, his lip began to curl with frustration.

            No, as with the former aspect this is too strongly that of a lordly Man, and the reaction would be more to the perceived authority and not to the actual wisdom spoken, the Mariner objected.

            Older yet, then, Manwë agreed.  Nor should you appear a warrior.  Your role will not be to lead armies or rule nations, but to guide through your advice.

            The Maia looked disbelieving for a moment, but concentrated his attention again on calling upon himself still another form.  Now he stood before them a Man indeed advanced in years, his face lined with much experience, his long beard and hair shining silvery white but streaked in places with black.  His eyebrows were long, his face narrow, his eyes alert and considering.  His carriage was still proud, but the pride was not now perceived as pride in accomplishment but of wisdom garnered and demonstrated.  His white robes were simpler although as elegant as ever, but the sword rode still at his hip.  Slowly Manwë nodded his approval, while Eärendil merely straightened, not having more criticism he would express openly.

            Yes, the Vala pronounced, this is indeed the best form for him to carry.  However, he continued as he considered the Maia closely, it would not do to appear an aged Man if you do not appear to be so completely.  An aged Man would know some stiffness of the joints— he negligently waved a hand and Curumo felt surprise as just such stiffness could be felt forming in his knees, hips, shoulders, and hands, —and would need to lean upon a staff.  Again a wave, and the sword Curumo had worn at his hip became a rod in his hand.  Manwë considered the staff for a moment, then gave a nod as a decision took him.  Let the staff be the repository for your native wisdom and experience and power as a Maia, and for most of your memory of your time here in Aman, he declared, as he made a gesture of command.  Slowly the staff in the hand of what appeared to be an aged Man began to change, becoming an elegant shape, apparently made of ebony and carved at the top with four great flanges between which was held an ivory sphere.

            Curumo’s expression became confused and disoriented as much of his memory and power and wisdom were drained away into the staff he carried.  He looked at his lord with some fear and even some anger.  “Must I be so diminished?” he demanded, then looked appalled as he heard his own voice.

            Not diminished, Manwë sought to reassure him.  It is merely that you are no longer to appear a Maia, and no Man would have full access to all of the power and wisdom and raw knowledge you have garnered through your experience as a servant to Aulë here within Aman.  You will be able to draw upon what is held within your staff at need, but once that wisdom or power is no longer needed it will withdraw again into its resting place.  You will need to eat and drink, to relieve yourself and to rest periodically.  You will have a Man’s capacity to learn from others and your experiences within Endorë, and thus will add to your basic knowledge and wisdom.  As long as you remain true to your purpose you will have full access at need to that which is held within your staff.  If you stray from your path, however, the staff will be withdrawn.

             I offer you now a choice:  a small skiff lies on the shore near the harbors of Tol Eressëa.  You may go there now and take possession of it, and sail it upon the Sea.  The winds will bring you to the Straight Path, and the barrier that blocks passage from this end will open for you at Ulmo’s command, and you will come in time to the harbor of Mithlond from which you will begin your adventure within Middle Earth.  Or Eärendil here may carry you, Aiwendil, and the skiff past the Straight Path and set you both down near the mouths of the harbor there, and during the sailing may impart much of his own wisdom to the both of you.

            “And why would I sail with Aiwendil?” demanded Curumo.  “Am I not the one of the number to be sent there who goes willingly, having volunteered for this service?”

            That is true, came the response, that you have volunteered while he goes on command.  However, he, too, carries a mandate to do as and what he can.  Also, remember that your Lord supported your claim to oppose Sauron, while Yavanna, his consort, chooses to send her own servant to serve as he has learned from her.  It is only right that, if the two of you both agree, you should go together.

            “I do not agree,” insisted the newly formed Man.  “As I was first to accept the duty, I would be the first to arrive in that land and to announce myself.”

            As I indicated, it shall be as you desire.  You shall indeed be the first among the newly formed order of the Istari, and as the White you shall be foremost among those who accept this duty.  When the others arrive you will know it, but none shall challenge you for primacy—not as long as all remain true to your joint purpose.  Each of you, once you enter that place, shall be allowed to advance as you best see fit, and your free will shall not be impinged upon.  Is this acceptable to you?

            The Istar slowly nodded.  “So be it indeed, my Lord,” he said formally, and he bowed, then turned away to seek transport to Tol Eressëa to find the promised skiff.

            Once he was gone, Vairë the Weaver entered, her eyes filled with concern.  And how has he chosen to travel, my Lord Brother? she asked him.

            He has chosen to go alone in the skiff.

            She looked after the way the new Istar had gone.  So, she said with a sigh of regret, already his pride leads him?  He will not learn from the Mariner’s own experience and wisdom, nor what might be shared with him by Aiwendil or the others?  As I said in the Council, such patterns lead all too often to disaster and destruction.

             It is partly for this I drew from him much of his native power, wisdom, and knowledge, Manwë acknowledged.  Otherwise I fear he will too quickly follow Sauron’s own path of seeking to impose his own will on others, mistaking his own motivations for what is right.  And it will take him some time to master the manner in which he may draw on what is held in the staff.  It is my hope that the time required for that will serve to allow experience there to soften the pride and allow the wisdom of others to penetrate and help him hold true.

             It was well done, agreed Eärendil.  But will you treat all the others equally?

            Manwë looked on the Mariner with some thought.  I will have the same restrictions placed on all chosen, he finally indicated.  Aiwendil will be under the same restrictions, as will Alatar and any who seeks to accompany him, and the one other I think now to send.

            And who is that? asked his sister.

            The Lord of Arda smiled.  Olórin, if he will agree.

            The Mariner straightened with some surprise.  Yet that one is not tied to the service of any one of the Valar, for he has served equally the two of you, the Lady Varda, Lady Yavanna, Irmo, Tulkas, Vána, Lorien, Nienna, Estë—indeed I believe he has served at one time or another each of the Valar, even Ulmo and Námo.

            He is the greatest of the Maiar, and the most curious of his kind.  He is compassionate and careful of thought, yet he possesses a sense of humor—an unusual commodity amongst the Maiar.  He also has at times followed the Hunt with Oromë and knows much of the lands through which he will travel.  He was distressed when Sauron turned from service to follow Morgoth.  If he cannot stand against Sauron and the lure of Sauron’s Ring, none can.  Manwë’s expression was thoughtful.  Ever has he opened himself to the Voice of Ilúvatar—that I cannot take from him when he takes a Man’s shape.  If he wins through, it will be the greatest of triumphs; if he fails…. He grew more solemn still.  If he fails, then there is the chance Arda itself will fail.

            Vairë asked, Then you would make of him the leader of this order into which those sent will fall?

            Manwë Sulimo shook his great head in negation.  No, for already have I granted that distinction to Curumo, who, after all, was the only one to offer himself for this service.  Yet, with the focus of attention that status will give to Curumo, Olórin will perhaps have more freedom for his own decisions and movements, and less pressure to force rather than to persuade others to action.

            If he accepts your commission, the Weaver persisted, will you leave more of his nature as a Maia within him when he accepts the shape of an old Man?

            Her Lord Brother looked on her with some consideration.  None will bear less of his nature as Maia for the shape given him; and in none will any advantage be given in the ability to draw from his staff.  To do so would be anything but fair.  However, it will be up to each what he will draw back from the staff at any one time, whether wisdom or knowledge or experience or power.  Again he straightened.  I will go now to speak with Aiwendil, and then seek out Olórin and offer him the choice.  Sister Vairë, Lord Eärendil, I wish each of you the joy of the day.

            Accepting their dismissal, the Mariner and the Weaver withdrew.

The Voyage

            Several of those who lived upon Eressëa brought gifts of food and other needed goods to the one who came to claim the skiff left in the havens of Avallonë, as well as skins necessary to catch rainwater for drinking and to provide protection while he must sleep.  A device for distilling pure water from seawater was given him, and he was taught its purpose and usage.  Some of the Teleri taught him how to handle the small craft, and how to tie the rudder that the skiff keep as true as possible to its course while he must be busy about other tasks or resting.  A sextant was given into his hands, and an astrolabe, then a compass, and he was taught the use of each.  A few books and scrolls were given him, some written before open communication and travel between the two great continents was discontinued and others by more recent refugees, to offer him what knowledge he might garner of what had been known of the lands and peoples of the coastal regions; and certain charts and maps were also given him that had been drawn by those newest come to the island.

            Curumo resented every minute that must be spent in receiving instruction, for in his mind he felt he ought to be already in Endorë and offering instruction in his own right.  However, aware of how little he knew of handling boats and sailing upon the sea and that he’d not yet mastered the skill of drawing on the power and memories held in his staff, he realized that without this aid freely given he would likely fail to make it to his destination.  So he held his temper and impatience in check and listened and watched closely, and was at last judged by the harbor master ready to set sail.

            Several came to help launch the skiff, and among the last gifts given him was a great hat.  The elleth who presented it explained, “You will need a mark of distinction there in the Mortal Lands, my lord, as well as protection for your skin as you travel beneath the sun.  This will offer both.”

            He looked on it with disfavor, for it appeared to him with its wide brim and tall pointed crown ridiculous and ponderous, but he accepted it, resolving to throw it out when he was well out to Sea that he not openly offend her.  Instead he thanked her, although it was obvious to all who heard him that his thanks were grudging in nature, and he stowed it in the small sheltered storage space provided.

            Last minute advice was given him, but it was now plain to be seen that he was too eager to be off at last to wait and listen.  Finally those there to see him off helped to see the skiff set loose upon the waves, and soon boat and Istar were far out upon the water, approaching the harbor mouth.

            “Did he listen when you explained about the fishing line and landing net?” the elleth who’d provided the hat asked of her husband.

            He shook his head.  “Barely if at all,” he answered her.  “I believe, however, that the voyage shall teach him somewhat of patience.”

            “So it is to be hoped,” she responded.  “Then let us be off to our home, for our daughter awaits us.”  They and others turned away and quitted the harbor before the one they’d sought to teach was quite out of sight.

 *******

            He thought he would go mad during the voyage.  As accustomed as he was to being amongst his fellows and those Elves associated with Aulë, Curumo had no idea how to be alone.  There was none by him to marvel at his skill or cleverness or power, none to pay attention to his brilliance, none to report his wisdom and insights to others.

            Then there was the simple fact that he had little skill as yet in dealing with the needs of what appeared to be the body of an elderly Man.  On cooler nights his joints would stiffen; while during the clear days he would suffer under the light of the sun, his skin blistering with sunburn, his lips and the skin of his hands drying and cracking from exposure to wind and weather and from the handling of lines and sheets.  And the indignity of relieving himself he found almost beyond endurance.

            He realized he had not brought enough in the way of food and drink to get him all the way to Middle Earth, and vaguely remembered one of the Teleri trying to teach him how to bait a hook and catch fish; but on examining the line and hook provided to him he found he had little memory of what had been told him.

He heard the laughter of Ossë as he sat, line wrapped about his right foot, frustration filling him.  And what is this, brother Curumo? Ulmo’s vassal asked.  What do you here?

            Curumo glared at the Maia of the Sea.  “I go to Endorë on Manwë’s business, and so was given this shape that I not overawe the inhabitants of the Mortal Lands.  And what are you doing here, brother Ossë?” he demanded.  “What are you doing on this side of the Straight Path?  I thought you had nothing to do with the waters surrounding Aman.”

            My Lord Ulmo asked me to come and bear you company and aid you as I might.  After all, you will soon enough enter the Straight Path.

             The Istar felt relief at that.  “Then how long will it be once I reach the other side?”

            He felt Ossë’s equivalent to a shrug.  It will be however long you make of it, brother, but should be no more than a week or two at best.  Why do you sit with fishing line caught about your foot?

            Curumo straightened.  “It appears the line and I are at odds as to how it is intended to be used.  The end with the hook is intended to be dropped into the water, is it not?”

            Once it is baited, yes, agreed the Maia.  What have you to serve as bait?

            The Istar felt his face flush and then pale as he realized he’d eaten the small fish he’d been advised to use when fishing for larger ones fit to eat.  “I don’t appear to have anything at this time appropriate to use as bait,” he admitted.

            Well, once you have managed to catch a few you should retain some of the flesh to use as bait for the rest, he was advised.  However, I can offer you some aid….

            Ossë sank beneath the waves, and a few moments later a number of fish leapt out of the water and into Curumo’s boat.  The Maia rose again, obviously satisfied with himself.  There, he indicated, now you need only club them, clean and scale them and either cook them or allow the flesh to dry in the sunlight.  Do you have a small oil stove aboard?

            It was galling to admit he hadn’t as yet figured out how to use this device and to be forced to accept instruction from his brother.  Once they’d found the Straight Path and finally entered terrestrial waters it became somewhat better, for Uinen, Ossë’s wife, appeared better suited to advising Curumo without offering offense along with the teaching.

            One evening the Istar and the two Maiar sat together in the darkening twilight, for once the three of them companionable in their conversation.  In the far distance was a smudge against the horizon Ossë assured his brother was land, and that he ought to reach the Havens of Mithlond late the following day.  Considering how his life would change once he made landfall, Curumo began to ask what Ossë and Uinen knew of those he would now encounter.

            Círdan’s folk are well enough, admitted Ossë grudgingly.  They are respectful of the Sea and its might, and toward Uinen and myself.  They call mostly upon Lord Ulmo himself, however.  The sailors among Men, on the other hand, tend to seek to placate us and call upon us more than the Lord of Waters.  They are bold enough—I’ll give them that.

            Tell me, brother, he continued, what is it that you are to do among the peoples of Middle Earth?

            “I am to teach them to stand against Sauron.”

            A most reasonable task, agreed Uinen.  Will you do this labor alone?

            “No, others are also to be sent, each in his own time, each to serve as we see fit.”

            They do not trust you to do this alone? Ossë asked.

            Curumo’s face paled somewhat.  Uinen responded to her husband’s slight, I suspect it is more that no one individual can be expected to be everywhere at once, and so the duty is to be shared.  After all, Sauron’s forces are scattered over much of Middle Earth; should not those opposing him also be prepared in many places?

            Ossë agreed, if somewhat reluctantly.  Only if all will agree to face him together will Sauron be brought down in the end, or so I suspect; but you will find this will not be easily brought to reality.  Men, Elves, and Dwarves fail to trust one another; and all too often do not even easily trust those of their own kind.  As was true of Morgoth, Sauron has learned how to play upon this distrust of one for all others to keep all from cooperation.  Curumo realized the Maia of the Sea was becoming restless.  Ever does Sauron seek to sow discord and discontent, even as did his Master for so long.

            “Morgoth even sought to suborn you, did he not?” Curumo asked.  “Yet you turned from him and repented having considered the temptation.  What blandishments did he seek to use to draw you from your fealty to Ulmo and the rest of the Valar?”

            Ossë became very stern.  At last he admitted, He played upon my love of wind and Sea and their interplay.  Left to myself, I would see storms upon the Sea ever, but my Lord Ulmo has forbidden it, as he has indicated it is not particularly restful, and it stops many of his creatures from knowing pleasure on the surface of the waters.  Plus such gives distress to the Children of Ilúvatar, who are, after all, very fragile and likely to suffer harm if the storms come too often or catch their crafts unawares.  Also, as he has since pointed out, storms are not well appreciated for the good they can do if they come too often.

            The Maia straightened somewhat and continued.  He offered me also power, and Lord Ulmo’s place.  He shook his head.  And what good would that do?  I love many of the beasts of the deeps, but I cannot command their love, nor would I wish to do so.  To receive respect only out of fear is an empty honor, for fear destroys the respect offered; and love cannot be commanded at all.

            “Yet you thought to accept the offer Melkor made you.”

            Oh, I considered it, and almost I fell to his logic; but I felt there was a trap in his words, and went far out from the shore and the paths of sailors and away from my lord’s other servants to see if I could find it out.  It was there that my beloved Uinen found me at the last, and sought to reason with me.  She asked me to consider those who had already chosen to follow Morgoth and their condition, and to consider if the power they now could wield was fulfilling.

            For a time he went still, and all became becalmed about the small skiff on which Curumo sat.  When at last he spoke again his voice was perceived not in the harmony of the winds and waves that he’d used before, but a single note, as plaintive as the call of a seabird.  None of those who’d followed Melkor was truly honored—feared, yes, but not honored.  Fear I can deal with, and at times I find the fear shown me by those whose ships I drive before my winds and waves exciting—I freely admit this.  But the fear that the Children of Ilúvatar hold for the creatures of the Black Enemy is tinged with hatred and resentment.  Pure fear I can deal with, as I have said, but not hatred, for that which is hated and resented will be destroyed in the end.  And when Uinen asked me to come before my lord and beg pardon, I tell you I went freely.  I was not compelled or threatened, and the forgiveness given me for having considered Melkor’s offer was without the taint of blame.

            Again Curumo sensed Ossë was becoming restless.  “I thank you for telling me this,” he said.  “It is much to think on.”

            If you can keep my words before you, they will aid you greatly, I think.  Remember, Morgoth sought to offer power that, in the end, he could not truly give, for he was not and is not the Creator.  Sauron is likely to do much the same; but being of the same order as we are, is even further away from control of what he purports to have authority to distribute than even Morgoth was.

            Think also on this, brother—those among us who followed Morgoth have lost all save the weapons of fear, for they have been all either destroyed or frozen into the shapes of terror he taught them to assume.  None love them or ever will.  None honor them save those in whom no honor lies.  And I have learned that the honor offered by those who have no honor in them is less than hollow.

            Also, when they gave over the last of their loyalty to the Valar and the Creator and accepted the Black One’s shapes, they lost their hold on their own nature as Maiar.  You have already begun to forget what it is like to ride upon the Creator’s Breath, and to dance as part of the Light of Anar and Isil and the Stars, I suspect.  Oh, Manwë has sought to preserve those memories for you there within your staff that you might refresh yourself with them from time to time, and so that you may more easily accept back your true nature once your commission is completed.  But the shape assumed serves to limit the working of the mind.  Those who have accepted the shapes of Balrogs and werewolves and such can no longer even remember how they began.

            I will go now, for I would raise a tempest upon the Sea, but not here where it would endanger your craft and the form you have taken.  Lord Ulmo would not thank me should I drown this form and you would have to return to Aman to take another.  And with a releasing breath of wind that almost swamped the small craft, Ossë left his consort and Curumo, heading far to the south and east. 

            Quickly Uinen calmed the restless waves that rocked the skiff, looking after her husband.  He resents the restlessness and envy planted in his center by the words of the Betrayer, and finds he must often fight against them.  You will find that such utterances, once listened to seriously, are seductive and must be repeatedly thrust from one.  However, he has had much practice in doing so during the last few Ages of Middle Earth, and will not fall to them.

            Uinen stayed by him that last night and much of the next day, and at last coaxed a breeze from her consort to carry Curumo’s craft through the opening into the firth of Lhun and to the harbor of Mithlond.

            The Elves of Círdan’s city watched the arrival of the small silver craft with wonder, and saluted him as the wind pushed his skiff to the quays.  There others waited to greet him, tossing lines to him to allow the boat to be pulled into a berth, then assisting him when at last he stood to disembark.

            “Welcome, Lord,” Círdan greeted him.  “If there is anything my people can do to aid you in fulfilling your service, please let us know.”  He held out his hand for the Istar to take, assistance Curumo accepted somewhat grudgingly. 

            Curumo set his foot upon the stone quays of Mithlond and left behind him at last the Sea.  Two steps he took before he stumbled, for his body had absorbed the rhythms of the waves and he’d forgotten he had no need to anticipate movement where there would be none to perceive.  Embarrassed, he forced himself to straighten.  The voyage was past, and he would put all regarding it out of his mind, he decided.  No, now it was time to begin his true task of convincing the people of Middle Earth to stand against Morgoth’s servant as their forebears had stood against the Great Enemy himself.

            And in stepping away from the lessons taught him upon the Sea, Curumo made the first step away from his intended purpose, although he did not yet appreciate it.

Choices Made

            Manwë strode throughout the lands in which the Valar dwelt seeking Olórin, but could not find him.

            Olórin? asked Lorien.  Nay, he has not entered my gardens for many cycles of the Moon.  The last I heard of him he walked guised as an Elf on Tol Eressëa, seeking to ease night terrors among many of those most recently come to Aman from Endorë.  Some there are on the island who survived the destruction of Eregion or whose homes were destroyed by attacks from Dol Guldur or Angmar.  The fëar of many have suffered from the horrors committed upon themselves, their families, and their lands.

            Eonwë was dispatched to the Lonely Isle in search of the elusive Maia, returning with word he’d not been seen by those of the Maiar who served there for quite some time.  The Lord of the Valar considered this, then turned to the question of Aiwendil.

            He arranged to meet with him, again in Eärendil’s presence.

            My mistress has asked me to accept this duty, the Maia said.  For her sake and yours I will do so, but I will admit I am not eager to face Sauron himself, for I have nowhere the amount of power he has come to possess, and certainly nowhere the ruthlessness and viciousness of his nature.  Nor am I likely to prove a particularly good guide to the dwellers in the Mortal Lands, save those Elves who would labor by me to heal the land.

            All we can ask of you is what you are capable of giving, Manwë indicated.  Are you at least willing to speak to the lords of Men, Elves, and Dwarves you encounter to encourage them?

            Aiwendil bowed low.  I will not purposely avoid them, Lord.  He straightened and gave the Mariner some attention before turning back to Súlimo.  It has been told me that I will be required to take upon myself a terrestrial shape….

            Indeed.  Does that disturb you?

            No, Lord, for if I am to be able to speak with the Children of Ilúvatar that dwell within Endorë it will be easier to do so if I have a shape they will appreciate.  Shall I take the form of an Elf, then?

            Manwë shook his head.  No, it was decided that those who take this mission will take the form of such a Man that mortals and firstborn of honor would be most likely to listen to with respect, but would accept the words spoken as counsel and not command.

            The Maia considered this before responding, Then you would not have any of us appear a lord among Men, as such would command respect rather than be seen as having earned it.  He indicated agreement.  Very well, then, he said, and thought on the shape he would take….

            The apparent Man took shape rather slowly, and showed great thought, as some details would change even as Vala and Star-crowned Peredhel watched.  It was first a younger Man, apparently a farmer roughly dressed; then the Man aged, became ancient; then regressed a bit.  Clothing was first well-wrought trousers and shirt in worn golds and browns under a greenish leather vest; then changed to the golds of autumn, then finally settled into browns.  For a moment they saw an elderly Man with bare face in trousers and dark leathers; then as he considered himself the Maia shook his head and drew back.  He sighed, and a beard grew, chest long, a rich brown that quickly became streaked with dull grey; the hair lengthened to reach the Man’s shoulders.  Again a pause for consideration, and the small shake to the head.  Almost I have it….

            Finally Aiwendil took a deep breath, and the clothing changed from the trousers of Men to a dark, rusty brown robe.  “Let there be a touch of Elvish nature seen, but no more than in the garb,” he said.  He looked down and gave a nod of approval, then added a thick corded girdle and a series of belt pouches and short knife with a long leather cape over all before looking up to see the reaction of his audience.  “Will this do, Lord?” he asked.

            He appeared a Man caught between his late middle years and the years of his decline, competent and strong, but not threatening.  Hair and beard were sufficiently streaked with grey to give the impression of age and much experience.  The eyes had obviously seen a great deal, but held no memory of fear.

            Eärendil smiled.  Not so old does he appear as does Curumo, yet he still will draw respect from those who hear his words if honor has a place in their lives.  One particularly to draw the attention of those who love the land and its fruits and creatures, I think.

            Only one more thing needed, indicated Manwë, and he looked deeply into the eyes of Aiwendil, drew from him much of his memories of his life as a Maia of Aman, the greater part of his personal power, most of his experience, and a good deal of the wisdom he’d ever carried, and instilled it into the shape of a staff that the second Istar found he now held in his hand.  As Aiwendil had formed the shape he would know somewhat slowly and methodically, so it was with the staff as it took shape almost languorously.  At first it barely came to his chest, and then slowly extended until it reached the top of his head.  It appeared a rod of finely polished ash serpentine carved along its length; only if one examined it closely could it be seen that the large knob at its top was carved in low relief with a depiction of one of Manwë’s eagles with its wings spread flanked by depictions of the Two Trees, and that the serpentine bulge was rich with the likenesses of vines and leaves and barely seen flowers.

            It suits him well, commented Eärendil, very well indeed.

            The Istar examined it, then turned an accusing eye toward Lord Manwë.  “So much of who and what I am must be held in this?”

            So it must be if you are to be seen as a Man worthy of the respect of those of honor within Endórë, child.  Would you change things now and withdraw yourself from this service?

            “And go against the wishes of my Mistress and your will, Lord?  No, I will see it through, although I fear it may take a time for me to accustom myself to the limitations of this shape.  I may draw freely on what is held within the staff?”

            Yes, although once your need for what is held is finished it will return to its place within the staff.  However, what you learn from now on will reside within your memory for as long as you work to retain it.

            Aiwendil considered the staff he held, then looked down once more on the shape he’d taken before he looked back to the Lord of Arda.  “I will dwell in Endórë for how long?”

            For as long after the fall of Sauron as you believe you need to linger there.

            “I see.”  The new Istar took a deep breath.  Finally he asked, “And how am I to travel to the Mortal Lands?  My Mistress told me I should travel there with Curumo, but I learned recently that he sailed there already.”

            A skiff lies on Tol Eressëa that you may wish to sail upon, or….

            Aiwendil did not appear to consider the choice between sailing on his own or on the Vingilot.  “Whatever advice Lord Eärendil is willing to share with me I will rejoice to receive.”  And with a bow he accompanied the Peredhel.

 *******

            Manwë looked on his herald.  Has Olórin been found as yet?

            No, Lord, we have not as yet located him.  Vána tells me that he was with her a moon’s cycle past, and that he came to her from Estë’s company.  He indicated he might go on to Nienna’s groves next, but when I came to her she denied that she’s known his attendance for quite some time.  Yavanna says she saw him last in the company of Tulkas in the shape of an Elf, practicing the skills of sword and hammer; yet Tulkas tells us Olórin left his own train some time ago.

            The Lord of the Valar thought on this as he went to his meeting with Alatar, who was being sent by Oromë.  He paused as he realized that Alatar was not alone, was accompanied by another Maia.  Pallando?  And what do you intend?

            Pallando bowed deeply alongside Alatar.  Lord, I would go with my brother Alatar to the Mortal Lands.  Neither of us feels competent to see to this work alone, but between the two of us we might yet find means to slow the full return of Sauron until the peoples of Middle Earth are at last willing and able to stand against him effectively on their own.

            That will be acceptable.  The three turned to greet the Mariner.  Welcome, Lord Eärendil.  We rejoice to again know your advice.

            Alatar and Pallando listened to the requirements for their service and considered it closely.  At last Alatar responded, Not perhaps the most enviable service, but I at least see the worth of it.  As my Lord Oromë has asked of me I will perform.

            And I will do likewise, his companion agreed.

            Together they worked upon the shapes they would wear.  At last they stood before Vala and Peredhel in the forms of elderly Men, one with a long beard of silver tinged with blue, the other with no hair on head or face, his face broad and somewhat flattened.  Both had darker skin, and their dark eyes were slightly tilted.  Both were clad in blue and silver, one in the dark blue of the evening sky and the other in the pale blue of earliest morning, faintly spangled with mist.  Their staves were elaborate, of silvery hue.  Pallando appeared distressed by having so much of his nature held from him within his staff; Alatar took a deep, shuddering breath, then bowed low.

            The two chose to sail together from the Lonely Isle in the skiff provided them.  They listened closely to the instruction given them by the Teleri and the folk of Eressëa, and spoke long along the way with Ossë and Uinen.  When at last they came to Mithlond they were greeted with courtesy and respect, and were given horses at their request on which to travel south and east to enter the eastern lands most closely under the thumb of Sauron’s minions—disappearing into the obscurity of the shadowed lands.

 *******

            Manwë Súlimo walked out onto the great mound where once the Two Trees grew, looking up at the light of Anar.  He looked across the grass and saw that opposite him stood his beloved Varda, known among most in the Mortal Lands as the Lady Elbereth.  He smiled broadly at his consort and received her own smile in return, then noted the brief nod of her head indicating he should examine the Light that filled the space before him.

            In the Light swirled the essence of a Maia, and Manwë smiled more broadly.  It appeared that at last he’d found his prey.  He laughed as he cast off his terrestrial shape and entered the Light as well, rejoicing in the gifts of Light and Breath given to all of Arda from the Creator Himself as he joined Olórin in the dance in the Light.

So, at last this is where I find you, my friend.  Are you willing to take upon yourself a special service?

            Then you do indeed intend to send me to Middle Earth? the Maia asked.

            I would not ask it of you, Olórin, if I did not feel you were the best qualified for this service.

            After a significant pause Olórin responded, When Sauron fell to Melkor’s persuasion I was grieved.  He was meant to be my brother as Melkor was meant to be yours, the peaceful Darkness to balance the Light you and I were created to bear.  As you were torn to be required to fight against your equal, so it is with me.  If I go to face him, one or the other of us must fall utterly; and if he prevails in the Mortal Lands I fear that in the end he will seek to conquer Aman as well.

            I have avoided you, the Maia continued, that I might have time to prepare, and to think on the full implications of what you would ask of me.  To appear to lose so much that I not overwhelm those I counsel is a great sacrifice to me, for never, no matter what shape I have taken upon myself, whether as a Man among the Edain or an Elf of Doriath, an Ent in the forests of the southern reaches of the Misty Mountains, an Eagle upheld by your winds over the wastes of the northern lands, a Perian from the valley of the Anduin or a Dwarf of the mountains—never have I given up my memories or my awareness of myself as a servant of yourself and Ilúvatar.

            You will be able to bear yet that awareness, although your powers must be drawn and reside outside your form.

            How has this been done with the rest?

            I have seen to it the bulk of the memories, wisdom, and experience as a Maia are confined within a staff to be carried by the Istar.

            Olórin considered.  I see, Lord.  Then I must consider what form it is I should take.

            For a short time further he continued to dance in the Light and Breath, then reluctantly but with decision withdrew from it, giving his thanks as he took his form as a terrestrial Maia upon the grassy knoll.  Fully the Light of Anar fell upon him, and the Breath blew about him as Olórin drew about himself a shape as a Man of Middle Earth.  This was done rather slowly, but with no question as to what it was to be.  First he formed the shape of a Man, naked, tall but not taller than one merely judged to be tall among Men.  Once the shape was complete he molded the features and mottled the skin, stooped the shoulders slightly, gave himself silver hair hanging just below the shoulders and a long beard and mustaches, let the wind blow them into slightly wild tangles.  His eyebrows, finely arched, were yet long and bristled; his nose straight but long for the face, his cheeks deeply lined, his eyes clear and farseeing with the awareness of much experience.

            When at last the Man’s shape was complete, the joints apparently those of an aged yet still hale Man, Olórin clad himself in dark trousers the color of charcoal, black boots fit to tramp the wilds, a light grey shirt, over that a long grey robe apparently made of rough grey homespun fastened at the neck with a bronze brooch in the shape of a sunburst; then, after examining himself, gave a smile and glanced up sideways at the Lord of Arda and made a gesture, and about his shoulders hung a long grey cloak of rough wool clasped with a silver brooch of the Moon flanked on each side by a great Star, and in his hands lay a scarf of fine silver yarn, warm and soft and with long tassels that he draped about his neck.

            “Do you like it, Lord, Lady?” he asked.  “Perhaps a piece of whimsy, but enough of a touch of elegance at odds with the rest to amuse those with whom I must treat, don’t you agree?”

            As Eärendil joined them, Manwë laughed.  Oh, I agree, my friend—a most amusing touch, and sufficiently jarring to set the minds of those you meet with wondering.

            The new Istar laughed, then grew more solemn.  “Now, as to the staff you would have me bear.”  He closed his eyes and focused his thought.  The staff formed in his right hand, an inverted length of wood as if taken directly from a young tree torn whole from the earth, its twisted roots at the top as if they formed the flames and smoke of a torch blown back by the wind.  Into it he fed his memories, experience, and might as a Maia, holding to himself the awareness that he was of the Maiar given to the service of Arda, one who had served in his time each of the Valar and who’d traveled the length and breadth of the Undying Lands, one who’d laughed as he sat among the refugees from the Mortal Lands and helped to restore their hope and spirits.

            And so may you serve, Olórin, amongst the peoples of Middle Earth.  But know, friend, I would not deprive you of so much.  A slight wave of his hand, and Manwë restored some of the memories and experience to the Maia, and the staff thickened somewhat in the Istar’s hand.

            Olórin stood still, exploring his shape and those memories he held within himself, then the staff he held and his access to what it contained.  At last he looked up, turned his face from the Lord of the Valar to the Lady of the Stars and then the Peredhel who wore the Silmaril on his brow, then looked about at those among the Maiar and Valar and Eldar who’d come to watch the making of this Istar.  Many faces and pairs of eyes he searched before at last he took a deep breath, held it, and breathed out, the Breath that filled the area rustling robes and hair, the Light falling fully upon him.

            “I ask,” he said humbly, “that all of you grant me your blessings on the mission upon which I am about to embark.”

            Manwë’s eyes met those of his Lady, then those of their brothers and sisters who stood about the space, and all shared a smile.  The Lord of Arda raised his hand, and all joined in the blessing.  Olórin’s form bowed low under the weight of the regard given him.

            Know this, brother, the Star Kindler told him, that you will find ever at least a few amongst mortals and immortals there who will respond to your Light and whom you will count among your friends.  Go well, and I will set my stars ever to shine upon your path.

            The newly formed Istar accepted his dismissal, and bowing deeply was surprised somewhat as all present bowed in return, and he turned to walk from the square in the company of the Mariner to find his way to Middle Earth.

Journey Begun

            They called him Saruman in the northern lands, in the lands between Angmar in the north and the White Mountains.  This name spoke to his intelligence and cleverness, and was bestowed upon him by the Elves of the wandering tribes, and then swiftly confirmed by the remnants of the northern Dúnedain as well as the other scattered inhabitants of Eriador.

            From the Havens he traveled eastward, past the abandoned Elven Towers, through what had been the fertile farmlands of Cardolan, finally across the River Baranduin and beyond the Old Forest into the Breelands.  He was told Rhudaur was no more, for the wars between hill-men and Dúnedain had left its royal house destroyed and its population depleted.  The remnant of the royal house of Cardolan had withdrawn into the thin slice of land between the Baranduin and the Old Forest.  Saruman had been welcomed there, but found little to recommend the place or the people.  Mirucar, King of Cardolan, was much beleaguered, while his heir Endorgil, although clearly devoted to his land and people, walked without hope, having foreseen the end of his people’s existence as the folk of their nation.

            As Saruman strode away from the pitiful remains of Cardolan along the borders of the royal cemetery with its orderly burial mounds, many topped by standing stones raised to the memory of those interred beneath, he found himself face to face with the Eldest.

            Iarwain examined him closely, and a smile hovered about his mouth, although his blue eyes were shrewd but otherwise unreadable.  “And what does one of Aulë’s folk do here?” he asked.  “It is long since I saw you, Curumo.  Do you come to seek your brother?  He is not here, but I judge across the Mountains of Mist in the great forest which has been renamed the Mirky Woods in honor of his influence.”

            “You know so much?” Saruman asked.  “Then why do you not go and drive him forth?”

            “I, drive him forth?”  Iarwain looked even more amused.  “And how am I to do that?  I swore not to raise my power save in the land that has accepted me, and never have I been a match for him.  Here and here alone in the Old Forest do I breathe freely.  Here and here alone have I found full acceptance—and love.”

            “Then you have married a maiden from among Men?”

            The Eldest threw back his head and laughed, his laughter like music and poetry.  “Nay, friend, not among the daughters of Men.  But one of Ossë and Uinen’s offspring delights in the river, and her own daughter has accepted my suit.  You might look to do as well.”

            Saruman’s lip curled.  “I was not sent here for the purposes of dalliance.”

            “And I was not sent at all, but have found this part of Middle Earth my home.  Since the Onodrim withdrew from the north back to Fangorn the trees they woke here have remained restless, rejoicing in the end to have my friendship and what guidance they will at times ask and on occasion accept of me.  They have accepted our presence, and we hold them in check when they would vent their jealousy on those who walk abroad freely while they remain, for the most part, earthbound.  And we advise those of the blood of the Dúnedain who have settled yonder in how to deal with the presence of the woods on their doorstep, if you will.” 

            His face grew unaccountably solemn.  “Not, of course, that they will remain along the Baranduin that much the longer.  They have dwindled, for the Enemy sends his folk among them and betrays them at all times.  It was once told to him that the one to see to his destruction would dwell at least for a time between the Baranduin and the Old Forest, and so he seeks to destroy what little remains of the land of Cardolan and its people.”  Suddenly he laughed again.  “It would prove a fine joke, would it not, Curumo, should the prophecy prove true but his own assumptions that it is from among his greatest enemies among Men that his nemesis will come should prove false?”

            His eyes twinkled, and he began to sing, “Hey down, a-hoy down, down, down a dillo!”  He lifted his eyes to the light of the Sun, and forgetting Saruman—forgetting him or dismissing him?—he capered away, singing and dancing, winding his way amongst the barrows back toward the depths of the forest.

            Saruman watched after, his heart strangely in tumult at the Eldest’s words.  What could they mean?  Then he turned.  In his earliest times Iarwain had followed Yavanna and Vána and Nessa, in the days the three of them walked freely through the Mortal Lands awakening tree and shrub, grass and vine, teaching each to flower and fruit in its time.  He’d awakened here, and remained when the Valar had withdrawn, leaving only their memory and blessings on leaf and land.  During the days Irmo had visited this land he’d sat at times at the Vala’s feet, drinking in the lore of dreams.  When Oromë’s hunt had ridden over the lands Iarwain had guarded the beasts natural to their prey, hidden them away in safe hollows in the depths of the forests, and had shaken his fist after.  The Huntsman had simply laughed, rejoicing there would remain some to hunt perhaps another day, and secretly blessing the stubborn one who remained obstinately in Middle Earth.

            Whose was he, truly?  None would say.  Certainly he had no commerce with Saruman’s own chosen lord amidst the Valar.  But Varda’s stars held no secrets from him, and Manwë’s winds blew his hair, and Ulmo’s vassal had sent one to wife him.

            The one to see to Sauron’s fall would dwell for a time between the Baranduin and the Old Forest?  Not, he judged, from among the children of Mirucar.  Four sons had Mirucar sired, and the youngest was already dead, drowned in the river long ago, while the elder three….  Saruman snorted, for he foresaw that Endorgil would not even come to the marriage bed.

            Mirucar had a sister, a sister who had gone to Arthedain to marry the prince of that lineage, and sat now as queen to Celepharn.  It was said their son Celebrindor made fair to be a worthy successor to his father.  Celepharn’s mother had been of mixed Gondorian and Rhudauri descent; his paternal grandmother had been of the Dúnedain of Pelargir and had blood ties to the peoples of Númenor vi Ennorath on the southern coasts of Gondor hard by the Elven havens of Edhellond.  There was talk of Celebrindor offering suit to the daughter of the current Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath—Arthedain’s merchant traders and ships of exploration had continued the partnership with Círdan’s folk in Mithlond known since Elendil’s own day, and many traded openly in southern Gondor and along its coastline.  If the lineage of the Sea Kings were to remain in the north, Saruman judged it would do so in the heirs of Arthedain, and that these would hold much of the bloodlines of all the Dúnedain of Middle Earth.

            There was a village at the crossroads of the road running east from Mithlond to the passes of the Mountains of Mist and the road running south from Arthedain’s capital of Annúminas toward Gondor.  The village was young, and now held not by descendants of Númenor but instead by Men of mixed blood.  A rough tavern had been built there, a place of raw timbers and even rawer spirits.  The food was bad, Saruman decided, spitting out the foul stew he’d been served and turning up his nose at the heavy lump of bread in which the yeast had died long before the dough came to the ovens.

            A stranger entered the place, purchased a mug of the establishment’s drink from the one who ran the taps, and after casting about came to sit by Saruman in one of the few remaining empty places along the canted tables.

            “Busy night,” commented the stranger, who sat, cloaked in black over clothing of dark grey.  He continued to wear his black riding gloves, and had not bothered to push back his hood.

            “Apparently,” Saruman answered sourly, “although considering the poor fare offered here it is difficult to understand why.”

            The cloaked shoulders rose slightly in a shrug.  “Perhaps,” the hooded figure answered, “only because there are no other taverns within fifty miles.”

            “There can be no other reason for it,” agreed the Istar.

            “You are new come to the region?”

            “Yes.”

            “What business brings you to these climes?”

            Saruman couldn’t decide of what the voice of this one reminded him.  It was not pleasant, but neither was it totally repugnant.  There were hints that it had once been fair and strong, and probably commanding as well.  Now it was rather harsh and rough, as if it hadn’t been used overmuch for many years.  Still, it was someone willing to speak with him, so he made shift to answer.  “I was sent as a messenger.”

            “Messenger?”  He could hear the mixed interest and skepticism the hooded one’s voice held.  “From whom, and to whom?”

            “To any who will make shift to listen.”

            “And your message is what?”

            “To stand against those who would lead Middle Earth into the darkness.”

            “Those who sent you felt this was a truth that must be proclaimed abroad?” 

            Saruman could clearly hear the derision in the other’s voice.  Well, he thought, it ought to be self-evident.  “There are those who will ever fall to the blandishments of evil,” he answered, and realized he sounded sanctimonious.

            “Perhaps,” his companion answered, and lifted his cup to his unseen mouth inside the hood and sipped from it.  When he’d replaced the cup on the table he asked, “To whom have you made this declaration so far?”

            It was the Istar’s chance to shrug.  “Few enough.  I’ve met with those who run the Havens at Mithlond, the folk of Gildor Inglorion and a few of the other wandering companies, the members of the household of Mirucar of Cardolan.  There has been no great time to meet others as yet.”

            “And how do the folk of the house of Mirucar?”

            “Well enough, I suppose, for a house doomed to fail as it is.”

            “And how do you know that house will fail?”  Did that voice sound just the least bit satisfied and overcurious?

            Saruman sighed.  “How does the seed know to break out of its shell and send down roots into the earth?  One simply knows.  One can taste the ashes of defeat floating on the air there, and see the foreknowledge of an early death in the gaze of Endorgil, the son of the King.  I doubt he thinks to survive his ride out of their lands next week.”

            “And where does he ride to next week?”

            “He looks to visit his aunt in Annúminas, I think.”  He shrugged.  What did it matter in the end where the King’s son was intended to die?

            “At least now there will be peace between the folk of Rhudaur and those of Cardolan,” the other said, and this time he did not try overmuch to keep the malice out of his voice.

            “I suppose that must be so—the peace of the grave for Rhudaur, at least, so far.”  He stretched.  “And for what have the two realms fought?  For the Weather Hills and Amon Sûl and its tower, a place intended by Elendil and his sons to serve all of the Dúnedain, north and south?  They can share their daughters, but not the places of seeing?”

            “Apparently not.”  Then, after a pause, the other asked, “And where do you go now?”

            “Where fortune takes me, I suppose.”

            “You appear to have much native wisdom.”

            Saruman was gratified.  “So I appear?  I thank you, then.”

            “What is there to keep you here in the northern lands?  It is an uncouth place, you will find.”

            “And the southern lands are greater?”

            “For the moment, at least.  Far greater than those here are the cities of Gondor, for the Kings have not sought to split their resources by making each son ruler of his own land as did Eärendur, setting them up for rivalry.”

            “At least from what I can see the sons of Amlaith have sought to counsel the others to peace, and have refrained from joining in the squabbles of the other two lines, seeking ever to cement ties between Arthedain and all others.”

            “Wisdom, do you think, or mere policy?”  There was again definite malice in the hooded one’s voice.  “Will you ride south, do you think?”

            “Ride?  I’ve never been one to ride,” Saruman admitted, then wondered for his own sake why not.  “Although perhaps I will seek a horse….”

            “A fine horse I may have for sale next week,” the hooded one said.  “If you get that far, you might find me in the Weather Hills.  You may look for me there.”  The smile Saruman could not see on the other’s face he could hear in the voice, and it was one of satisfaction.  “Look for me there in a ten-day, a half-day’s walk west from Amon Sûl.”

            The other downed his drink and left the tavern, and soon enough after Saruman followed him.  A fight had broken out between other patrons as the black one had passed them, and he was glad to quit the place.

            And when a month later Saruman heard the news that Eldorgil of Cardolan had died in an ambush as he rode north toward Annúminas and the house of his aunt and her husband in the Citadel there, he simply shook his head at this confirmation of his foreseeing, and continued his ride southward from Imladris toward Tharbad on the fine bay horse he’d purchased from the black-robed stranger just west of the Tower of the Winds.

Arrivals

            None connected the arrival of Saruman in the Mortal Lands with the destruction of the royal house of Cardolan save, perhaps, Iarwain.  As the Eldest no longer freely mixed with the rest of the Wise, however, he was not likely to betray Curumo’s secrets.  It was best, Curumo reasoned after the fact, that there be but one royal line in the north as it was best there be one in the south; and already had Endorgil foreseen his own demise before Saruman’s arrival.  Therefore there was nothing to have been done to turn aside the fate of the young Man and his lineage, if it was already written in the stars....

            As he rode into what had been Rhudaur he found a land in which the Dúnedain population had been much decreased, and yet remained stubbornly attached to its Númenórean heritage and the responsibilities it felt it owed to the lands and peoples of what had once been Elendil’s own kingdom of Arnor.  There were yet some who had been closely related to the royal house of Rhudaur who considered taking the guidance and rule of their people into their own hands; but the lessons of the last few centuries had been learned at last, and they stopped short of fighting amongst themselves for dominance.

            “Each time we have allowed ourselves to enter into battles with Cardolan,” one elderly Man said, “we have accomplished nothing of worth.  The tower of Amon Sûl has been destroyed and its Palantír lost; our greatest warriors have been lost on both sides; the lineage of the heirs of Isildur in the houses of Cardolan and Rhudaur have now been destroyed.  Only among the folk of Arthedain does the blood of Elendil and Isildur run true.”

            “We could name you King, Venteri,” suggested one of his younger kinsmen.  “You are, after all, the grandson of Thorongmar.”

            “And who would follow me?” Venteri asked.  “Anglorchel who was my wife has been dead twenty-nine years, slain by the fevers that swept all of Arnor at that time.  Our son died while yet a child, cut down by the Dunlendings, and my daughter died in childbed, her son with her.  Once I am gone this debate would need to be held yet again, and you know it.

            “Nor have I inherited the gift of healing, and Lord Elrond never took me for training as has been done with those of the three lines.  No, Maeleg, I fear it is too late to seek to make me King of Rhudaur.  We must face the unpleasant truth--Rhudaur is no more, and our line of Kings has been broken.”

            “Then what do you suggest, Venteri?  Shall we give up our identity as descendants of Númenor, intermarry with lesser Men, and fade as do the Elves?”

            “No,” Venteri answered him, “I think we should approach Celebrindor and his son Malvegil and ask to be allowed to join with their people, to give up our identity as Rhudauri and embrace being seen once more as the folk of Arnor.”

            Saruman listened to this debate without comment, amazed at the wisdom Venteri showed, although his own inclinations were closer to those expressed by Maeleg and several other of the younger lords who wished to retain their independence as the people of Rhudaur.  No decision was made that day, or for quite some time thereafter.  Maeleg and his companions invited the Istar to join them during their more private discussions.  There were a couple who would willingly have put themselves forward as King of Rhudaur; yet none would take that position while Venteri yet lived.

            One of the younger Men remained quiet during the debates, Mirdunmar son of Velmaridor.  Velmaridor was several years dead, for he’d been among the guard of Harthadrion, the last king of Rhudaur, when he’d died in an attack by a mixed party of warg-riding orcs and trolls out of the Ettenmoors, along with all his companions save one.  Velmaridor had been twin brother to Venteri, and so, as Saruman saw it, the younger Man had as strong a claim to the Kingship as did his uncle--perhaps more, for he had apparently inherited a portion of the healing gift that ran in the blood of the Line of Kings.  Yet, after some weeks of listening to the discussions that ran among the others, when he finally spoke, it was to very quietly and privately support his uncle’s suggestion.

            “There is no one among us,” Saruman overheard him telling Maeleg quietly, “in whom the blood of the Kings runs true.  My uncle and I are as close to that lineage as it is possible to be, yet it runs not true in either of us.  Ever since Eärendur divided Arnor into three there has been nothing but strife and pettiness amongst us.  Only the descendants of Amlaith have refused to take part in the quarrels between the descendants of Amlaith’s younger brothers, instead seeking ever to counsel us to cooperate instead of compete with one another, advising us ever to choose the path of peace, to share our resources instead of fighting over them.  They have suggested ever we seek the advice of Elrond, allow Imladris to mediate in our disputes; and they have ever followed their own counsel.

            “I say, with my uncle, that we should give over the striving for a separate identity.  If we do not band together for strength with the rest of the Dúnedain I foresee that the enemies of the Free Peoples will in the end destroy us, one by one.  Better to be seen once more as citizens of Arnor and the subjects of the Line of Isildur than to insist on being known as the Rhudaurim when Rhudaur no longer exists.”

            After remaining among the Rhudaurim for two seasons and seeing the resolve of Maeleg and his fellows finally begin to waver, Saruman left the land to continue his journey through Middle Earth.  He knew that Venteri and Mirdunmar advised wisely; yet he could not bear to remain to see the likes of Maeleg bow the knee to another, no matter how strongly the blood of Elros Tar-Minyatur ran through his veins.

 *******

            A second small boat entered the Firth of Lhûn not from the southlands but from the West, again carrying but a single passenger, one this time clad in rusty brown, carrying a staff apparently carved of ash, wearing a tall brown hat and a cape of leather.  He was greeted with honor by Círdan and his people.  They called him Radagast in honor of his brown garb.

            Radagast did not linger in Mithlond long, for he felt the call to the wild places.  Yet he went with the blessings of the Elves, and as he traveled throughout Eriador those of the wandering companies welcomed him, learning from him gladly, sending him on his way when he chose to leave them with even more blessings and gifts of food, seedlings, cuttings, tools.

            In time he came to the land of Cardolan and found it reverting back to wilderness.  He could see the remains of homes and farms, fields and woodlots, gardens and orchards.  The few of the race of Men who dwelt there listened to his counsel, and they withdrew northward to join their kindred among the folk of Arthedain.  When they were gone he encouraged creepers to grow over stonework and pull it down, roots to cover ancient floors with a mat to hold dirt and allow other vegetation to sprout over flagged surfaces, trees to grow in former fields.

            He was startled at first by the sheer number of earthen tombs that stood in lines across the Barrowdowns; yet he recognized that somehow this situation was right for the environment in which it was found.  The grass that covered the downs was green and healthy; and beyond the downs stood the trees of the Old Forest and, he realized with surprise, the home of Iarwain.

            The Eldest dwelt here, of all places within Middle Earth?

            Smiling, Radagast turned off the Road to head toward the house of Iarwain, delighting in the personal attention given him by the trees once he reached them.  He found signs that a more ancient people than the Dúnedain had dwelt here in the past, leaving many standing stones and at least one great stone circle that had served as observatory, calendar, place of contemplation and worship, and ritual center, apparently in the Dark Years when first Morgoth and later Sauron had held sway in these lands.  He sensed antipathy toward most with the shapes of Men, although once he allowed his nature to be sensed the trees drew their roots back away from the paths he trod out of respect for him.  Radagast’s smile broadened.  To meet trees that were limb-lithe was a most interesting situation.  And to come to know the Eldest made it even more so.

 *******

            The Elves of Mithlond were somewhat startled when the next craft from the West held not one but two Wizards.  Both were treated with gravest respect, and their desire for horses to travel to their intended destination was granted almost immediately.  Círdan watched after them with some regret.  He was certain he would come to know more of the first of the Istari than was perhaps desirable--Saruman’s intelligence was obvious, as was the pride of the creature.  He looked forward to knowing Radagast, for it was a delight to find that the second Istar shared the land-sense of an Elf, and his humility was refreshing after the near-hubris of the first.  But he foresaw no further commerce with the pair that arrived in the third small boat, and he realized he’d have no further chance to explore their natures.

            But then one day there was a brilliant flash to the West such as had preceded the arrival of Radagast, and the Shipwright realized some most unusual event was in motion; and he set some of his sailors to watch the waters approaching the entrance to the Firth.

 *******

            Ah, Olórin, so you are the fifth?

            The fifth Istar raised his head to smile over the side of his small craft into the eyes of Ossë.  “Yes, apparently I am.  It has been a time since I saw you last, brother.  And how have you fared recently?”

            Well enough, I must suppose.  And did I indeed see the Vingilot touch the waters briefly for the second time in recent memory?  What has led to this unprecedented event?

            “Eärendil sought only to offer me the memories of his own time as a lord among the peoples of Middle Earth, in the days before those in which he came to his current state.  He set the skiff down a day past, and me in it, before he returned to his more normal duties.”

            And how many more of your sort intend to sail the waters?

            “I’m not truly certain, but I suspect none--unless another of our brothers offers himself or Lord Manwë comes to question whether any of us is up to the task set us.”

            Odd how neither Curumo nor the two immediately before you came so far with the Mariner’s assistance.

            “Apparently we were all given the same choice.  Alatar and Pallando indicated they wished more time to consider what they would do and how they would look to deal with their commission, and so chose to sail the entire way on their own.  As I had no company for the voyage I thought only to learn what Eärendil would share with me, and then spend some time digesting it before I came to Lhûn.  That I would possibly have you and Uinen as company for part of the time I’d not considered earlier, although I am grateful for whatever wisdom you may be moved to share, not to mention just your presence.  It is likely to be some time before I am gifted with the awareness of another of our kind save for the other Istari.”

            A higher wave allowed Ossë to look down into the interior of the boat.  And what is that? he asked, indicating a item of light blue fixed under the overhang of the small storage locker.

            “Do you like it?  It’s meant to be a hat.  I probably ought to be wearing it now, for I’ll undoubtedly end up with my skin burned by the Sun as it is.  I am certain I will find it useful once I arrive in Middle Earth, in fact.  But for now I have it stowed so as not to lose it.  It was a gift from an elleth on Tol Eressëa, actually.  Perhaps a bit large and ostentatious, but I find it suits my fancy well enough.  As with the scarf, it should evoke humor and perhaps a bit of confusion from those I must meet with as I travel through Middle Earth.”

            A hat?  So, that is what those are meant to be, Uinen commented as she joined her consort.  Curumo didn’t keep his, casting it into the Sea once he reached this side of the Straight Path.

            “Alas, I must grieve its loss.  Perhaps he ought to simply have entrusted it to you to be passed on to one of those following, as perhaps we might have appreciated having a spare.”  He was gratified when both Uinen and her husband laughed.  His lips twitched and his eyes crinkled.  He was beginning to think that perhaps his stay on Middle Earth wouldn’t always be either deadly serious or stunningly boring--he had the idea he’d face too much of both situations in the time stretching before him; and as now he moved in the timestream known by mortals, without some amusement and humor he feared he would soon lose himself.  Plus, it was no mean feat to provoke Ossë to laughter.  Well pleased, he set himself to continuing the situation; and if the Sea about the small craft rocked with humor, those watching from beyond could only shake their heads and smile with the wonder of it.

            An hour before daybreak the following morning Olórin sat upright watching the storm Ossë had raised around the small boat, clinging to his staff, his face alight with interest and pleasure.  He looked at Uinen with delight.  “I can certainly understand why he loves tempests, as it is similar to dancing in the Breath and the Light, with the addition of water.”

            Uinen smiled.  There you have it, brother Olórin.  He finds a sense of freedom, beauty, and oneness with the Creator and His Creation in it that is invigorating and releasing.

            The Maia of the Sea let go the wind and waves, and he returned to the skiff happy and replete if somewhat wild.  As he saw Olórin’s approval he smiled with pleasure.  It can be fulfilling, you see.

            “I do indeed.  And I thank you for letting me take part, if only from a distance.  But I sense that the last of my freedom is coming to an end, and I must reach shore soon.  But I am grateful for the company, the sharing, and the entertainment.”

            Ossë laughed as he and Uinen saw the small craft blown through the entrance into the Firth of Lhûn and toward the quays of Mithlond.

 *******

            Círdan was taken somewhat by surprise by the arrival of the final skiff with the dawning.  None had noted its entrance into the long bay; indeed after the storming seen during the night the Shipwright had become convinced the one who approached his harbor wouldn’t arrive for another day at best.  Yet the new arrival didn’t appear the least concerned, even considering the wetness of his garb.

            Grey as the sea itself he appeared in the growing dawn; but as the Sun rose to shine down on him her light was answered by his own; and Círdan recognized him, putting his presence here together with his own visions of foresight, and he bowed deeply.  “Welcome, Lord, for I have awaited you for quite some time.”  He looked at his hand, and smiled as he carefully removed that which he’d carried there since it had been entrusted to him by Gil-galad.  “Take this, Lord,” he said as he presented it to the guest from beyond the Sundering Sea, “for I foresee you will have need of it to complete your task of kindling hearts.  I have not needed its power since it was entrusted to me; but you will benefit from its presence as you pass through the lands of Middle Earth.”

            The Istar, surprised, examined the Ring offered now to his care, and after searching the Elf’s eyes at last accepted it and slipped it onto his finger.  “You should perhaps have entrusted it to Curumo,” he murmured, “as he is first among us....”

            But Círdan was shaking his head.  “No, not that one, for he loves knowledge and not the peoples he is intended to succor.  Oh, he will oppose the Enemy’s agents and power as he can; but not out of compassion but out of pride.  He may spark intellects, but we have need of those who will spark our hearts and deeds.  Will you share a dawn meal with me, Lord?”

            And so it was that Gandalf was greeted to Middle Earth, taking his first counsel from among its inhabitants from the guardian of the Elven haven of Mithlond.

Competition

            Saruman was aware when Aiwendil arrived in Middle Earth.  He was now visiting in Gondor, staying in a house in Lamedon belonging to a local lord.  He’d been going through the Man’s library.  “Of course,” the lord was saying, “the greatest library in the land is in Osgiliath, although I understand much of it is being moved to Minas Anor to the caverns there under the Citadel.  I am told it is much dryer there for the documents and books than it is over the River.  I am told the only greater library in Middle Earth is in Imladris, in the house of the Lord Elrond.”

            The awareness that Eärendil had touched down on the waters of the Sundering Sea on this side of the Straight Path struck him, and he realized he was no longer the only one of his kind in the Mortal Lands.

            “Lord Curunír?”

            The Wizard lifted his face to look blankly at the Man standing beside him. 

            “I beg pardon, Lord Curunír. Are you well, my lord?”

            Saruman shook his head somewhat.  “No--merely listening to the words carried on the wind.”  He straightened.  “The mortal lands have accepted a new resident, is all.  Now, you say that this scroll tells part of how it was that the Enemy, in the guise of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, came to Celebrimbor and convinced him he could teach him the craft of forging Rings of Power?”

            “Yes.  It is as it was told to Celeborn, who later became Lord of the Golden Wood.”

            “And how is it that it came into your keeping?”

            “My ancestor fought in the Battle of Dagorlad, there before the Black Gate, and saved the life of one of the Elves who followed Gil-galad from the northlands.  This he’d borne out of the fall of Eregion, finding it in the former household of Celeborn and Galadriel, and gave it to my ancestor, grateful that his children must not mourn his loss to the Halls of Mandos.”

            The Wizard rolled through the ancient scroll.  It was written on pieces of parchment carefully sewn together and rolled onto wooden rods of a remarkably silver hue.  “It is but a portion of the story.”

            “So I have found in my own study of the scroll.  It appears that Lord Celeborn was in the process of copying the tale to this, a second scroll, from the original, which

I must suspect he carried with him to Laurelindórenan when he and his household fled there.”

            “So, in order to read the entire record, I must approach those who dwell in the hidden land.”

            “So my ancestor deduced, and I have come to the same conclusion.” 

            The Wizard’s face went stony.  “I must not let those who follow me take from me the glory of defeating him!” he muttered in Adûnaic.  “They are all sent by others, while I have come by my own will.  I will not be bested by the rest.  I will be the one to accomplish this task!  I will be the one!”

            “My lord?”  The lord from Lamedon’s eyes were concerned, for he did not understand the language used.

            “Do not concern yourself.  I merely speak to myself.  The Shadow will rise again, I fear, unless it is opposed.”

            “Surely not!” the Man responded, in shock at the idea.

            Saruman turned to look into the Man’s eyes.  “Not in your lifetime will it come to dominance once more, perhaps; but it will rise again, and must be opposed.”

            “My family stood against the Enemy before and within Mordor; and, it is said, did similarly long ago before the walls of Angband under the command of Elros Tar-Minyatur.  If the Shadow is to rise again, I would have those of my descendants who live in those days follow suit.”

            Saruman had to curb the desire to curl his lip in derision.  “You, a mortal, would think to challenge the might of one of the Powers?” he asked.

            “Only if all stand against him together, as it was done before, will he be defeated anew, Lord Curunír--of this am I certain.”

            Saruman looked on the Man with disgust.  But how was a simple Man to understand that such power as Sauron would wield the next time he rose must be met with equal or greater strength?  “I see,” he managed to say with some semblance of courtesy, “how your mind works.  But to think mere Men would be able to withstand the might of such a one as Sauron once he rises again....”  He shrugged eloquently.

*

            After he left Lamedon he went to Minas Anor and visited the archives there.  At the moment there was little enough, mostly documents related to the founding of the city or the confirmation of Meneldil as Lord of Minas Anor and the King of Gondor as the heir of his father Anárion as well as the administrative records of the city since its founding.  He could see the readying being done for the removal of the library of Osgiliath to this place, and already one shipment of books had been received.  His offer to aid in the cataloguing and arrangement of the books, scrolls, and documents received was accepted, although he paid most attention to those larger scrolls that dealt with the founding and destruction of Eregion, the known trade done between the Elven lands and those of the Dwarves, and what had been saved of descriptions of dealings of Men, Dwarves, and Elves with the one known as Annatar, Lord of Gifts, or the capture of Sauron by the fleet of Ar-Pharazôn.

            Two scrolls he examined had been brought to Middle Earth by Isildur’s folk, describing in Adûnaic the arrival of Sauron in Númenor, his abasement before Ar-Pharazôn, and his gradual displacement of the King’s more responsible counselors, the gradual but steady corruption of an already unstable ruler, the building of the temple to Morgoth....  He was appalled by what he read, but also fascinated.  The detailed description of the manipulation of the King by the twisted Maia kept his attention riveted.

            Since taking the shape he now bore, Saruman kept for himself little enough memory of how it had been in the days he and Sauron served in the forges and smithies and workshops of Aulë.  He did remember the swiftness with which his fellow had understood concepts and skills taught them and how he’d found new uses and purposes for what was wrought, many of them destructive beyond understanding.  As Curumo, he’d been deeply impressed by the quick mind of his brother, and had been somewhat in awe of the manner in which he who became Sauron could always find a way to use something destructively.

            As Curumo he’d also felt the attractive power of Melkor, but had feared that power as he’d been well aware that the Vala could easily have destroyed him if he wished; and the one thing stronger than Curumo’s attraction to power was his sense of self-preservation.  Most of the Maiar who’d followed Morgoth had lost their sense of self and, as Ossë had pointed out, had forgotten what they’d been created with the ability to do.  So many had been lost once they took on the shapes Morgoth had taught them, for one needed to be extraordinarily powerful to remember it was but a shape assumed and not the entire scope of one’s reality.  Sauron had been different, able (and willing) to shift from shape to shape and back again, and thus lose himself as little as possible in but one form.

            One of these two scrolls from Númenor Saruman was able to secrete inside his robes and so bore it away with him, and he studied it assiduously.  In later days he was to make copies of it as well as the scroll he’d taken from the lesser lord in Lamedon whose name he never afterward remembered; and with great show of his magnanimity he’d donated copies of each back to the library archive in Minas Anor; but by then he’d convinced himself he’d brought these with him from the Lonely Isle.

*******

            He left Minas Anor not going north as he’d originally intended, but east, seeking to learn in what condition those lands had been left.  There was still watch kept on the Black Lands at the Black Gate, and the guards set upon the lands had allowed him to enter the ruins of Mordor to examine them for himself.

            Orodruin was quiescent, its peak bare rock and ash under the light of day.  Saruman could not find the entrance to the Sammath Naur, for in the torments visited upon the Mountain when the Ring had been cut from Sauron’s hand it had vomited forth a last flow of ash and molten rock that had covered that side of the volcano’s flank to a depth of many feet.

            Dressed stone from Barad-dûr could be found miles from the site of the tower; but most of it lay heaped in a solid hill of the stuff almost a quarter mile high over its foundations, and those, he sensed, were yet intact.  He could not find the entrance to the dungeons or storerooms of the place for he could not bodily shift the massive building stones himself.  He called upon the power held within his staff to move one, and managed it in the end, but felt weak as if he’d been laboring mightily once he had it moved sufficiently clear of the place to feel able to shift others.

            In the end he’d stood in awe at what Sauron had managed to build here, in awe and in envy, for he realized he was unlikely to ever leave so lasting a monument in his own right.  But as yet another night approached while he stood looking at the little he’d managed to set aright of the rubble left by the downfall of his failed brother he’d shivered, for the malice that lingered yet in the Black Land tormented him.

            Now he remembered that malice--the malice and the ambition of he who’d been known as Aulendil before he was given the name of  Sauron, he who could not bear to be bested at anything, he who would brook no competition.  Only one among their number had ever been able to equal Sauron’s abilities; but Olórin had never harbored ambition.  Had he come here to the mortal lands Olórin could perhaps have encouraged others to come together to build a tower sufficient to leave behind such a pile of rubble; but he would have had it built not in black or even grey, but most likely of parti-color stone, a work not to demonstrate his personal power over others, but more likely of caprice, a work to excite wonder and humor rather than mere awe.  Then, once it was done, Olórin would not have lingered to live there in that tower, but would have left it to others to enjoy while he turned to another work.

            How one as capable of might and power as Olórin could be so light hearted Saruman could not imagine, but he knew it to be true.  The use of his staff to move the great stone had brought back the awareness of a memory of Olórin from the time beneath the Light of the Trees.  The Maia had come into Aulë’s forge where gems were wrought.  Fëanor had been there that day, seeking to learn how to bind Light into jewels.  Several times before Olórin’s arrival had the great Smith demonstrated the technique, and once more after his entrance.  Olórin had watched closely, as fascinated as any of the other Maiar or Elves present; then he’d gathered together simple black carbon and a smattering of silica and cobalt, and had pressed it together as had been demonstrated by Aulë, holding it so for some time before releasing it and capturing the Light he wished held in it and introducing it, then sculpting it into the shape of a great flower.  Not completely satisfied with it, however, he’d taken it away and brought it to Lady Varda, and with her help coaxed the Light to shine not within it as much as throughout it.

            An Elven child, an elleth, the daughter of Arafinwë (or Finarfin, as he’d been known in these lands), had seen that floral jewel and had been as fascinated with it as she was with the Maia who’d brought it forth from the forges to seek out Varda’s cooperation.  Once the Light was fixed to the satisfaction of Olórin she’d asked him how it was done, and he’d told her, his instruction augmented by that of the Star-kindler.  He’d told the secret of the Light of the gem to a child!  What kind of irresponsibility was that?  And then he’d enlisted the elleth to gift it to Yavanna, having her represent it as the product of her consort’s forge and leaving out his own involvement in its construction. 

            When later Yavanna had been seen with the great gem fixed in her hair, smiling upon him she’d taken as husband, Olórin had watched from a distance with satisfaction, accepting Yavanna’s thanks once she’d learned the full tale of its making with a dismissive wave of the hand.  There had been some tension between the Lady of Growth and the Lord of Earth prior to the gift of the floral gem, a tension that had been relieved in part by its presentation; full communication and communion had been restored in part by the Maia’s manipulation of events, and both of the Valar had been grateful for Olórin’s assistance in effecting a full reconciliation.

            Curumo had worked to try to equal the floral gem constructed by Olórin, but his jewel seemed small and paltry in his own eyes by comparison; and when Finarfin’s daughter had seen it and praised it he’d felt her admiration feigned, for he knew it could not begin to rival what Olórin had wrought.  He dismissed her praise and broke the gem, leaving its component carbon and other ingredients in the containers from which he’d taken them, and freeing its Light.  Never again had he sought to make another such thing, seeking instead knowledge of how to construct machines to ease labor, knowledge of which Olórin had never sought as far as Curumo was aware.

            Shivering in the dark of the deepening night, he who’d been Curumo and was now known as Saruman and Curunír turned his back on the ruins of the great fortress tower of Barad-dûr and left the land Sauron had taken and left ruined, unaware that not all the malice he sensed was merely the lingering shadow of his fallen brother, but due in part to a watching Nazgûl, for he who’d once been known as Khamûl had seen him and recognized in him the same ambition he’d known when he was merely a mortal Man, King of a fell people long taken by Sauron and twisted to new purposes.  He watched the leaving of this Maia in a Man’s form, and once that one had finally passed through the gates of what had been and would again be Sauron’s own realm he flittered away from the environs of the Black Tower, off to seek the place where his Master hid, seeking healing for himself before rebuilding his power base.

*******

            Lord Elrond examined his guest.  “Have you located yet where he is?”

            “I sense he is far south and east of us, perhaps in the ruins of the Enemy’s great fortress.  He examines the remains of a great wall, and speaks with Men of war.”  Radagast’s expression was intent with concentration.  “He ignores my attempts to summon him that I might present myself for his inspection and direction.”

            “Then I suggest,” Elrond said, “you find a place suitable for your own abilities and contentment and begin your work.  The Elves of Middle Earth will delight to aid you in your task of strengthening the earth, beasts, and birds against the depredations of the Enemy; and you will even meet some among Men and other peoples who feel the same.  When Saruman returns to the northern lands you may meet with him at that time.”

            Radagast sighed.  It was what he wanted to do, but somehow not contacting Curumo first seemed wrong to him.  However, not having any choice in the matter he set out to follow Elrond’s suggestions, first going south to the Gap of Rohan and then traveling north up the valley of the Anduin, finally finding a place near the Carrock that felt comfortable to him; and began calling to him the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth to learn of the places deepest hurt where his aid was most strongly needed.

*******

            Far to the east traveled Curumo, seeing lands so far beyond Mordor that they knew nothing of Gondor or Arnor save for the rumor of rumors.  In those lands closest to Mordor there was a feeling of desolation.  So long had the people of these lands endured under the thumb of Sauron that they had no idea how to act without direction.  This left them easy prey to tyrants and dictators, and he saw many excesses of violence and oppression.  The further east he went the more delicate the web of tyranny, or so he found.  In this land women were considered the chattel of their fathers or husbands, and might be given to whomever might be willing to pay the most for the pleasure of enjoying their bodies and directing the least significant aspects of their lives.  In that one slavery was endemic, to the extent that perhaps but one Man in a thousand would be considered free to direct his own life as well as those under his control.  In another those who held the land where water was found controlled the destinies of thousands they would never see face to face.  In still another the birth of a female child before the couple had produced one or more sons was considered a capital crime.  The sheer inventiveness of those who delighted in the misery of others fascinated the Wizard.

            In a land of cold deserts he was welcomed into the felt tent of the ruler of the land.

            “Enter and take your ease, Lord,” his host bade him.  “I will have my wives and concubines and daughters bring you refreshment, and water in which to bathe.  You may rest on the extra cushions of my own quarters, and remain as long as you will.  However, I must deal with one requiring judgment.  Perhaps once you have bathed and had some food and drink you would care to see?  You might find it entertaining.”

            As evening fell he joined his host in the presence room, accepting a place where he might recline upon cushions.  Two young women and three girls who could not as yet have begun their menses brought him a goblet of the drink of the place, fermented mare’s milk, and fruits of such variety they must have been brought hundreds of leagues from the more protected and fertile lands in which they grew and ripened.  One of the women and two of the girls had eyes red with weeping, and the eyes of the other woman were full of carefully suppressed fury.  The last girl would not meet his eyes, her expression carefully blank. 

            His host struck a gong, and armed Men, barely more than boys, came in, half carrying between them a strong Man naked to the waist and clad lower down only in a breech clout, one who had been imprisoned in heavy manacles and chains, and who had been repeatedly beaten over several days.

            The prisoner’s face was remarkably similar to that of the one who sat in the carven seat of the ruler of this people, proud and full of fury and even pity.  He was drawn to his feet, and the Wizard could see one arm had been broken, that there were massive bruises on his abdomen and torso indicating he’d been repeatedly kicked, his ragged breath indicated he undoubtedly had suffered a broken rib, and one hip was out of its socket.  Yet he held his tongue until his judge finally spoke.

            “Well, brother, will you bow down and worship me as your Ghantsi?”

            He who had to be held up gave a bitter if wretched laugh.  “Worship you as Ghantsi?  You who must take from me all that made life sweet, who holds our people as very slaves to your will,  who takes our sisters to your bed merely to deny them the marriages they would prefer to make, who slew our mother that she not reproach you for the murder of her husband and now her elder son?  You may have taken the title of Ghantsi with my imprisonment and our father’s death, but you will know little pleasure of it, I suspect.  For you will find there is always one stronger than you, one more clever than you, waiting for your guard to drop sufficiently to treat you as you have me.  Or perhaps one of our sisters will wait until you have sated yourself on her and finally sleep in her bedplace, and then will place a fine blade between your ribs, even as our aunt did with our uncle before she named our father Ghantsi in his place.

            “Nay, brother, I worship none who walk the earth in the shape of Men and who must make water against the wall--and certainly not you.  Nor will I give you the satisfaction of begging for my life.  Better to be dead than under your ungentle hand.”

            Saruman left the royal compound the next day, and passed the condemned brother’s broken body staked out on the dried earth beyond the last tent.  He’d thought the Man dead until one slitted eye opened further and looked at him.  Past broken teeth and burst lips he whispered, “And such as you witness the evil done by the likes of my brother and protest not?  I spit on you!”

            Deeply troubled, Saruman at last turned his path westward once again.

*

            He was within the nearer eastern lands when he heard the tread of horses approaching.  He no longer rode the fine bay he’d purchased a half-day’s walk west of Amon Sûl; nor even the finer black he’d received as a gift from the lesser lord of Lamedon he’d robbed of the unfinished scroll.  Far to the east he’d found a warrior lying wounded and had made shift to offer him healing and aid.  After five days, more of the Man’s own kind had come and offered to take over the care of the warrior, and the leader of the party had given him the wounded Man’s spotted horse with its rough, thick coat.  Two days later the party passed him, the wounded warrior’s head spitted on a lance.

           The spotted horse paused at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, neighing in concern.  Saruman, who’d learned much of caution in his journey east, slipped from the saddle and drew it and the black he led behind the ruins of a caravansary left to fall back into sand and dust once the oasis that had supported it had gone dry.

            Two riders approached in robes of blue, each carrying what appeared to be a staff in his hand.  Reassured, Saruman emerged from his hiding place and greeted them.

            “It is good to see you, brother,” said Pallando.  “You have ridden into the lands to the east?”

            “Indeed,” Saruman answered them.  “Why do you go there first?”

            Alatar shrugged.  “It was our Lord Oromë’s will we do so, and do what we can to shift the primary allegiances of the peoples of those lands away from Mordor and so slow the return of Sauron to power.”

            “Now that certain news of the whereabouts of Sauron is not known, most in the eastern lands have fallen prey to predators among their own kind,” the White Wizard told them.  “It will be no mean feat to turn them from such lives to a semblance of civilization once more, you will find.  At least one good was known under Sauron’s rule--these barbarians knew some degree of order under him instead of each small enclave seeking its own form of depravity.”  He made no effort to hide the level of the disgust he knew from his long journey.

            The two Blue Wizards looked to one another in dismay.  “Then it appears we will have our work cut out for us,” Pallando said at last.

            “Even so,” Saruman agreed.

            The three made a camp together that night, and Saruman shared with them some of the conditions he’d found.

            “What would you advise, then, as perhaps the best strategy with which to approach these lands?” asked Alatar.

            Saruman shrugged.  “That is hard to say.  Perhaps find the one government in the eastern lands that offers the greatest level of stability, and assist it to take control over the rest, then seek to advise the rulers to a benevolent rather than tyrannical rule,” he suggested.

            Alatar and Pallando could not question the wisdom of such advice.  “It is at least a goal that cannot only be hoped for but is possible to attain,” Alatar noted.

            After three days together the two Blue Wizards finally mounted their horses and headed again eastward, while Saruman wended his own way west past the Black Gate to the Anduin, then ferried across the Great River at Cair Andros to travel northward paralleling as much as possible the river’s course, examining more of the lands that had fallen loosely under the governance of Arnor.

*******

            “You will not invite him to enter our lands?” asked Celeborn of his wife.

            Galadriel Artanis shook her head.  “If he can see our land and find his way to and across our borders I would not see him denied hospitality; but I will not lead pride such as his and the envy he holds willingly to the heart of Caras Galadhon.”

            “You have seen him in the Mirror and your dreams?”

            “Greatness is in him; but whether that greatness will lead him to full service or the will for total domination cannot yet be told.”

            “The Valar would send such a one to us here in the Mortal Lands?  But of what aid will such be should Sauron again seek to rise to power?”

            “He knows much of Sauron’s nature, for they served together under Aulë for long ages before the poisoning of the Trees.  He can give us much insight into the mind of the Enemy, you will find, if he can be persuaded it is to his advantage.”

            “And you remember him from that time?”

            “Even so, beloved of my heart.”  She went quiet, then recalled an event.  “Lord Aulë, at Fëanor’s insistence, was teaching how to create jewels of Light.  Because his own creation, as wondrous as it was, could not rival that of Olórin’s, one Olórin must in the end enlist the aid of Varda to properly capture the Light within it, he destroyed the work of his own hands as unworthy.  Totally his own it was, and a marvelous creation.  Yet he would not see it in his own mind or imagine it judged inferior to the work of another, so he broke it.  And so in the end the one to fully master the art of capturing and displaying Light within his gems was a mere Elf and not, after all, one of the Maiar.”

            Celeborn’s laugh was bitter enough.  “To speak of Fëanor of the Noldor as a ‘mere Elf’ must be akin to likening the falls of Rauros to a trickle from a spring over a rockface, Vanimelda.”

            Galadriel’s own laugh was freer in spirit.  “Indeed, beloved.”  She grew more serious.  “Perhaps had he known more serious competition from the Maiar studying then at the Smith’s side, my kinsman would have known more humility and not have valued the work of his hands beyond the honor of his family and the safety of all the peoples of Middle Earth.”

            In the end Saruman did not see the golden Light of Laurelindórenan, and rode over the Dimrill Stair unaware he’d just missed the realm he sought.  As his presence disappeared beyond Caradhras, Galadriel breathed a long-held sigh of relief.

*******

            As he walked eastward from Mithlond, the one now called Gandalf, the Man with the Staff, looked on the lands abandoned by the Elves and the ruins of Cardolan with dismay.  Once these lands had been thriving, wilderlands and great cities and pleasant villages side by side, each turn in the road bringing a new delight--this he remembered from the days before the downfall of Angband when he’d on occasion ridden behind Oromë, and from his secret journeys here over much of the last three thousand years.  He could see how Radagast had already begun the labor of healing the lands he passed through as he followed his own path through what remained of Arnor.  He felt the fertile fields of what had been Cardolan mourning the loss of the husbandmen who’d once tilled them and nursed the fruits of their open spaces and orchards.

            Lindon was all but empty of Elven settlements, and no longer did Entwives visit the orchards they’d planted alongside those of Elves in these fair places; and now even the attempts of the Dúnedain of Cardolan had failed.  Gandalf sensed this was fairly recent, probably since the coming of Curumo to Middle Earth.  Had the first among their order so failed as to see the destruction of a land and people?   Concerned, Gandalf hurried onwards along the remains of the East-West Road.

            He came to where the Road forked, and took the one that at the moment appeared to go more directly, headed now for the Baranduin at its nearest point.  He sometimes lost the track, but found the vistas beautiful as he traveled through a land of rolling hills and valleys, filled mostly with calm rivers and shallow streams that flowed joyfully to join with the Baranduin.  A lovely land, a gentle place he judged, and he quietly determined to see it peopled once again, if possible by an agrarian folk that would appreciate its nature.

            At last he came to what had obviously been a landing for a barge used to ferry folk across the river, and he saw at last what had been the site of the royal enclave of Cardolan.  Once there had been a royal city here that had fallen into disrepair, in time becoming a few loosely connected villages along a road that had once been the main boulevard of the King’s seat.

            The ridge on which the King’s House had been built was crowned now with swiftly moldering ruins; the one building still recognizable was what had been the King’s mill.

            Olórin explored the ruins, and grieved for the hopes of glory that had died here.  In spite of the defeat of first Morgoth and then Sauron, the people of this land had fallen prey to envy and a desire for power, and had fought constantly with its sister-land of Rhudaur for the control of Amon Sûl and the Weather Hills.  And now this land, at least, was lost, its royal line apparently destroyed at the last.

            At last he came to the border of the land, where a low stone wall marked the boundary between what had been the royal seat of Cardolan and the Old Forest, and began exploring the valley of the Withywindle.  Now and then one of the trees would challenge him, but he found laughter disconcerted them.  And so he began singing a song he’d heard earlier in the age among the small folk of the valley of the Anduin, a nonsense song of a fish that loved a bird, with the two seeking to decide where they’d build a nest.  The trees appeared to be listening to him and stayed calm, and not even the ancient willow at the heart of the forest sought to do him harm.

            “Hey now, a-hoy now, down down a-dillo!” he heard in the distance.  Gandalf smiled.  It had been a long time since he’d seen Iarwain, and he looked forward to seeing how Middle Earth was dealing with the Eldest.

            They met a quarter mile past the willow, and Iarwain paused in his singing, raising his eyebrow in surprise.  “Old Man Willow allowed you past him, Olórin?  Is the poor tree losing its malice, then?”

            The Grey Wizard laughed.  “I think I confused the fellow by also singing.  Perhaps he thought I was you in a change of appearance.”

            Iarwain joined in the laughter.  “So, that’s how you did it.  No, he cannot understand humor, I find, and acknowledges my mastery.  Many who wandered into the Old Forest from Cardolan have I rescued from his wiles.”  His laughter failed, and his expression became stern.  “And now that land is no more.  Why did your masters send Curumo here?”

            “I am told he offered himself for the service.”

            Iarwain snorted.  “He would be seen as the hero who in the end brings down the servants of the Shadow, would he?  Nay, brother, if that is to be done, it must be as it was before, because all of good will and a desire for freedom to find their own way and to allow others the same right fight side by side.  Can he not see that?  Nay, instead he guards not his tongue when those of ill will seek information on the movements of the King’s son.”

            Gandalf went utterly still in surprise.  “You know this?  How?”

            “The wind speaks to me, as do those of good will who keep an eye on the doings at the crossroads village in the Breelands.  He was impolitic at best.”

            However, Iarwain could not hold onto solemnity for long.  “At any rate, it is long since I had converse with those who have also studied at the side of Irmo.  Come with me and meet my beloved Lady Goldberry.  Come, my friend, and rejoice as our guest tonight, and tell me all you are able of the gossip of our brothers.”

            And, singing together, they went back down the path to Iarwain’s home.  As they traveled, Gandalf was glad for the nonsense of the lyrics of the singing, for his mind was busy considering the import of what he’d been told of Curumo’s earliest dealings within Middle Earth.

The Coming of the Periannath  

            They’d been introduced into Arda quietly and without fanfare.  No one knew precisely when or where they first awoke in Middle Earth, for they didn’t tell the story of their awakening even among themselves.  They were a small folk living in the valley of the Anduin, rarely noticed by their larger neighbors, for in those days they were watchful and wary of strangers.

            They knew of the Valar and Maiar, and told among themselves the stories of Ilúvatar they heard from their larger neighbors.  They watched from the eaves of the woods and the margins of marshes, curious about the world in which they found themselves, but (perhaps all too appropriately) fearful of what particularly those of the race of Men might seek to visit upon them.  Their homes were dug into hillsides, banks, and ridges; and although they often lived in barely discernible colonies alongside Men’s villages and from hiding listened to their talk around firesides and spilling from their feasthalls, they seldom showed themselves to them, preferring to observe and listen from cover unless they became very familiar with their larger neighbors through trade or as a result of accidental meetings leading to unexpectedly pleasant outcomes.

            Over time the Harfoots became familiar with the Dwarves who delved their halls under the mountains among whose foothills they lived, and from them learned how to make tools, and how to work leather and wood, clay and stone, and the metals most likely for use in cultivation, simple tools, and knives.  They began trading with the Dwarves, exchanging the food they gathered and grew for items of precious metals and more finely made tools than they tended to create for themselves.  The Harfoots were shortest in stature of the three clans, usually had thick crops of curly hair of various shades of brown, and eyes ranging from hazel to darkest chestnut.  They were the most numerous of their kind, and most suspicious of perceived changes in their environment.  But they were also the most enduring, and could be doggedly persistent and stubborn at seeing finished whatever project had been begun.

            The Stoors, who lived along the banks of the Anduin and its tributaries, were fascinated with water.  They crafted boats, fished, and studied the ways of the creatures that lived in the same environment.  They became more familiar with the Men who lived alongside them than did the other two clans, trading the fish they caught and the small goods they created of pottery, wood, bone, and stone for the leather they used to construct their small, round crafts and their leather pouches and baskets they used for carrying their catches and gathered foodstuffs, and for the metal tools they needed but couldn’t create for themselves.  From watching the activities in Men’s villages they learned how to tool leather, how to construct looms and weave cloth, and how to twist fibers into sturdy and highly useful threads, yarns, cords, and ropes of various weights, items found much in demand by the clans of Men who followed their horse herds through their territories.  They were more likely, at least in the days when they dwelt along the Anduin, to have darker, straighter hair, and less likely to cut it short about their heads in the case of their menfolk.  These were often resistant to change of any sort, and would debate for days before agreeing to send out parties to seek out stands of cattails and flocks of ducks when their own territories had been over-harvested.

            The Fallohides were the feyest of the three clans, tending to be taller and more slender than their Harfoot and Stoor kinsmen, their skins fairest and their hair lightest in color--dark golds, auburn, and ashen, usually, with an occasional true gold; although from time to time would be born among them one with extraordinarily fair skin combined with extraordinarily dark hair and eyes of brilliant blue, keen grey, or vibrant green, a combination prone to draw attention and admiration from those who met them.  They were the most restless of their kind, and were more likely to prefer hunting with bow and spear rather than to keep domesticated animals.  They ranged the furthest north of their people, and also the furthest east and, at times, south as well.  They loved wild places and stands of trees, and drew the attention of the Elves, whose ranges tended to overlap their own.

            Whether it was due to Elvish influence or even possible interbreeding was unclear; but it was among the Fallohides that there tended to be seen examples of those born with gifts of foresight, land-sense, and extraordinary empathy.  Certainly their crafts were most likely of their kind to be artistically finished and decorated, of a marvelous delicacy of workmanship.  They learned languages with facility, were inordinately curious even for their kind, were the first to embrace writing and the collection of written work and the keeping of records.  They were the most adventurous and prone to sojourning amongst the other clans; and the coming of a Fallohide was greeted with mixed feelings by the settlements of Stoors and Harfoots, what with their greater awareness of the outer world, their greater restlessness, and the new ideas, associations, and skills they would bring with them.  Yet it was from those with the strongest Fallohide blood that they would choose their leaders, for such had keener appreciation for changes in the world and how to react appropriately to them.

            They accepted for themselves the name of Holbytla or “Hole Builders”--a name bestowed upon them by the horse folk, although they changed it to Hobbitals, and eventually Hobbits.  And it appeared they would remain dwelling east of the Mountains of Mist forever until the Third Age of Middle Earth reached the end of its first millennia, when the droughts and fires hit.

The Great River ran, after all, east of the Mountains of Mist, in the rainshadow of that range.  The lands west of the Anduin, lying between the river and the mountains, tended to be dry in comparison to those east of it and much dryer than those lands west of the mountains, and less likely to experience rain.  Every year there would be fires in the summer; but in the drought years the fires were more frequent, and covered more land before they finally burned out.

            After the second summer, the Fallohides began visiting the settlements of Stoors and Harfoots, urging them to look elsewhere to settle.  Advised by the wandering tribes of Elves of the northern Anduin basin, the Fallohides sought out the northern passes through the Mountains and began scouting for new lands to claim.

            In what had been Rhudaur still remained settlements of the Dúnedain, mostly in the region of the Angle; and even many descended from those who had accounted themselves of Arthedain had come there.  There were still several villages to the north as well, and the King’s city of Annúminas remained, as well as the great fortress of Fornost.  Cardolan, however, was no more, its lands abandoned, although the Hobbits didn’t come that far.

            But the Hobbits found lands appropriate for their own needs, and soon were sending back agents most closely related to those remaining among the Harfoots and Stoors to advise them that they would do well to come west of the mountains to a land better suited to their needs and less prone to wildfires.

            A tremendous wildfire struck the east flanks of the Mountains of Mist that year, one that killed thousands of Men and Hobbits and the game, timber, and fields on which they depended.  The wandering tribes of Elves went either west over the mountains, east into the land of Eryn Lasgalen where Thranduil ruled, or south toward the fabled Golden Wood.  Men mostly crossed over the River while Hobbits sought the passes over the mountains.  Only the Stoors, who were the least in number and dwelt along the banks of rivers and streams, lingered east of the Mountains for long; and many who crossed into Eriador returned in time to the eastern lands, seeking out again their homelands along the banks of the Anduin, many finding both arable land and good fishing in the region of the Gladden Fields.

            It was a party of Stoors that scouts of Imladris first found coming over the spine of the Misty Mountains into Eriador, a large party comprised of many women and children as well as men of their people.  It was late in the season to seek to make a crossing, and a heavy rain falling west of the mountains on the plains, forests, and settlements of Eriador came down as snow in the heights of the passes.  The strange creatures drew the attention of Elrond’s scouts, as unprepared as they were for the conditions they faced crossing over the Mountains to lands strange to them, their small stature, and their wary ways which quickly turned to hearty thanksgiving for the aid given them by the Elves.

            Elrohir brought the five who appeared to be leading the party into Imladris to acquaint his father with these newcomers to Eriador, and Elrond was amazed.  Their language was that of the folk of the Anduin, although one of the womenfolk and the younger Perian who accompanied her spoke comprehensible Sindarin.

            “How is it you speak an Elven tongue?” he asked her.

            “He who was my husband and father of my son here was a Fallohide from north and east of us,” she told him.  “Forodor, so he was named.  When I was young he came to us alongside his father, who was a great explorer and traveler, even for one of their clan.  When first we saw Forodor, all the young women of our people found their eyes delighting in the sight of him, for he was tall and remarkably comely.  But in the end it was I that caught his own eye, and in time he asked to remain with our clan and to take me to wife.

            “But he was restless of heart, although he curbed it for my sake, and in time also for the sake of our children.  Our firstborn was a daughter, and she inherited the wandering spirit from her father.  In time, when a trader from the mountains, one of Harfoot breeding, came to our village to trade stone work for our leather goods, she went back with him as his wife.  We have heard no news of her in three years, since a great fire destroyed much of the forests cloaking the flanks of the mountains in the region where her husband’s people lived.  And we are told the Dwarves with whom they primarily traded lost some to the fires, and then more to attacks by the evil creatures who dwell under the mountains--the yrch folk.”

            “Your husband spoke Sindarin, then?” he asked.

            She paused, then nodded.  “Yes, for it is much spoken among his people, who dwelt near the forests where wandering tribes of Elves once spent a part of each year--or so he has told us.  But they dwell there no longer, his kinsmen who came to us have told us; the tribe with whom his family dealt the most left their old lands, and crossed west over the mountains, seeking what they called the Havens of Mithlond and passage West, for they foresaw that changes for evil approach, and they would not linger here in the Mortal Lands to see their children suffer under the influence of the Shadow as it seeks to rise once more.”

            “And what has become of your husband?”

            “He died two se’nnights past.  There was a great slide of rock and earth, and he ran forward to save the families most directly in its path.  Six he pushed to safety, but he was caught in the fall, and carried down the mountainside with those who could not make it out of the way.  We found his body three days after, a girlchild sheltered in his arms, the child still clinging to life.  Your people took her from us and sent her ahead of us.  Is she still living, do you know?”

            He smiled at her.  “Oh, yes, indeed she is.  She recovered most swiftly for a mortal child, although the bones of her right arm are not yet fully knit where they were broken.  They were most properly splinted, I must say.”

            She nodded again, looking down.  “My son did that, for he was taught how to do that by his father, who had much knowledge of leechcraft and the use of herbs for healing and cooking.”  She sighed.  “My younger daughter I also have lost in this journey, although it is likely she would have died in any case.  She was married also, and pregnant for a third time.  The first child did not live; the second, a son, lives but is not well accepted by his father’s family, for he much favors he who was my husband, and Ortholo’s parents and brethren dislike the Fallohides intensely.  It is likely that, had they seen Forodor before Ortholo saw Titiana and became enamored of her, he would never have offered suit to her.  But they joined our settlement while Forodor was gone, having accompanied Diamentë and her husband back to his village in the mountains.  When he found out Forodor was of the Fallohides, Ortholo swore he was cheated.  He was less warm to my daughter after that, but still she quickened three times for him.

            “Titiana came to her time early in the journey, and neither she nor the child survived.  Ortholo is bitter and would blame Forodor for that loss also, had Forodor not fought for her life with all within him and been all but prostrate with grief when she did not survive.”

            “What is your son’s name?”

            “Bilbiolo.  He is a most curious one, you will find.”

            And so he proved; but he showed himself a leader among the party with whom he’d come over the mountains as they found empty lands to settle along the Mitheithel south of the Last Bridge, even then a landmark.  Yet he proved restless still, often leaving the settlement to visit in Imladris where he learned to read and write Sindarin and sought to learn as much as he could of the history of this new land.

 *******

            Gandalf had stopped atop a ridge, looking West, admiring a most striking sunset and feeling somewhat homesick.

            “A most beautiful setting of Anor into the West, is it not?” came the greeting in accented Sindarin.

            When the voice spoke he was so taken by surprise he almost lost his balance as he turned swiftly, staff held at the ready, to find his unexpected companion was barely half his own height, a small creature, shaped much like a Man, but with bare feet well covered with short, curly hair, ears gently leaf-shaped, the hair on top of his head a cap of loose brown curls, a satchel and blanket roll slung over one shoulder and a quiver and bow over the other, a skinning knife at his belt, his green eyes intent on the view.

            Gandalf knew what it was he saw.  For much of the Second and early Third Ages of Middle Earth he had, as the Maia Olórin, visited the mortal lands from time to time, usually appearing to its inhabitants only as a glimpse of particular brightness or, on occasion, as a stranger of their kind, come to accept their hospitality for a brief period and to leave them with sage advice or the inspiration to take up an enterprise not seriously considered previously, but one that in the end served them well.  And so it was that he had met the Holbytla of the Anduin basin, with a visit to a farming community in the eastern roots to the Mountains of Mist, a stay in one of the large smials along the tributaries to the Anduin, or a chance encounter in the forests through which the headwaters of the Great River ran.

            “You startled me, my friend,” he said to the Hobbit.

            “I am sorry,” the small one answered, “but I have never learned the trick of making much noise as I walk as is common to your kind.  If I had that skill, perhaps you would have realized earlier that I was coming to you.  I am Bilbiolo son of Forodor of the village of Makers of Bags.”

            “Bags?” asked the Wizard.

            The Hobbit gave a slight shrug as he indicated the satchel he carried.  “So we call these,” he explained.  “We obtain hides from the Men of Dorlath in exchange for excess from our crops and our pottery and create these, then trade them back to them for tools and knives.  Usually the exchange is seen as fair on both sides, so we have continued it.”

            “I’d not realized any of your folk lived here in the western lands, for I’d only seen the Holbytla in the valley of the Anduin.”

            The Hobbit gave him a searching look.  “You know the name we are known as there along the River, do you?  That is unusual, for almost all here refer to us as Periannath.”

            Gandalf found himself smiling.  “I have wandered through many lands and over many paths.  However, I have been most recently far to the south among the Dúnedain of Gondor.  What brings your family here to Arnor?”

            Bilbiolo shrugged again as he turned westward once more.  “It is not only my family, but many of our people.  Here is a wide, green land with room for many; but eastward of the mountains it has been dry for many seasons, with many fires.  Now and then some of our kind will go back to see if the weather has changed for the better, but although there have been a few years of plenty, still more come westward than return back to the land where our people lived for so long.”

            “How long have you dwelt here in Eriador?”

            “My party came here twenty years past.  Some would desire to return to our old place, but most prefer to stay here, for it is cooler in the summers and warmer in the winters; and although there are years when less rain falls, never have we sat in fear that it would not return as we did there the last few years we lived in our homeland.”  He sighed.  “The land is rich enough, I must suppose, but not as rich as it was along our river, and we have had to welcome folk of the Harfoots among us as they are the better husbandmen.  I rejoice to accept them, but some such as he who was married to my sister resent the other clans of our peoples.”

            “How is it you speak Sindarin?”

            Bilbiolo smiled.  “My a’da came from the north, and was a Fallohide, and spoke often with the Elves who wandered in the same lands as those in which he was born.  He spoke it often when alone with my mother and my sisters and myself, and so I grew up speaking it.”

            Gandalf was intrigued.  “If your father is a Fallohide and your sister’s husband dislikes those of the different clans, how is it he came to marry your sister?”

            The Hobbit laughed.  “Oh, he did not know for some time, he did not.  His own people were forced to leave the valley where they dwelt when the river that watered it dried in the drought.  He remained with us and took my younger sister to wife before my father returned from a journey to the Harfoot village my older sister joined when she married.”  His face went somewhat stern.  “If I could I would bring my sister’s son with me, but Ortholo does not allow him to be with me any more than he must.”

            “He sounds a rather unpleasant fellow.”

            Bilbiolo made a sour face.  “Unpleasant enough, although he does well enough by his family.  My sister’s son does not want for anything of any importance, except,” he added in a lower voice, “for freedom to do as his heart would lead him rather than what his father and his father’s family would see him do.”  He straightened in the gathering dark and stretched.  “Well, lord stranger, I must go if I would return to the village before sunset tomorrow.”

            “You would willingly walk abroad through the night?”

            The Hobbit’s smile was barely discernible in the twilight that was falling more rapidly now.  “Oh, but I’ve always loved walking beneath the stars.  Probably I have that love from my father, I must suppose.  If you ever have time, come to visit our village on the Mitheithel, not far south of the Last Bridge.

            “By the way,” he added, looking up, head slanted, “you did not tell me your name.”

            “They call me Gandalf, Gandalf the Wizard.”

            “I am pleased to meet you, Gandalf the Wizard, and I pledge the service of myself and my family from this day forward.  A pleasant evening to you.”  And whistling a plaintive tune Gandalf recognized as having been commonly sung among the horsemen of the upper Anduin valley, Bilbiolo turned and continued on his way back toward the Last Bridge.

A Friend Among Hobbits

            A few months later Gandalf traveled the course of the Mitheithel south of the Last Bridge to seek out the village of Hobbits his new acquaintance had described.  He knew what to look for, having seen such before.  However, he strode past it twice before noticing the drying racks hidden by artfully placed flowering shrubs, and the smoke emerging from holes in the tops of mounds and banks.  The round doorways were almost impossible to discern, again screened by shrubs and foliage, as were the window openings made to admit light and fresh air.  Once he’d actually seen them they were impossible to mistake for anything else; but the Hobbits of this village were obviously still wary of their larger neighbors throughout Eriador.

            He stood looking down at the small settlement with pleasure and approval, having noted the small plots of vegetables and field of grain, and how each at first glance appeared to be a random occurrence of the plants involved.

            Then he realized he was surrounded by Hobbits, some armed with short spears, and some with their arrows aimed directly at his heart.  He remained unmoving and waited to see where this meeting would lead.

            Suddenly a voice could be heard.  "Stop, you fools.  He’s a friend, I tell you!"  He looked to his left and saw Bilbiolo approaching, speaking in the language spoken by the Stoors of the valley of the Anduin.  "And if there is one of the Big Folk whom I would have by me this day, it is this one.  He is Gandalf the Wizard," this last said as if he were stating a fact of which all were knowledgeable.  Gandalf found himself suppressing a grin, forcing himself to remain appearing mildly curious instead of amused.

            "This is Gandalf the Wizard?" asked a broader individual with straighter, darker hair and a suspicious expression in his eyes.  "And what is a Wizard?"

            "Lord Elrond has told us that the Wizards have been sent to Middle Earth to guide and advise.  It is said they hold great power in the rods they carry, and can work great wonders."

            "And who has said this?"

            "I told this to you, Ortholo, that I was told this by Lord Elrond, and also by the Men of Dorlath.  All speak well of Gandalf the Grey."

            "Do they now?" asked Gandalf, his curiosity piqued.  "In the southlands they often treat me with suspicion."

            "Do they, now?" asked Ortholo.  "And do they have reason?"

            Gandalf shrugged.  "Certainly they feel they have reason.  Whether they indeed have such reason is, I suppose, open to debate."

            A glare from Bilbiolo, and most of those who aimed their weapons at the Wizard lowered them.  A younger Hobbit asked, "Do you truly hold great powers in your rod?"

            Gandalf affected a mysterious air.  "I cannot tell you all that my staff holds, for it is a great secret for those of my order.  I can only tell you that a Wizard’s staff is unique to him, and is not to be separated from him."

            The surrounding Hobbits looked at one another uncertainly.  The younger Hobbit, however, exchanged looks of interest with Bilbiolo, at which Gandalf noted a look of anger in the eyes of the one called Ortholo.  Was this one Ortholo’s son, Bilbiolo’s nephew, then?  To distract from his own curiosity, Gandalf turned to Bilbiolo.  "You said you would be glad to have me by you today?  And why is this?"

            Bilbiolo fairly shone with pride and anticipation.  "I take to myself a wife this day, my friend.  And so I welcome you, glad to have you share in our joy."

            Gandalf felt particularly pleased.  "And tell me--where have you found your bride?"

            "She is from a village some five miles to our west.  Her father is a Stoor, and her mother came from among the Fallohides."

            "Just what we need here in our village," muttered Ortholo, "more mixed breeds."  The younger Hobbit glared at him.

            Bilbiolo, however, ignored the both of them and took the Wizard by the hand to draw him toward the center of the village.  "Come," he said, "and rejoice with me and mine.  I shall no longer be alone, and I shall leave children after me."

            It was another hour before the bride’s party could be seen approaching the village of the Makers of Bags.  There were about eight menfolk, six of their women, and five children.  Three were mounted on small ponies and carried spears and bows, and they led two more ponies carrying panniers filled with goods of various sorts.  The male Hobbits had packs on their backs or large carrying bags over their shoulders, while two of the women carried large baskets balanced on their heads and two of the children each led a pig.

            The women of the village of Makers of Bags went forth to greet their guests carrying wreaths of flowers and greenery.  The bride and those of her own folk who attended her were greeted by songs remarkably reminiscent of those sung by the horse folk of the Anduin valley as they were led into the village.  There the two pigs were given into the keeping of Bilbiolo, who led the two of them up a slanted path between the entrances to two different home burrows to a sty he’d prepared for this day, food already filling a trough roughly cut from a log, fresh water in another one.  The ones who brought the two swine examined the sty and its appointments with approval--evidently the fact he’d prepared so well for the pigs who formed part of the bride’s dowry indicated to them that he was likely to be at least as thoughtful to the bride herself.

            They then inspected his home, emerging with smiles upon their faces.  "It is good," the bride’s father pronounced.  "The space for preparing meals is well done indeed, Bilbiolo.  Your cooking hearth is beyond merely adequate, and the number of pots, kettles, and other cooking items impressive, as is the baking oven outside the hole.  And the storage rooms for food and goods are very well stocked.  To know you have prepared so well for the coming of our daughter is heartening, for we can see she will not want for food or comfort."

            The bride’s mother was smiling rather tremulously.  "And to see the new sheepskins and blankets and other weavings in the bedplace is also heartening, for we see you honor her well enough to make it your priority to see that she will be comfortable and warm, and that you will shelter her well both within your home and your love.  As for the rest of your hole--you swore to us when you made your suit that you would see her well provided for and surrounded by comfort and beauty, and so it proves.  We rejoice that our daughter will not want for food or ease for her body or her heart as she comes into your hole and accepts you as her husband."

            One of the other menfolk, who appeared to be the bride’s uncle, then surprised Gandalf by bringing out a scroll which proved to be an inventory of the dower goods the bride was bringing into the marriage, and then began to read it.  There was a detailed list of cooking pots, storage and carrying baskets, spindles of different sizes and weights, a loom that appeared to have been disassembled for the sake of transporting it here, hooks, needles, shuttles, and bobbins for the making of fabrics and laces, baskets of wool and pots for dying it, and seeds for flax.  It appeared that Bilbiolo’s bride was one who specialized in the manufacture of fabrics.  The wizard was well impressed.

            "And we add," the uncle continued, "two scrolls, one regarding the preparation of dyes for woolens and linens, and a second written by the father of my sister and myself describing the coming of our own people out of the eastern lands and the founding of our village of the Weaving Folk."

            Gandalf was pleasantly shocked at this.  Scrolls were part of the dower gifts?  This was certainly a new feature to Hobbit behavior he’d not seen before.

            "And why would anyone wish for scrolls as a dower gift?" asked Ortholo contemptuously.

            The young Hobbit it appeared was his son gave a snort of disgust.  "Dada," he said, shaking his head, "she is a spinner and weaver.  That her folk would give her directions for the preparations of dyes is a good thing, is it not?  And to provide her with the history of her clan--why should not their children have an understanding of how it is her family as well as ours came here into the western lands?"  Gandalf couldn’t ignore the look of envy and longing the lad gave the two scrolls.

            Bilbiolo bowed his head toward his bride’s mother and uncle.  "I will keep these scrolls with honor with those I have already begun to collect and prepare.  And I will see to it that our children, as well as we are able to do so, know the full history of our people.  After all, the Elves and the folk of the Dúnedain among whom we live have seen to it their histories are preserved.  Are we to do less for our own peoples and children?"

            The bride’s people appeared pleased by this pronouncement, the Harfoots among the groom’s village a bit confused but impressed, while those surrounding Ortholo were shaking their heads with disbelief.  One of the older women of the village of Makers of Bags who’d remained close to Bilbiolo through much of the day smiled. "I am pleased, my son, that you would seek to see our journey westward remembered by my grandchildren and all who come after.  Let none forget how we have striven to achieve the life we now know."

            A meal was shared by the two parties as the bride was taken into the hole to allow her to prepare herself.  Then at last she was brought out into the village square where Bilbiolo now stood with the younger Hobbit by him, Ortholo obviously annoyed at the inclusion of his son in the marriage ceremony itself.  The bride’s uncle appeared to be the one who would oversee the wedding, as he now came to stand before bride and groom while what appeared to be a marriage song was sung by women from both villages.

            At last the marriage song was finished, and the bride’s uncle looked from one to the other.  "And why do you stand before this company, Bilbiolo son of Forodor of the village of Makers of Bags?" he asked.

            "To take this woman among Hobbits as my wife, to bring her into my hole and family and village, that we might live as one, that she might bear whatever children are granted us, that we might rejoice in one another for as long as we are given together."

            "And why do you come here, Platina daughter of Serado and Dorada of the village of Weavers?"

            "To take this Hobbit as my husband, to enter into his hole and family and village, that we might live as one, that I might bear whatever children are given us, that we might rejoice in one another for as long as we are given together."

            "And do those of you who are of the families of Bilbiolo and Platina agree to this, that this Hobbit and woman among Hobbits should take one another as husband and wife, to dwell together as one, first here in the village of Makers of Bags for as long as it pleases both to remain here and later where it will please both of them to dwell, to bring to life whatever children might be granted to them, and to rejoice in one another for as long is given them together?"

            The youth who stood by Bilbiolo spoke. "As my uncle’s closest male relative, I, Merlin son of Ortholo, agree to this."

            The bride’s mother, who stood by her daughter, smiled at bride and groom.  "As Platina’s mother, I, Dorada daughter of Mureo and Rubea, agree to this."

            Dorada’s brother looked up at those standing near.  "Does anyone challenge the right of these two to choose one another?"  When no one spoke, he continued, "Then let them be joined this day before all."

            Merlin took his uncle’s right hand and placed it in the bride’s right hand, while Dorada took Platina’s left hand and set it in the left hand of Bilbiolo.  Dorada’s brother set his own hands over those of bride and groom.  "May you know years of joy together, and may all of the children of the Creator rejoice because this day you are joined as husband and wife."  Then smiling, he drew back and gave a nod, and with a shared look the new couple reached out to take one another in their arms, sharing their first kiss together.

            Gandalf watched with interest. It was certainly a much simpler ceremony than he’d seen among other peoples, but had a quiet grace to it; and feeling himself the Valar’s own representative at this wedding he offered the couple his own private blessing as well, suddenly realizing other eyes were looking through his own, his staff warming in his hand.  He was surprised by this.  What, he wondered, did this portend that the Valar themselves watched this wedding with such interest?

            But answers were not granted him, merely a sense of reassurance that only good will was intended.  Only partly mollified but more curious than before, Gandalf vowed to himself to make his own observations on the welfare of his new friends.

            The wedding feast was wonderful, full of delicacies Gandalf had never eaten before, from eels taken from the river and delicately cooked to a bread made from ground cattail roots sweetened with honey, and hams cured also with honey and served with a sauce of apples seasoned with spices Gandalf had never tasted before.

            Afterwards there was music and much dancing and singing; and so it went far into the evening, even after bride and groom had long since disappeared into their hole.  Many of the dower gifts, the Wizard noted, were left on display outside the hole, supervised by the families of bride and groom, including the two scrolls brought with her by the bride.  Managing to elude his father’s eye for a time, young Merlin approached the table.  "Would you like to examine the scrolls, Merlin?" Bilbiolo’s mother asked him quietly.

            "Oh, yes, if I might, Grandmother," the young Hobbit whispered.

            She indicated one of the flowering shrubs that screened the windows of the hole, behind which he secreted himself.  She picked up one of the scrolls and quietly passed it to him, and there he sat for a time, reading it raptly while his grandmother kept a careful eye on his father, seeing to it Ortholo was kept distracted with food, drink, and the company of a few Hobbits somewhat younger than himself who were encouraging him to describe his original home in the valley of the Anduin and the duck hunting there.  Gandalf could see that one of this number appeared in league with Bilbiolo’s mother, and would carry on quiet conversations with her when he returned to the table laden with foods, only to ask yet another question requiring a long answer from Ortholo each time Merlin’s father looked ready to fall silent again.

            Then the bride’s father was describing the journey their clan had made through the mountains into Eriador, asking Ortholo how it had been different for those who belonged to the village of Makers of Bags.

            "Much of it was simple enough, until the day when much of the mountainside ahead of us fell away and swept across our path," Ortholo said.  "That was a very bad day indeed."

            "Several of our party were carried down the slope by the rockfall," another added.  "If not for the swiftness of action of Forodor, more would have been lost.  Unfortunately, he was one of those killed in the slide, although he managed to protect Starflower there through the fall."  He indicated a pretty young Hobbitess whose dark hair had distinct red highlights, who was bringing a roasted fowl from the ovens.  "We found her sheltered by his arms and body, and she recovered fully." 

            "She’s a lovely thing," commented one of the younger Hobbits who’d come in the bride’s party.

            "That she is," the Hobbit from among the village of Makers of Bags agreed in quiet tones, "that she is indeed.  But if you think to court her, I fear you will be disappointed, for she’s had eyes for none save Merlin for some years, although it will be still some years yet before she will be of an age to marry."

            "Merlin?" asked the visitor.

            Gandalf straightened, realizing that with mention of his son’s name Ortholo was beginning to look around for the youth; it appeared Merlin’s stolen moments of discovery were at an end.  His grandmother, however, had apparently been watching for just such an event, and now quietly slipped toward the screening bush and tapped his shoulder, retrieving the scroll from him and hastily rerolling it while the young Hobbit slipped out the other side and made his way around the back of the ridge holding the hole.  The Wizard suppressed a smile; apparently this was not the first time Bilbiolo’s mother had conspired with her grandson to help hide the curiosity Ortholo felt inappropriate in his son.

            Yes, Gandalf thought to himself, this would be a family well worth the watching.  When the pretty Starflower came to offer him more poultry he accepted gladly, and watched as her eyes lit when Merlin appeared from the direction of where Gandalf had learned the privies had been dug.  Well worth the watching indeed.

 *******

            Ten years later, after some years east of the Misty Mountains examining the folk of Rhovanion, Gandalf again considered reentering Eriador as he sat at his ease in the grass beneath the mellyrn in which Amroth and his folk had woven their halls.  Opposite him sat his hosts, and as he examined the Lady of Light he had to admit that Artanis had done well by herself and, apparently, the rest of Middle Earth as well by leaving Aman as she did to come here to the Mortal Lands.

            He accepted the goblet of wine offered him, admiring the fine glass of which it was wrought.  "I hope that Saruman has tasted this vintage," he commented as he took an appreciative sip.

            Galadriel sighed as she shook her head.  "Not yet have we received him into our lands, although he has sought us.  However, whenever he comes near his eyes slide over the barrier I’ve erected to deter the eyes of those who might prove enemies.  I cannot say that I am disappointed, however.  There remains in his heart a degree of envy of those he sees as superior to himself, I fear--including you, my friend."  She examined him. "I’m surprised you would agree to this service."

            He shrugged.  "The request came from the highest of authorities--how could I do otherwise but to accept?"

            She smiled as she searched his eyes.  "Yet I note you came a very long time in the reckoning of mortals after Curumo.  Once the request was made I’ve no doubt you came swiftly enough; but how long was it ere you made yourself available to receive it?"

            He laughed, noting how closely Celeborn watched the play of the interrogation, holding himself back so far from taking active part in it.  "You perhaps know me all too well, Lady.  You ever were a discerning one, from your youngest days."

            Her smile broadened as she said, "But how could I mistake one I came to love so well and so early, Olórin?  You were always so kind to the restless soul I was as a child.  I always sensed in you a kindred spirit--restless and curious and desirous to see more than was readily available."

            "So, you’ve not hosted Saruman.  How about Aiwendil, Pallando, and Alatar?"

            "Radagast was happily accepted by us as he sought a place that pleased him to take as his own abode; and the few times he’s come this far we’ve greeted him as a guest.  But his heart is in the beauty of the mortal woodlands, and he rarely comes here.  His appreciation of the transient nature of the life of these lands is wonderful to see, and necessary for one to serve in aiding to seeing them restored as they need it.

            "The Blue Wizards we saw but once as they traveled north from Anórien before heading eastward to the lands Oromë charged them to safeguard.  We’ve heard naught from them since.  I knew them not in Aman, for I never gave much heed to most of the other Valar, Noldo that I was, born and bred."

            His smile took a thoughtful tone as once again he scanned her tall figure.  "Noldo you might be, but it cannot be avoided that you wed a Silvan lord; and even then there was mutual love between yourself and Yavanna, Nessa, and Vána, child.  That at this date you offer more service and honor to the Ladies of Growth, Beauty, and Harvest than to the Lord of the Earth and Forge I, at least, find hopeful, for this is much needed in these lands, as overwhelmed with evil and strife as they’ve ever been.”

            At last Celeborn entered the conversation.  "Perhaps only you of all within Middle Earth might be allowed to address my lady wife as ‘child,’ lord," he said with amusement.  Then his expression grew more solemn.  "Which brings us back to the point of your being here in these lands at all.  There is rumor now of many evil creatures being seen within the southern borders of Thranduil’s realm where his folk rarely go.  Morgoth had an outpost there once, one which was razed and cleansed by Oropher with our aid and that of Amroth; and once Oropher built his own stronghold there.  But Thranduil drew further into the forest and had new halls created under a mountain of stone, and few have had the heart to go back to where they once lived, much less dwell once more where evil was done in Morgoth’s service.  Now it is said another stronghold is being built.  We must call again for a council, Gandalf, a council of all with power and heart to stand against Sauron as he seeks to rise again."

            "Has Maglor sent you warnings, then?"

            Galadriel’s face had gone sad.  "No, he will not contact me nor send me message of any kind, and it grieves me.  The last we had of him was when he received the sentence of the Valar, at which time he sent a message only telling me that he would not offer his taint to those of us who lingered in Middle Earth, hoping his acceptance of his banishment would serve to lighten the judgment made on me.  I grieve mightily at this, but my one attempt to send word to him when Celebrían was born was rebuffed.  The last I heard was that the few times he’s been sighted it’s ever been along the coast of the Sundering Sea, singing songs of grief for the choices made and what they’ve done to our family and all of Arda."

            Gandalf took a deep breath to ease his own sorrow, for he’d loved Maglor when he was a young ellon in Aman.  "I grieve to hear that.  However, apparently he has approached either Círdan or some among the parties heading for the Havens with words of warning to your father.  Who it is that approached them none will say, and when I made to question him Círdan refused to answer--not that it matters any to me.  If I had my will in this matter I would have pardoned Maglor an age or better past.  Yet so it is that the Valar took counsel to send us here as the Istari.  That at least you would recognize me is, I suppose, to be expected.  But indeed we were intended to teach all of those within Middle Earth to stand against Sauron, each as he--or she--is able."

            Gandalf looked at Celeborn with a keen glance.  "You are correct--unless all within Middle Earth are willing to stand together, Sauron will not be felled when he rises again.  I cannot find him, though I have cast my awareness about the Mortal Lands seeking him.  I believe he has lain hidden somewhere in the eastern wastes, but beyond his own land of Mordor.  I have sensed some of his creatures there, and especially traces of at least three of his Nazgûl.  But the Ringwraiths do not seek to make themselves obvious, and they also ward themselves from open discovery.  I suspect it is Angmar himself that holds the northern lands again under his control.  I’ve only sought to enter there once, but was rebuffed.  There are spells set on its boundaries that repel those of good will, of such kind that it will take blood to cleanse them away as it took much blood to set them in place."  His expression became stiff with anger.  "Trust the progeny of the Nameless One to turn to spells based on death.

            "As for who it is that builds a stronghold in what more and more call southern Mirkwood--I cannot tell whether it is Sauron or Khamûl, who was ever second after Angmar.  What is definite is that evil grows there yet again.

            "So now we come to the question--whom will you summon to this council, and where would you see it held?"

            "We could see it held in Gondor, perhaps in the Dome of Stars," Celeborn suggested.

            Gandalf shook his head.  "Rómendacil is a great enough King among Men, and wise beyond the norm for his kind; but he is no Elendil or even Isildur.  He is jealous of his northern kindred, even if their land is less than his own.  Perhaps he fears the prophecy made in years past that in the fullness of time one of the heirs of Isildur rather than those of Anárion will once again sit as High King of the Men of the West.  Also he stands apart from his Elven kindred, perhaps believing his mortality will be seen as less than acceptable in your eyes.  I spent two years of Men in his court, taking his measure and seeking to open his eyes to the threat Sauron will be as he actively begins to rise once again.  He listens, but will not honor my advice and word by openly admitting he harkens to them.  Instead he quietly sets plans in motion and allows it to be believed that he himself has seen the dangers besetting Gondor and so he has done this or that to allay it."

            Celeborn held his anger in check.  "That is, I fear, the effect of Saruman’s influence.  He has much envy of you--the word sent by Thranduil of his abortive visit there was highly instructive as to his nature, even if my beloved Galadriel hadn’t already spoken of his insecurities.  That he would suggest to Rómendacil you would seek to take control of a concerted move against evil seems well within his capabilities."

            Gandalf sat back somewhat.  "Would my brother truly act so against the interests of all, do you think?  I would sincerely hope not!"

            "Have you seen him since your arrival in Middle Earth, Gandalf?" Celeborn asked him.

            "Once only some years since, when I was leaving Gondor even as he entered it from the east.  I suspect he, too, seeks word of our fallen brother."

            Celeborn shuddered at Gandalf’s choice of wording.  "Then you do not yet know how it has been since his arrival in Middle Earth, apparently.  The word from Elrond regarding the manner in which those formerly of Rhudaur returned to the rule of Annúminas indicates he never offered them encouragement to do as they did, although he’d been living among them for some time."

            "We are to advise and spark decision, not to rule and force."

            "The little advice Saruman gave them doesn’t appear to have been intended to promote return to a single rule over the northern Dúnedain, Gandalf."  Celeborn shook his head.  "Perhaps I am wrong in my interpretation of what we can only know from a distance; but to this date I’ve not seen true leadership in the Wizard.  But if we call for a council we will need to include him.  But again, what others should be invited, and where should the council meet?"

            "We should consider inviting both Rómendacil and Malvegil and their heirs, although I doubt the former would agree to come in any case, and Malvegil and his son Argeleb deal at the moment with growing threats from Angmar to the north.  Those not of Dúnedain descent within what remains of eastern Cardolan assist him in his defense against the forces of the north; but fighting is often heavy.  What concerns me is the fate of the other races there in the north; orcs are beginning to breed rapidly in the Misty Mountains and are assaulting the remaining Dwarf strongholds north of Khazad-dûm, and trolls have moved southward to again claim the Ettenmoors.  With Periain moving into northern Dunland and many empty lands within Eriador, there are more at risk to attacks from the north than just the Dúnedain of Arnor.  Perhaps we might look to invite one or more of the leaders among the Periain as well as some of the Dwarf lords, as well as Thranduil, Gildor, Elrond, Círdan, and the lords both of Rhovanion and the horse folk of the Anduin valley.  Radagast should also be invited, of course; and if any among them will come, perhaps even the Onodrim of Fangorn.  I would invite Iarwain, but I know he will not leave his own place.

            "As for where--as you are not willing to open your lands to many, perhaps Elrond will be willing to allow the council to meet there in Imladris.  In the late spring, then?"

            "That will be good," agreed Celeborn, exchanging looks with his consort.  "So be it then.”

            "Tell me more of the Perianneth," suggested Galadriel.  "A few of their folk have we seen as we have ridden north along the Anduin toward the passes above Imladris when we’ve gone to see our daughter and her family.  I’d made suggestions to a few of the Fallohides that they seek out lands for their people west of the mountains after the great droughts and fires that have been known on the eastern slopes of the Mountains of Mist; that their folk have followed my advice is good to hear."

            "I met first with one of their people, one who is half Stoor and half Fallohide, some twelve years back.  Very personable, he is.  His folk have been joined by a few from among the Harfoots and live along the Mitheithel.  Their village is relatively small and well concealed, and it appears they do well enough, even trading with a few among the Dúnedain of Arthedain.  Their care for the land they have claimed is excellent, and I am impressed by their ingenuity in hiding their dwellings as well as their hospitality shown me when they accepted me as offering them no harm.  Do you know if many of their kind remain here east of the mountains?"

            Husband and wife looked to one another.  "I’m not certain," Celeborn finally answered.  "It has always been difficult to find their homes, hidden as they are, dug into hills and river banks and ridges; and always they have tended to plant in small garden plots rather than in large fields, although doing that would be perhaps more convenient and efficient.  Few of the Harfoots or Stoors have we ever seen, for it has always been the Fallohides who have shown the most openness to folk other than their own people.  But I’ve heard no mention of them over the past hundred years or so according the count of years kept by mortals."

            Gandalf considered.  "Then I will go north now again along the Anduin and see if any others seem to linger here between the mountains and the river, and cross over the pass there above Imladris.  In doing so I can perhaps convince Radagast, Thranduil, and perhaps others from the lands here in the eastern valley to come to the proposed council."

            That evening he took his parting from the folk of Laurelindórenan, and set off first east to the banks of the River Anduin and then northwards.  For all his searching he found but one abandoned Hobbit settlement along the river, and heard no rumor of them from the upper slopes.  Three Dwarven settlements he’d known in the past were shown to have been abandoned to orcs, and he found himself helping another against an attack from the orcs who’d taken the settlement to the south, their reserves almost completely spent before his arrival.

            "We cannot remain here longer," grieved the Dwarf who’d inherited the rule of this population as his father had died in the assault.  "They’ve destroyed the fields of the Harfoots who once settled east of us and provided us with much of our sustenance, and what few of the Hobbits who’d once lived here remained after their migrations westward appear to have died in the attacks, or perhaps they have fled far away.  We became aware of the massing of our enemies when I went to visit the Hobbits four weeks back to learn why shipments of vegetables and flour hadn’t reached us--we found no Hobbits, only orcs who’d hidden themselves in their burrows."

            The Dwarf, whose name was Balin, led Gandalf to the former Hobbit settlement.  It was a bit more obvious than the one the Wizard had seen along the river or the one in which Bilbiolo lived along the Mitheithel; but it would be hard for any to recognize it as a settlement if it were not for the small fields of grain dotted here and there about the ridge into which the holes had been dug.

            The Hobbits’ homes proved empty of any sign of their former inhabitants; but at last a pit was found in which the bones of what appeared to have been about twenty Hobbits had been thrown.  Gandalf followed the trail of the orcs backward, and was able to recognize that they’d indeed come from the south.  "Apparently," he said as he found where the orc troop had hidden themselves from the Sun the day before they attacked the Hobbit village, "they only stumbled upon the Periannath, and found them easy prey, being unwary of the possibility of attack."  His voice was steady enough, but the Dwarves could tell that he was very angry at the apparent savagery shown those who’d once farmed these lands.

            He left the Dwarves at last after they’d respectfully interred the remains they’d found beneath the ashes of the Hobbits’ fields.  "We’ll return to Khazad-dûm, then," Balin said quietly.  "And we’ll send out warnings northwards and eastwards to what other settlements we’re yet aware of that they keep on watch for attacks on their caverns."

            "Good enough," Gandalf sighed.  "Well, I must be on my way. I only hope that I find no more of your people’s holdings destroyed."  And once more he headed northwards.

******* 

            Radagast he found on the western banks of the Anduin, helping a group of Elves to replant a forest burned to blackened stumps surrounded by grasslands turned to ash.  "Not lightning this time," the brown Wizard informed him, "but the work of orcs venturing east to the river bank.  Some of the horse folk had sought to return to the area, for grass again was becoming thick enough to sustain their herds; and it appears these orcs were intent on driving them again out of these lands."

            Gandalf was heavily troubled at these further reports of enemy activity in these places where so few folk dwelt, and after delivering his invitation to Radagast and those of the folk of Thranduil who worked alongside of him to meet in Imladris in the late spring of the following year he continued on his journey.

            He came to Elrond’s valley in the beginning of autumn and remained with him for a month, then left him planning for the springtime Council to do a further survey of Eriador.  Arthedain had begun to respond positively to the renewal offered them by the return of the Dúnedain of Cardolan and Rhudaur, and he found two openly displayed villages of Hobbits near to larger villages of Men somewhat south of Annúminas.  But rumors were increasing of troll incursions and increased orc and even warg activity near the western slopes of the mountains, so he turned that way to learn the truth of the reports.

            For some time he saw no sign of the Enemy’s creatures, and at last he turned south for the Road that led west toward the Breelands and what had been Cardolan and, eventually, the Havens of Mithlond.  He traveled slowly and without light, knowing he was likely to hear troll activity before either he saw them or they him, and aware that if he did his travel in the daytime he could pass their hiding places without being aware of them.  Indeed he did at last hear the noise of the creatures--but the noise wasn’t reassuring, for the sounds were of an attack by the beasts on unwary travelers along the Road.

            Suddenly fearful of what he might find he rushed downward from the ridge he’d just surmounted, the tip of his staff alight with magefire and summoning power from both staff and his hidden ring as he came in sight of the assault.  Ahead he saw two trolls looming over about five much smaller figures, and he quickly rushed to the defense of the recipients of the trolls’ attentions.  Catching up a fallen tree limb as he ran, he set it afire with a Word, then cast it at the leftmost troll.  The limb burned with an unnaturally bright light, and as it hit the troll’s back instead of bouncing back it stuck, the fire quickly licking at the troll’s hide.  With a squeal of pain the troll turned away from the fight, struggling to reach the burning brand attached to its back and brush its flame away, but he couldn’t touch it.  It took the other troll some minutes to realize he was now alone in his attack, but at last it realized its fellow was completely distracted and turned in an attempt to discover what had happened.  Gandalf had reached the intended victims of the trolls, grabbed a knife from the hand of one of the startled folk, and with another Word threw the knife to catch the second troll in its right eye with a blade that was now brilliant red with unaccounted heat.

            Gandalf and those he’d hurried to protect watched as the first troll disappeared southward toward the Bruinen and the second slowly continued its turn and fell with unexpected grace into a dead heap upon the ground.  "Sun and Moon light our path," one whispered in the language of the horse folk of the Anduin valley.  "What were those things?"

            It proved he’d defended a party of about sixteen Hobbits, mostly Harfoots but including two Stoors and at least three Fallohides.  Once they’d prepared a secure camp in a hollow a few of their number had found south of the Road and set a watch, Gandalf set himself to check the condition of those who’d taken part in the defense of their troop.  There were two dead, and one who was seriously injured.

            "He was our guide," the one who’d taken charge of the group explained.  "He’s lived in Eriador for about thirty years, and came a few months back over the mountains when he heard rumors that his older sister might have taken refuge among us, offering to bring us over the mountains to lands where we might live in some peace.  Too long have the droughts and fires plagued the lands east of the Mountains of Mist; and over the last year there have been attacks on all folks from the folk from under the mountains.  That we would make it safely over the mountains only to be assaulted here was nothing any of us expected."

            The unlucky guide had been bleeding heavily from a blow from a troll’s club to his head, and it took some time to clean the wound and see it properly bandaged.  Only when all was done and the face of the Hobbit was cleaned did Gandalf find himself recognizing Bilbiolo of the village of the Makers of Bags.

            The next morning a patrol from Imladris led by Elladan son of Elrond found them.  He knelt over the stricken Hobbit and examined him.  "That he’s survived the night is unexpected," he said quietly in Quenya to Gandalf.  "I hold no hope of his survival even if I were to carry him to my father, and even if he did, I doubt he will ever be able to rise or walk, or perhaps even to think clearly once more.  No, I suspect it would be most merciful to return him to his own folk."

A horse litter was prepared, and accompanied by the two Elves who carried the litter between their animals, they followed Gandalf to the hidden village along the Mitheithel south of the Last Bridge.  They arrived there a week later, and were greeted first with great suspicion, then with cries of grief as the one on the litter was recognized.

Platina came out her hole carrying an infant in her arms that couldn’t be more than a few months old, followed by two more Hobbit children, one about ten years and one half that number.  She looked down on her husband’s spare form with shock.  "He was attacked?" she asked. "How did it happen?"

            One of the newcomers described the attack by the trolls and the defense Bilbiolo sought to make for their sake, and how in the end Gandalf had arrived to kill the one and drive off the other.  "It was a miracle that no more than two of our number were killed and only he was seriously hurt," he explained.  "The Elves who are with us found us the next day and fashioned the litter so we could carry him home again to you, for I doubt they believe he will survive.  We’ve been able to get him to take water and some broth, but he’s shown no sign of recognition or even full awakening since he was hurt."

            Their duty fulfilled, the two Elves took their leave as evening fell, and Gandalf remained to assist in the care of Bilbiolo.  For three days he remained much as he’d been since he was wounded; and then on the fourth he appeared to awaken, clearly recognizing his wife and mother and neighbors, and smiling to see the child that hadn’t been born before he left them.  "I’ve named her Flora, beloved," Platina told him.  "Drogo and Dudo love her deeply, and each seeks to keep her happy when I must be busy about other duties.  Are you pleased?"

            "Yes," he whispered softly, the word barely to be heard.  "Oh, yes, I am pleased."

            All within the village of Bags appeared heartened by the news Bilbiolo had awakened and spoken with his wife; but by nightfall it was plain the recovery was but the rallying often seen in those who prepared to leave their bodies, for he became quiet, smiled up at his wife as she held his hand after he’d refused broth; and as the first crisp stars of the autumn sky could be discerned through the window he turned his face that way and breathed his last, still smiling.

            Merlin sighed as he rose from the seat he’d taken by his father on a finely finished bench in the front room of the hole.  "I will care for your family as I can," he promised Platina.  "Never will you or your children want for anything while I remain alive."

            Ortholo's expression at his son's vow regarding his uncle's family was sour, but as he couldn't speak against it without losing the respect of his people he said nothing. Gandalf was certain that Platina and her children and her husband's mother would fare well in the keeping of Merlin, and noted with relief that Starflower took her place proudly by the young Hobbit's side as he stood later before the entire village and their newest comers and repeated the vow.

            The one who'd become the leader of the new immigrants then spoke.  "He came far to lead us to a safer land, and gave himself for our defense.  What we can do to help repay that debt we will do also."

            Four days later Gandalf took his leave, having seen his first friend among the Hobbits of Eriador buried on the edges of the small village he’d helped to found.  He paused just outside the village and offered his own private request to Námo, then finally continued on his journey to the Havens and Círdan, grieved at the loss of one he'd come to respect greatly in spite of his small stature.

The Free Peoples Meet in Council

       "Welcome back, Gandalf," Elrond greeted him, once the Wizard had taken a very hot bath and donned his freshly cleaned robes. Elrond was intrigued by his guest’s clothing, which would appear filthy on his arrival from his long journeys, but always appeared freshly cleaned when he donned them once again. Were they somehow bound to his nature as one of the Istari that when he cleansed himself his clothing was cleansed somehow by extension? Or was it an ongoing spell Gandalf had worked on them?

       He knew that Gandalf had done a great deal of study on spells as used amongst Elves, Dwarves, and Men during the time he’d spent in Middle Earth, not that Men could, for the most part, easily invoke spells, particularly now in these latter days. The Dúnedain of the North had chosen to turn away from spells, describing them as offering too much temptation to avoid honest labor, although they still inscribed runes of strength, endurance, and protection against the evil offered by the Enemy and his creatures on their weapons, admitting that in the case of such there was a need to invoke fair spells against evil ones.

       "Well," Elrond asked as he offered his guest a goblet of fine wine he’d been sent by Thranduil, "who comes?"

       "I spoke with Radagast before I left the valley of the Anduin, as I told you; one of his birds found me in Mithlond and brought me word he is on his way, and that he actually entered Gondor to speak with Rómendacil as the King was doing a progress through Ithilien. As I feared, neither Rómendacil nor his heir will come, the King expressing disdain at what conclusions and decisions might be arrived at as a result of the council. Malvegil cannot come, although he may be sending Argeleb. None of the kings of Men in Rhovanion would agree to come, citing the conditions of the passes at this time of year. Thranduil is coming, accompanied by his two sons. I did stop along the edge of the Barrowdowns of Cardolan where I met with Iarwain--he laughed when I suggested his wisdom would be welcome, telling me, ‘And what heed would any give to me, the songspinner, the dreamwalker? Nay, friend, I’ll not go so far from my own doors, for you know better the movements of the shadow-clad ones than I.’

       "Celeborn and Galadriel are to accompany Thranduil over the passes above Imladris, and I believe it shows the fullness of the concern that Thranduil has for the growing shadow within the southern borders of his own woodland realm that he will do so, for he’s not been congenial with his kinsmen within Lorien since the death of his father, as you well know. Círdan himself comes, leaving Galdor at the Havens to oversee any emergencies that might arise. Gildor Inglorion and several others of the lords of the wandering bands also come, including Marengil and Pelastor of the vales where the headwaters of the Anduin flow."

       Elrond’s eyebrow rose. "Marengil and Pelastor leave their own lands? I’d not thought to see that."

       "I suspect they will come with Thranduil, Celeborn, and Galadriel."

       The lord of Imladris nodded automatically in recognition of that last, his own mind on the idea that Elves of the wandering tribes east of the Mountains of Mist would come west. Did these intend to return to their own ranges after this council? Somehow he suspected they would not. "Do any among the Dwarves come?"

       "Dúrin states he will send one of his folk, but all others indicate they will rely on his emissary."

       "And the Periain?"

       Gandalf took a deep breath, then shook his head. "Elladan told you that I came to the defense of a company of that folk who’d come westward into Eriador led by Bilbiolo of the village of the Makers of Bags, and that their guide received a mortal wound from the trolls who assaulted them?"

       His host’s face went still. "Yes, he told me he believed that would be the result of the wound. So, he did leave the circles of the world?"

       Gandalf nodded, his own face reflecting the grief he still felt. "Yes, he left the bounds of Arda and, I hope, even now stands in the Presence." Elrond looked up into his face, his grey eyes searching the shadowed blue ones of the Istar. "I know of no others of his kind who would come to this council save perhaps his nephew Merlin; but Merlin is constrained by the limitations set upon him by his father and his father’s kindred, who see communication with those unlike themselves as possibly dangerous--certainly as unsettling. I came upon him working in their fields as I traveled here from Mithlond, and he stated he dare not come, not while his father and his father’s brother’s son yet live. But he cares for the family of his mother’s brother, and looks to marry in a few months a Hobbit maiden of marked beauty. I was able to speak briefly with her as well, and she spoke with fond memory of the time when she healed in this your house from the injuries that almost took her life as they passed over the mountains into Eriador."

       "Starflower?" Elrond asked, his attention caught. "Bilbiolo’s nephew and Starflower look to wed?" He began to smile. "I cannot say why, only that this bodes very well for the Periain and all who deal with them--very well indeed." He sighed, sipped again at his drink, set it aside, then stood erect. "I will advise Celebrían and Arwen and allow them to begin arranging quarters for all you’ve advised are likely to come. And I will speak also with Erestor and Glorfindel, who will be interested in knowing who comes and may have understanding of why." He shook his head. "I fear Pelastor and Marengil will not linger much longer in Middle Earth, Gandalf. But what of Saruman?"

       "He sent word via Malvegil he comes. I had no idea, but he’s been north to Angmar last."

       Elrond considered for a moment. "He has done much personal investigation of the Enemy’s own peoples. To know the Enemy is good--but can also lead to identification with him if it goes too far."

       Gandalf gave only a shrug in answer, for he could not help but agree with the Elf’s wisdom.

       Elladan and Glorfindel were keeping watch on the pass, while Erestor rode out westward along the Road watching for those coming from that direction. Saruman arrived first, having been met by Elrohir two days northeast from the ford of the Bruinen and accepting the guidance of Elrond’s son into the vale of Imladris.

       Elrond greeted Saruman courteously. "Welcome, my lord, to Imladris. If there is aught we can do for you...."

       The White Wizard saw that Gandalf had arrived before him and paused; then smiled graciously. "Lord Elrond, Gandalf--it is an honor to see each of you again. You have been here long, Gandalf?"

       "A few days only, having come from Mithlond and Annúminas."

       "And what news is there from the Havens?"

       Gandalf shrugged. "Little enough. The ship traders of Arnor have done well in the past season, with one ship of exploration returning after a very long voyage west to another great land. They have returned with several new seeds and plants they’ve not seen elsewhere, including a root vegetable somewhat like a yam but with a mealy white flesh under a rather fine brown skin, and a number of vines whose fruits have thick shells, while the meat about their seeds is reportedly very tasty. I told a husbandman among the Periannath about them, and he is very interested in acquiring samples for the sustenance of his people."

       "You have spent time discussing possible crops with husbandmen?" Saruman appeared surprised by the idea.

       "For their people the possibility of new crops is always of deepest interest, I find."

       "The Periannath certainly don’t merit a great deal of study, do they?" Saruman asked in a tone of indulgence.

       Gandalf examined his nominal superior briefly, then smiled. "Perhaps they are of little enough importance in the larger scheme of things, but I find them highly interesting and definitely diverting. They are proving a fascinating study in self-contradictions. Many display a degree of land-sense equal to that of any Elf, while the hunger for knowledge of others is prodigious. Yet most are suspicious of outsiders and change or any unusual talents at the same time they are among the most hospitable of hosts imaginable and thrive on diversity and the unusual. And how they can take the most common of foodstuffs and make a veritable feast of them is most wonderful.

       "However, I believe that what you might tell us of what you’ve learned in the north and east would perhaps be of more importance to the deliberations of the council once all who will come arrive."

       Three days later all likely to come had been greeted by Elrond and his folk. Those coming from across the Mountains of Mist arrived together, Elves, one representative of the horse folk who introduced himself as Aelfric, and Radagast. Círdan arrived with Gildor and several other lords from those of the wandering companies that traveled the westlands and Argeleb, son of King Malvegil. From the south came a party of Dwarves from Khazad-dûm, led by Dúrin the Fifth’s second son Gláin, one of his companions the Balin Gandalf had met east of the mountains.

       After a feast of welcome and a night to rest themselves, all assembled the next morning for the council. Elrond looked around the company and greeted them, naming each to the rest.

       "And so here we are come together to consider our mutual defense against the Shadow. For a time we will know peace and growth, but ever the Shadow grows yet again. Whether the one who has taken refuge in what we have come to call Dol Guldur is one we already know or another we cannot as yet say; there is much of the taste of Sauron about him, and yet he is different. Unlike Morgoth’s second he does not show himself or travel through the lands to cozen its people. Such was ever Sauron’s way, to take upon himself a fair guise and speak what appeared to be fair and wise words in the ears of the unwary that they might be caught in his webs and turned from their appointed ways to his designs."

       "This one," Thranduil said, continuing the tale, "having taken the place and built his stronghold, does not stir from it himself. He draws to himself the creatures of darkness, however; and about the place fell beasts breed. Orcs have begun to gather there and are used by him to harry the roads past our realm. Some of the most recent to come out have ridden on wargs and thus have gone further afield than most of their kind will do. And in the depths of the wood have begun to be found great spiders the like of which have not been seen since the War of Wrath. Their webs are of normal silk and not of shadow, for the most part, although some of the greatest weave shadows amongst the silk; they feed on whatever living things they can catch, although a few have been known to seek to poison trees as well as the animals and travelers they can snare. These great spiders, however, unlike their normal kin, do not build webs in places of sunlight--only in the darkest of shadowed spaces, although ever across traveled paths."

       "You think perhaps the blood of Ungoliant runs within them?" asked Celeborn.

       "From where else would come their great size, their cunning, and their antipathy toward Light in any form?"

       "How are their webs to be destroyed?"

       "For those only of normal silk any blade appears effective, if the hand to wield it has strength enough behind it; for those with shadow woven into them only those blades wrought by the Noldor for the most part appear capable of easily parting them, although other blades can be used if one has time to spend a day or better parting single strands. Even then, however, the swordsman must be highly determined if he is to cut through any of the thing."

       Saruman asked, "How are these to be killed?"

       "Not easily--multiple arrows to eyes and abdomen may work. A sword tends to work better, but their ichor can be very caustic and will sometimes burn the flesh with an acid not easily quenched. The best strategy seems to be part head from body; but getting close enough to the creature to do this undetected is nearly impossible; and then again the Noldor-wrought blades appear to be most effective."

       Radagast asked, "What other creatures congregate about the Dark One? Do werewolves and vampires gather to him?"

       "Fortunately there are few enough of such remaining in Middle Earth. A few came to Dol Guldur in its earliest days, but we have not seen them apart from there for some time. However, many bats carrying diseases issue from the place at intervals, and the wolves he breeds seek to feed on Men and Elves rather than following herds of grazing animals and preying on the ill and weak as do normal wolves."

       Saruman asked, "And the slaves to the Rings given to Men?"

       Elrond answered, "Angmar, ever Sauron’s greatest lieutenant, lingers in the northlands and harries the borders of northern Eriador. Rhudaur as a land of the Dúnedain has been no more for the last twenty years, although those displaced from Dunland and the hills of the south move ever north, slaying as they come; now he appears to focus on the folk who have settled in what was Cardolan."

       Prince Legolas of Mirkwood added, "There is evidence some of the Ring Slaves may be working from Dol Guldur--the one known before as Khamul is believed to serve as the Necromancer’s primary lieutenant. Most, however, appear to dwell in what was Mordor or lands eastward of there."

       "You call the one who dwells in Dol Guldur the Necromancer?" Saruman’s attention was fully caught by this. "Why?"

       Thranduil answered, "He appears to feed somehow on the deaths of those taken by his slaves. The few who have managed to escape his clutches before being drawn into his dungeons speak of the feeling of great power being transferred they’ve sensed as they are certain their former companions are slain."

       This caused Saruman great pause. Finally he said, "I see. This bears study." All looked at one another uneasily. Finally the White Wizard asked, "And what of those Rings of Power given to Dwarves?" He fixed his attention on Gláin.

       The Dwarf’s face grew stiff. "From what we can tell, all but three were lost before the end of the last age, taken when Sauron’s creatures captured their keepers, or swallowed by the dragons he loosed upon our people’s kingdoms. I can tell you nothing of those that remain, for it is not permitted. We of the Khazad do not speak our secrets before others. However, never has he managed to control us through the Rings as he did Men, which is why he has sought to slay those gifted with them to recapture them, or has given them for the prey of the dragons."

       Again all looked at one another, for this was news to most. "Only three of the Rings remain?" Gandalf persisted.

       "Of this we are certain," Gláin repeated. "Two have been taken where his servants are unlikely to come, and the last is in a place of greatest strength among us. We do not believe he will ever be able to come there to take it by force."

       Gandalf’s face showed great concern. "Yet the strong places of those who have defied those of the Shadow have always fallen in the end, by a failure of the watch against its malice, by unwariness in response to the fair-spoken word, by betrayal from within. You cannot count on your defenses holding indefinitely."

       "And who among us would think to betray the line of Dúrin?" demanded the Dwarf.

       Gandalf sighed. "And how many times have the servants of the Shadow taken hostages to use the love felt for the victims to force sires to betray their kingdoms, or lovers to give over their most deeply guarded secrets? Do not think even Khazad-dûm safe from betrayal or infiltration.

       "And do not forget that although Sauron was not able to draw the wielders of the Dwarven Rings into wraithdom as befell those who wore the Rings intended for Men, yet he has used them to increase personal greed and suspicion toward those seen as outsiders. Can your sire call upon allies among Men and Elves if his kingdom is assaulted, even from among those who dwell closest to his gates? That you have agreed to come to this council shows that your father and you, at least, see the need for all to stand in common purpose against Morgoth’s successors; but when Sauron’s forces assaulted Eregion how many of your people were willing to aid Celebrimbor other than allowing some of the refugees to flee to safety through your halls?"

       What could be seen of the Dwarf’s face behind his beard was flushed with fury. Balin, however, stood up thoughtfully. "He is right, Lord Gláin," he counseled his companion. "This is not intended to insult you or your father, but simply to point out that our own suspicions and greed all too often isolate us from what aid others would prefer to give us openly, trusting that we would similarly aid them were situations reversed. All too often we drive away those who would fight by our sides."

       "And what do men or Elves know of the love of the children of the Smith for the depths of the earth?" Gláin demanded. "What do they understand of the glory of finding precious metals and stones and seeing them properly wrought?"

       "And do you deny," Argeleb asked stiffly, "that there are smiths among Men and Elves who can and do craft fine weapons and finer adornments?"

       Gandalf looked from Elrond’s stern expression to the face of Argeleb and then that of Gláin. "And so first Morgoth and then Sauron have ever sought to sow competition and thus division between those who ought to be allied. The workmanship of Men differs from that of Dwarves, Elves, and even that of the Pheriannath; and what is true for Men is true for each of the others as well. Yet, instead of appreciating the special qualities of each race’s works, we each covet the strengths and disparage the weaknesses of the others."

       "Enough of the bickering," Saruman said coldly. "This is not a time to quibble over who is strongest or weakest or most gifted. We know we face one who apparently has learned how to harvest the life-force of others and who uses that power for some purpose of his own. We know he has built a stronghold at Dol Guldur in southern Mirkwood, and draws to himself evil creatures. It may be Sauron, but may be but a Nazgul, although all know that is evil enough. We know he threatens all.

       "If this is indeed Sauron then he must seek for his own Ring. Who will tell what is known of its loss?"

       Argeleb looked to Elrond, who had tutored him in younger years, and at a nod from the Lord of Imladris he related the story brought to Imladris regarding the ambush of Isildur’s company; Elendur’s insistence that his father take the Ring out of the locket in which he carried it, and don it in order to escape the assault; the self-sacrifice of Isildur’s three older sons and most of his Men that he might be able to escape and return to Imladris to safety and his wife and remaining son; the tracking of the King; the betrayal by the Ring as he sought to swim the river; the coming of the last two of the party bringing with them the shards of Narsil and word of the King’s death in the River Anduin adjacent to the Gladden Fields.

       Galadriel then spoke, the first time she’d addressed the rest since the council began: "When we parted from Isildur at Osgiliath, I felt danger surrounding him, and advised him to take the western route. However, flush as he was with the victory against Mordor he told me he would go whatever way he and his sons and scouts felt best. I also warned him that although Sauron had lost the greater part of his power along with his Ring, that meant he himself carried that power about his neck, and that the creatures of evil would likely be drawn to It.

       "'In taking It for your own instead of seeing It destroyed while the Mountain was yet at hand, you have left It as a burden to future generations, for that portion of Sauron’s power and nature It contains goes with you wherever you carry It. You have caught yourself in a cleft stick of your own making, for you will find the creatures of darkness will sense Its presence and seek the comfort of Its dark power, dogging your way even when they have no idea who you are or what you carry; and you cannot leave It behind you or seek to hide It--not only will It not allow you to appear to abandon It, but wherever you seek to bury it deep evil will come, drawn again by Its presence, seeking to find themselves by Its power.’"

       "You foresaw that if he took the eastern route along the river’s valley his party would be attacked?" questioned Argeleb.

       "I foresaw only that parties of evil creatures hid there, lying in wait for whomever took that way, and that by carrying the Ring amongst them he might as well go forth by night carrying great torches and beating drums and gongs through territory known to harbor orcs and wargs thinking to pass unseen."

       Again all found themselves looking at one another.

       Aelfric, who’d accompanied Radagast, asked, "When the Ring of Power was cut from Sauron’s hand, was he truly destroyed?"

       The three Istari exchanged looks. Saruman answered before either of his fellows could speak. "He was of the order of the Maiar, and as such cannot be unmade by any save Iluvatar Himself. He appears to have poured a great deal of himself into his Ring along with the power he gave It. By creating such an external focus for his power and nature he places it under great pressure; and just as by constricting the flow of water through a tube of intestine or metal one increases the pressure with which that water emerges so that it may be directed greater distances or increase its ability to cleanse away adhering particles, so by forcing so much power into such a limited shape it increases the precision and intensity with which that power, once released, can be directed. Have not those who bear the three Rings made for Elves found this to be true?"

       The Elves in the party looked at one another; finally Círdan answered, "I can tell you such was reported by Gil-galad."

       "Who bears each of those Rings now?" Saruman asked.

       "As is true for the Dwarves, we do not speak openly of them or their disposition," Círdan told him. "You should know the truth of the ancient saying, that a secret may be freely shared amongst three and will go no further if two of those three are dead. Do you truly believe that, if he were certain who held the Three and where they dwelt, Sauron would avoid them? Nay, he’d do as he did with the Nine and the six of the Seven he was able to take before--he’d come against the bearers of them and seek to slay those holding them that he might take them to himself, draw upon their Power while he could and corrupt their natures as he was able, then would gift them to those he felt he could most easily corrupt and dominate. And so it would be he would seek to dominate those ruled by the bearers of the Rings."

       "But he cannot do this without the power inherent in his own Ring," Saruman objected.

       "You are certain of this?" Círdan challenged him. "Yet, if he is indeed the one who grows in power in Dol Guldur he does so without the benefit of his Ring, unless It has returned to his hand in the thirteen hundred years since he lost It."

       "I do not believe," Galadriel said, shaking her head, "that he has found It again. If he had, already would not just passing Men and Elves be under attack, but the very centers of our realms."

       Still once more did all look at one another.

       And so the discussions went for the rest of that day, and the next, during which Saruman, Gandalf, and Radagast reported much of what they’d learned in their journeys throughout Middle Earth. Most were fascinated by what Saruman reported of how evil was so often expressed in the eastern and northern lands.

       "I’ve not yet traveled south to Harad," he admitted, "so can tell you little of how the Shadow lies there."

       Aelfric considered the White Wizard closely. "And what did you do there in those lands when you saw such evil being worked? Did you do anything to stop those who so exercised dominion over others to slay and maim simply to express their own power?"

       Saruman went quite still, examining the horse lord coldly. "It is not given to those of us among the Istari to fight evil solely on our own--we were sent to counsel and advise primarily. It is up to those who hear our words to choose to stand against the Shadow as they will."

       "And did you counsel the one you saw slaying his own brother to take power over their people not to endanger his soul by turning to fratricide?" Aelfric persisted. "Did you advise his women to strive against him, or his Men not to take part in the murder of their rightful and more honorable lord?"

       Saruman’s glare was icy, although his words were carefully modulated. "And do you think to teach me how to do what is expected of me?" he asked smoothly enough. "If you had been there, would you have embraced death for that one?"

       "Can you indeed be slain?" demanded the Man.

       The question caused great pause. Finally Gandalf answered, "It is probable that our bodies can be slain as is true of those of the Elves; what will become of us then we do not as yet know, of course, as such a situation has not yet been met." But none appeared to realize that the original questions posed by Aelfric had not been answered.

       On the third day discussion was made whether those who’d met this time should come together again, and if so when or under what conditions.

       "Perhaps we should meet every hundred years or so," suggested Radagast.

       The horse lord snorted. "Then we of the race of Men would be foolish to continue as part of the council," he said dismissively, "as rarely to our lives last so long."

       The Dwarves exchanged looks also. "Nor do we commonly live so long," Gláin said. "Oh, we may live several hundred years; but what is that compared to the lives of Elves and Wizards, who do not die unless slain? Nor has what has been said so far have need of our presence for further discussion. Either it does not concern Dwarves directly, or we are powerless to act against it on our own as well as being of little use alongside your folk. Nay, I suspect our people will be unlikely to send others to your future councils."

       Argeleb’s face was troubled. "Those of us who are mortal simply cannot hope to offer much assistance to the deliberations of this council over time, my Lord Elrond. I will direct that my descendants are to attend future meetings as they are able; but in our case each succeeding generation must be instructed anew the dangers we face and the wisdom garnered by our predecessors. Nay, I suspect it is best we simply prepare to follow the direction of the Wise in dealing with the successors of Morgoth from this day forward. Let those of us remaining of the northern Dúnedain serve as the weapon against the servants of the shadow as wielded by those whose wisdom is honed by ages of struggle against Morgoth, Sauron, and those who follow them."

       Saruman said delicately, "Then shall this council, this White Council, if I may be free to dub it that as it shall ever stand against the powers of darkness, continue as a forum for those among the Wise who can garner wisdom not just over the space of years but through centuries or even millennia?"

       Now it was the Elves and the three Wizards who looked to one another. Pelastor sighed as he looked at Marengil, then said, "It should probably continue as you indicate, Lord Saruman. But know now that not all among Elves who have come this time will remain until the present darkness is totally overthrown--indeed several of us prepare even now to pass into the West, leaving Middle Earth before our people and our lands fall under the power of the Shadow as it rises again."

       Argeleb asked, "And whom will you appoint to lead this council?"

       Galadriel looked warily about the circle. "I would suggest Mithrandir for this purpose. He knows best so far the strengths and weaknesses of each of the peoples who oppose the Shadow."

       Marengil objected, "That might be, but Saruman has the greater knowledge of the Enemy himself, and has seen the lands he has dominated and to what they’ve come since his fall."

       The debate was strong and intense, and the Dwarves found themselves taking part in it as well as the Men.

       In the end Saruman was named chief of the White Council, and having agreed to come at the call of any of the Council’s members all agreed to disband.

       Saruman, guided by Glorfindel, left that evening, reluctantly accompanied by Radagast, Pelastor, the Dwarves, and Aelfric, who intended to go south with him to the Redhorn Pass and return eastward from there. Galadriel and Celeborn, however, explained they would remain in the home of their daughter and her husband for a time, and graciously bade farewell to the White Wizard and his companions.  Marengil indicated he and his people would go west to Mithlond with Círdan, for they had determined to indeed travel to Eressëa and so flee the turmoil they foresaw coming upon the mortal lands, while Thranduil stated he would go over the nearer pass as that road led him the more swiftly home, although he would linger here in the west a few days longer.

       Argeleb sighed. "Foster Father," he said, "I would be pleased to linger until daybreak and then seek out my adar. He was headed south of here with his personal troops when I left him to attend the council--there was rumor of another incursion from those who’ve sought to take Rhudaur from the south."

       "Gladly, child," Elrond said, smiling, "will I ever greet you and yours. And does Arveleg accompany his daeradar?"

       "He came south with us, but was to turn back north to the administration of our lands while his grandfather is on campaign and I am here," Argeleb explained.

       They gathered not in the Hall of Fire but in Elrond’s favorite drawing room for a time. Galadriel gave Gandalf a cool, searching examination. "When I suggested you might serve as the head of this council you certainly did nothing to promote yourself, my friend."

       Gandalf shrugged and looked deeply into his winecup. "I do not wish to put myself forward."

       "You heard what Aelfric pointed out, that Curunír watches evil being enacted and yet does nothing for the easing of those who are involved."

       "He is right--our duty is not to stand alone against Sauron and his ways but to counsel and advise."

       "Did he counsel or advise the one he told of who took for himself the title of Ghantsi? It did not sound as if he’d done so, Mithrandir."

       Celeborn shook his head, staying his wife’s further comments. "Nay, my heart, perhaps Gandalf did well after all. Curunír holds the nominal authority of the White Council now, as he holds the nominal authority of the Istari. Yet he cannot stay any of us from doing as we find we must to oppose the returning Shadow."

       Argeleb asked, "And what of this Shadow and the so-called Necromancer? Does Sauron again rise, or is this just one of the Nazgul seeking to take Sauron’s place as Sauron took that of Morgoth?"

       Elrond’s face twisted as Arwen and Celebrían entered with trays of fruit and light cakes. "As I stated in the council, this one has the taste of Sauron to him, for all none see him. Why, if he is Sauron, he does not travel abroad as he once did I do not know." He accepted a slice of a green fruit from the tray his daughter offered, smiling up into her beautiful eyes. "Thank you, sell nín." He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. Finally he continued. "Personally I suspect that when the Ring was cut from his hand he lost the ability to take a bodily form, and so is unable to appear fair in the eyes of those he would dominate as was true before."

       "You must accept, Elrond," Celebrían pointed out as she offered her cakes to Gildor, "that none has truly seen him take any form since the fall of Númenor save for the armored shape he took in the final battle of the Last Alliance. Perhaps he has lost the capability to take on a shape since his physical seeming was lost when the Star Isle sank under the waves, and so he must use armor or something similar to hold any shape at all."

       Galadriel sat straighter. "Daughter," she said quietly, "you indeed have inherited your father’s wisdom. Why did you take no part in the council?"

       Her daughter sniffed. "What--sit with these others as only one among two or possibly three of womankind? The few times I have come into contact with Saruman he has barely looked at me, although I’ve seen his eyes following Arwen here as if calculating her worth in the marriage market." She set the tray on a low table and sat beside her husband, smiling up as her sons entered together.

       "Any who seeks to marry our sister to any not of her own choosing must stand against us," Elladan commented as he reached to take a slice of melon from Arwen’s tray.

       "Aye, he must face both of us--at the same time," Elrohir added, stooping to choose a cake from the tray his mother had abandoned. "Our sister is not to be bargained for like goods at a market stall."

       Gildor laughed. "No, we can see that."

       Thranduil’s darker son Tharen gave Elrond’s daughter an admiring glance. "I would have courted you, if you had allowed it, cousin."

       The elleth shook her head. "Nay, I’ve not yet seen the one to stir my heart, Thranduilion. Fair of face and form are both you and your brother, but that is all I perceive at this time. But do not give up hope--I believe Meliangiloreth looks on you with favor."

       Tharen smiled genially. "Well, she is also fair enough. We might speak ere I go." His smile faded as he considered what had been discussed before. "But the implication if Sauron has lost his ability to take a shape for himself without armor to offer form--it might explain precisely why since the fall of Atalantë his sigil has become the Eye of Fire. If he has become a shadow alone, and was ever one to affect fire...."

       Elrond considered his guest’s son with interest. "As Morgoth’s lieutenant he often appeared as a Balrog, although he didn’t remain long at any time in that shape. After all, he also appeared as a werewolf and as a vampire at different times. But the most common evil form he took to himself was that of the Balrog, and ever a great one at that. It was told us by Eonwë before he left us at the end of the War of Wrath that in the days before Morgoth’s rebellion was recognized by all Sauron was one who took life most easily from Aüle’s forge fires and so was predisposed to such a shape, as was true of most of those who came to Morgoth’s side from the Smith’s company."

       Galadriel gave a nod of her head as she held a slice of apple untasted in her hand. "And so it was," she agreed. "While those who came from among Oromë’s train tended to take the shapes of werewolves and similar forms."

       "And from whose service did Ungoliant come?" asked Legolas of Mirkwood.

       "Irmo’s, I believe," Galadriel said quietly. "But Irmo repudiated her service early on, for she sought only to revel in the dreams of terror and seldom those of foretelling or beauty or ease."

       "And so she came to the shape of a great spider, a weaver of Shadow," Thranduil said thoughtfully as he paused in his appreciation of one of the cakes."

       "So, the former Balrog manifests now as a shadow, as he has no remaining physical reality left to him?" suggested Argeleb, trying to be certain of his thoughts.

       "And as a shadow has no definition without the contrast of light about it, he must surround himself with fire to clarify the little shape he can take," agreed Thranduil.

       "Giving himself the appearance of the great, fiery Eye," Gandalf said. "Yes, you have it, I think."

       "Hotter than the hottest burning coal was Sauron’s hand as he grasped my Lord Gil-galad and slew him," Elrond said, his eyes shadowed by the grievous memory. "There was little left of his shining form when the fires about his body were finally quenched. Yes, a Balrog Sauron ever was in his heart of hearts. And in the past few ennin the visions I have experienced increasingly show the image of the Eye of Fire."

       "How can we become certain that the Necromancer is indeed Sauron the accursed?" asked Marengil.

       "As you have indicated you leave Middle Earth at this time, why do you even care?" asked Thranduil.

       Marengil flushed, but answered straightly, "Yes, I go with my people; but I do not love Middle Earth the less for that. Ever I’d seek her good against the servants of Morgoth, whether I remain here or go there. I take my people, who have among them many mated couples and children--I’ll not lose the elflings under my care to the predations of the Necromancer or other creatures of darkness. And it has not been only northern Eriador that the folk of Angmar have attacked, I’ll remind you. The Witch King is also given to death magic, as Gandalf reported to the council. As for how Saruman crossed that border I am now curious. We’ve been unable to penetrate it from our side of the mountains to recover those who have been taken."

       Again there was mutual searching as all considered this last statement. Soon all scattered, and Elrond went out into the gardens with his wife and Gandalf and Celeborn to consider the stars during the night hours.

       Early in the morning more guests prepared to leave to return to their duties. Suddenly, as he was offering Argeleb a bundle of supplies to add to his packs Elrond stiffened, and Galadriel and Arwen, entering from the wing where the looms of the Last Homely House were set up, did likewise. Argeleb was concerned by this apparent attack of awareness on his former foster father and sister and her grandmother. Then he appeared to feel something himself.

       Gandalf emerged precipitously from the hallway to the rooms he’d been granted, his face grey with concern. "Eärendilion!" he demanded. "What attack is this?"

       But Elrond was already hurrying to the doors and calling for his sons. "Prepare a force to go forth," he told them, "and go southwards as swiftly as you can, toward the former King’s House of Rhudaur, I think. Malvegil is under attack." He turned toward Argeleb. "Will you ride with them, ion nín?" he asked.

       Gandalf looked briefly to the side, nodded, and said, "I’ll go and offer what aid I can. But I fear it is too late...."

*******

       It was the next day that those who’d set off with Elladan and Elrohir returned accompanied by Glorfindel. Over a fine black stallion was bound a shrouded form, and the face of Argeleb was grey with fatigue and grief. He met the eyes of Elrond, Arwen, and Celebrían with quiet dignity. "My father is dead--hillmen from east of Dunland slew him."

       Elrond closed his eyes in the pain of loss, then finally raised them to meet those of the grieving son. "And now, child, you are King of Arnor."

       Argeleb’s face was empty. "And yes, I am now King. May the Valar strengthen me to it."

       Gandalf’s own demeanor was very solemn as he gave over the grey he’d ridden into the grooms’ hands. "Know this, son of Malvegil, they will support you for what time you are granted."

       "Thank you, Gandalf," Argeleb said. "I must leave this evening for Annúminas. Arveleg must be told, and we have a funeral to prepare for." He shook his head. "I fear I will not wield the Sceptre long; but I would see the realm of Arnor left in better condition for my son to rule than I receive it."

Kin-strife

            “And on what do you work, Curunír?” asked another patron of the drink hall in Rhovanion where Saruman sat among many who were attendant on Valacar or the King’s hosts among his wife’s kindred.

            The White Wizard looked up from the model on which he worked.  “It is merely an idea sparked by my last journey.  In the lands far to the south they have come upon a way to construct privies and use the water from the great river by which they live to cleanse away the deposits of night soil so that they do not stink under the heat of the Sun and draw flies and disease.  I was considering how a system with water stored above a settlement or city might do similarly, with a single water source providing water to all of the homes by way of piping, and how a second system of great drains might carry away the effluent to a drainfield or river sufficiently far from the village or city to keep the city from stinking of sewage.  Even a single home might have a cistern system above the home to hold rain water until it is needed, then release it down through pipes to basins and the privy to cleanse away the urine and night soil to a cesspool sufficiently covered to avoid the breeding of vermin.”

            “What of those places where there are no hills or mountains close enough to spark streams from above?  This would do well enough in Minas Tirith and many places set among the White or the Misty Mountains, or so I must suppose.  But how could one do similarly when the source of water available is a well or perhaps a stream or spring or river situated lower than the home or settlement?”

            “It is too bad we cannot find ways to suck the water into the houseplace much as a child will suck water from the river through a hollow reed,” one of Vidugavia’s Men commented.

            That comment sparked the hint of a memory in Saruman’s mind--a memory of a puzzle posed by Aulë concerning just such a situation.  Curumo had been the one to find a solution; but how to draw out that memory for consideration?  Ah, yes.  “Let me think,” Saruman said.  “I will go out under the stars and ponder, and perhaps a solution will come to me.”  He took his staff, which had been leaning against the table at which he sat, rose, and giving a brief bow went out of the door to the foreporch of the place where he first made certain none spied on him, then opened himself to draw upon the staff, focusing his thought on the memory of water and pipes--water being drawn up through pipes, of how one might create the suction needed....

            The next night when he came to the drink hall he had with him a working model of a pump; the following day he met with Valacar of Gondor and with Vidugavia of Rhovanion and their joint grandson now known as Eldacar to present his ideas, accompanied by Valacar’s very enthusiastic Master of Engineers.  Both kings and Valacar’s heir were highly impressed by Saruman’s suggestions, and immediately were considering how they might be implemented in their larger cities.  In Minas Anor and Osgiliath streams and springs coming down the mountain from the melting snowpack and glaciers already fed public fountains throughout the cities; if water could be brought into each home and public building, and sewage carried out of each as well, it would indeed improve the public health.

            Flush with success, Saruman returned to the drink hall for a third night in a row.  The drink hall was more full than it had been the previous night, for a delegation from Gondor that included Valacar’s Master of Ships had just arrived to speak with His Majesty, whom many in Gondor grumbled identified himself far too much with his wife’s people and not enough with his own.  But Valacar had proven a genial enough King; and although many amongst the nobility begrudged his marriage to one considered of low blood because her ancestors had not come from the Star Isle, yet the common people were pleased with his leadership, and the army supported him.  So it was that only minor complaints had been registered with the King regarding his marriage and the lack of purity of his son’s bloodlines, complaints the King had dismissed out of hand.  And there were those among the delegation that filled the drink hall that night that harbored grudges fueled by the perception that the King weakened the royal lineage, paid too little attention to the commerce and naval concerns of Gondor, and honored his wife’s people over the nobility of his own realm.

            Also in the delegation came some from Umbar who had begrudged the fact Elendil’s heirs had held sway over them for over a millennia and a half.  After all, Umbar had been the center of Númenórean culture in Middle Earth for centuries before the Star Isle sank beneath the waves of the Sundering Sea; and the Winged Crown’s interference with Umbar’s more ancient preferences for indulging in smuggling, piracy, and slavery as well as the traditional ties of many of the older houses to the interests of Mordor were deeply resented.

            Castamir, Master of Ships, was the King’s cousin’s son.  He was overweeningly proud of his purer Númenórean blood, and deeply resentful of the apparent preference Valacar and his son showed for the folk of Rhovanion.  The very fact that in order to bring his annual reports to the King’s attention he must travel here to Vidugavia’s court raised his ire.

            Castamir had sought out for himself a bride of undoubted Númenórean lineage, and had found her in Umbar, the daughter of a house whose family had exercised lordship in Middle Earth for some five hundred years or more before the coming of Elendil and his sons to claim those lands above Harad and west of Rhûn.  Castamir’s closest companion at this time was his wife’s brother, whose own resentments went beyond his stated opposition to Valacar’s close ties to lesser Men to a secret hatred toward Gondor itself and an even more secret desire to reestablish ties to Mordor and the dark powers so many in his land had worshipped during the Dark Years.

            These two sat by Saruman that night, looking at the drawings and diagrams taking shape under the hands of the Wizard and the chief Engineer of Gondor showing how reservoirs would be constructed high on the flanks of Mindolluin, and how they would feed water into Minas Anor and Osgiliath, and the plans for the construction of sewers under the two cities.

            “And how would these reservoirs be fed?” asked Castamir’s brother-in-law.

            Saruman smiled expansively.  “Here and here,” he pointed out on a diagram the engineer had done earlier of Mindolluin, “are depressions on the mountain’s flanks.  With some judicious construction of retaining walls on the outer side and redirection of these streams, we can form and fill the reservoirs; and then through aqueducts we can direct a sufficient flow of water into both cities to supply almost all homes and buildings within them.  Then through sewer lines here and here we can....”

            Valacar’s Master of Engineers found himself growing increasingly uncertain as Saruman revealed more and more of the plans for improving both the White City and the capital.  After all, not only did such sewage lines offer the chance to carry away effluent, but also could possibly offer secret passage into the cities for determined enemies.  But Saruman was not paying attention to the Man’s attempts to suggest he curb his tongue, for in Castamir and his wife’s brother he had a flattering audience, and Curumo had always enjoyed the chance to show off his intelligence and inventive skills and to hear praise of his reasoning.

            When Castamir’s brother-in-law met secretly with his contacts from eastern lands during his return to Umbar, he gave them news of the proposed changes to Osgiliath and the planned locations for reservoirs to feed both the capital and the site of the King’s summer palace as well.

            At the time the locations of the proposed reservoirs were noted but set aside for future exploitation, for at this time the Dark Lord who continued to grow in power in Dol Guldur had not the resources to bypass the watchfulness of the guard on Minas Anor and the flanks of Mindolluin.  Yet, such a day might well come soon enough.  As for the proposed sewers for the two cities----

            The brother-in-law received direction to increase his flattery of Castamir and to continue fanning the flame of his resentments; and to see to it his agents in the courts of other nobles within Gondor kept the fact that Valacar and his son appeared to show greater honor to the Northmen than to his proper vassals before the noses of their patrons.  None were likely to revolt against Valacar himself, but by the time Eldacar came to succeed his father attitudes might be relaxed.

 *******

            Saruman sat in the candle-lit caverns of the archives of Minas Anor, poring again over the scrolls and documents collected there regarding Sauron and the making of the Rings of Power.  During the meetings of the White Council he had sought information regarding Celeborn’s knowledge of how such Rings had been wrought, but the Lord of the Golden Wood merely reported he had no direct knowledge of their making, for although he had lived in Eregion and had been a fixture of Celebrimbor’s court and had served as an advisor to the Noldorin lord, yet his first love had been given to the forests with which the land had been rich.

            “I am no Noldo myself,” he’d said.  “Not for me time spent in workshops and forges, fashioning jewels and weapons, seeking to create tokens of power and vessels of light, although I certainly appreciate such things when I see them or hold them in my hands.  Nay, you’d learn more from my beloved wife, who being Noldorin bred bears ever the appreciation for such activities.”

            Yet Saruman could not bring himself to talk at any length with Galadriel, for when he looked on her fair beauty and into the wisdom of her eyes he remembered ever the child who’d seen the lesser gem of Light he’d once wrought and had then watched as he’d unmade it, and then the elleth who’d suggested that Gandalf and not himself be made chief of the Council.  She had been also a pupil of Irmo and was much given to the study of dreams and visions.  What had she foreseen, or seen from afar of him and his activities?  Those he’d spoken with who had passed through her realm spoke also of how she consistently tested their hearts and intent, sifting their very thoughts with the attitude of a housewife looking into chests of stored linens to see if mice or moths might have entered in since last those chests were opened to leave holes in sheets, blankets, or comforters, or nests of young among the feathers stuffing quilts and pillows.

            Nay, he found her company uncomfortable enough.  Questioning her would be courting invasion of his mind.

            He’d not learned openly the disposition of the three Elven Rings, but he suspected he knew the locations of at least two of them--the very fact the borders of Imladris and the Golden Wood could not be perceived by those passing them who might harbor ill will in their hearts spoke of power beyond the norm, or so Saruman felt.  As for the third....

            He had known the suspicion when he first entered the mortal lands that perhaps Círdan had been made caretaker of one of the Three--most likely Vilya, the Ring of Water, he thought.  Yet the few times he’d seen the great Elven shipwright since his arrival he’d not noted any unusual aspects to indicate he indeed wore any of the Rings of Power; and certainly the Havens themselves were not hidden.  Those who dwelt in the region of Mithlond and the remains of Lindon were all well trained in defense, and they were sufficiently far from the primary breeding grounds of orcs, trolls, and wargs that it was unlikely such creatures would come there; and with the forces of the Men of Arnor between Angmar and the Grey Havens invasions from the north had not reached so far in many years.

            He didn’t believe that the third was in Thranduil’s realm, although that was, of course, possible.  Yet neither Thranduil nor his sons had about them the aura of ones bearing enhanced power; nor with dark creatures such as the great spiders constantly making resurgences in that realm (not to mention the presence of Dol Guldur in the southern reaches of what had once been its borders) did their land bid fair to enjoy the protections he saw due to lands protected by such great power.

            It was possible the third Ring was also within either Imladris or Lórien.  After all, Galadriel Artanis was admitted by all to be co-equal with her husband in the governance of the latter under the authority of Amroth, while there were certainly more than one great lord among Elves dwelling in the former.  Glorfindel could easily wield such a thing as lightly as he did his weapons; and Erestor, though quiet through the Councils so far, was yet revealed one of great wisdom and knowledge, one who though he could have ruled his own kingdom preferred the company of Elrond and his family.  Nor could he rule out the possibility one of the wandering lords might carry the third Ring--possibly Gildor Inglorion.  Or it might have remained in the keeping of one within the ruins of Lindon, one who had not taken lordship per se, but who nevertheless used the power of its presence not to hide the land but merely to deter those of evil nature from entering in.

            Or could the third have been worn by Gil-galad when he assaulted Sauron?  Was the reputed heat of Sauron’s hand sufficient to have destroyed any Ring his victim might have worn as he held the former lord of Lindon in his grasp, burning away the integrity of the great Elf’s life?  It was possible, as close as all were at that point to Orodruin, that one of the great Rings found in the ruins of Gil-galad’s remains might have been carried into the Sammath Naur and given back to Aulë’s keeping once more.  Yet if that were true would not his own lord from within Aman have shared that word with him before seconding him for this service?

            He’d been sitting back from his examination of documents as he thought.  He now straightened in his seat and grasped his staff, seeking to focus his thought in search of any such memory it might contain....

            “You’d do best not to do that when any of those who frequent this archive might see,” advised a tolerant voice in Quenya when he let the power of his staff go, and Saruman looked up in startlement to see Gandalf across from him, a mug of ale by him.

            “And what do you do here?” the White Wizard asked his grey colleague, continuing in the same tongue.

            “Seeking any records I might find regarding the Onodrim,” Gandalf returned.  “I’ve just spent a delightful six months in company with Fangorn, and was thinking of making my own bid to seek the whereabouts of the Entwives.  It is said they were last seen making their way eastward before Sauron sealed off those lands, yet you have never spoken of seeing their influence during your surveys of the eastern realms.”

            “First Periannath and now the tree-herders of Fangorn,” Saruman sighed.  “You do spend a good deal of time in company with obscure peoples.”

            “If all do not stand against evil, all will fall to it one by one,” Gandalf noted.  “Just because a people is insular and isolated in nature doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its own part to play in the defeat of the Shadow.  Have you seen any sign of orchards, groves, and gardens such as the Entwives preferred to establish there in the east?”

            “No, I must say I have not--not in the eastern wastes.  Now, I saw lands north and west that they might have established or assisted in establishing, between what was Cardolan and Lindon.”

            Gandalf straightened, smiling slightly.  “Yes,” he said, well pleased with the thought, “there west of the Baranduin.  They would indeed have enjoyed such places--rich soil; temperate climate.  Perhaps I will seek there instead.  But it seems a great waste allowing their folk to dwindle because they can no longer find their mates.”  He sighed.  “Ah, so be it, then.  And what do you seek in your studies?”

            “More on how the Rings of Power were created.  I know that such things are possible, of course, but not how they were done.  After receiving instruction in the construction of jewels of Light I focused more on devices to ease labor rather than how to create tokens of power.”

            “I’m not certain myself,” Gandalf admitted.  “Is that the knowledge you sought from your staff?”

            “I looked to see what memories might be stored there of it.  There are times when I much resent the limitations imposed on us in our service.”

            “I know I was at first dismayed at the thought of not having full memory,” Gandalf agreed, “although I accepted the necessity.”

            “And what land did you visit last before your sojourn in Fangorn?”

            “I examined the lands of Umbar, and did not like much that I saw.  Too many of the Black Númenóreans remain there, many apparently practicing the black arts.  They hide behind the King’s laws and the appearance of respectability and trade--but in what appear from without to be warehouses, hidden cellars, and dark attics they offer honor to the Nameless One and ward themselves with the symbol of the Eye as they seek to work spells of ruin on their neighbors and competitors and seek to suborn the King’s Men. 

            “Within Umbar there is no question that many worship Morgoth and Sauron and are much given to the worst excesses of behavior.  Those who are predisposed to deal with others with honor are all too often vilified as weak or suffer persecution as spies and saboteurs.  There are important Men who encourage piracy and slavery--indeed, several own ships that raid the shipping lanes and Gondor’s trading vessels and that send longboats ashore near seaside towns and hamlets to take whatever folk they can find abroad to sell as slaves.

            “And they granted me a new name while I was there--Incanus.”

            “They name you a spy, and openly, do they?”

            “I fear they have no respect for our status as Istari, my friend.”

            “And what response did you have to what you saw?”

            Gandalf shrugged.  “I was able to see several betray themselves before the King’s governor, and four families have had to prostrate themselves before Valacar.  But I fear it is but the scab covering the boil I’ve scratched there. 

            “And you, Saruman--where have you been?  I did not find you when I returned from Umbar.”

            “I went south to Harad at the last.  The worship of Morgoth and Sauron as manifestations of the Lords of Death is widespread; but a surprisingly large number honor the Valar under their own vulgar names and symbols.”

            “That is heartening, I would think,” the grey Wizard said.

            “Yes, I must say that it is.  But their current attitude of respect to the Crown of Gondor is but a surface thing, I fear.”

            “You believe they will rebel again?”

            “I cannot say how long it will be, but yes--they will rebel again.  Of that I am certain.”

            “A pity.  You have warned the King that he might increase the guard on the border lands?”

            Saruman lifted a single shoulder in dismissal.  “Valacar and his son Eldacar have been warned repeatedly this must come in time.  If the King does not heed the warnings he receives, it is his own lack of attention that he must blame.”

            Gandalf nodded, but was troubled.

 *******

            Later that day Gandalf was able to arrange a meeting with Eldacar, Valacar having let it be known he was entertaining the new King of Rhovanion and thus was not available for other audience.

            “You believe that opposition against the Crown grows because my father married a woman of the Northmen rather than one of the Dúnedain?” Eldacar asked disbelieving.

            “Yes, my Lord Eldacar.”

            “Then why has there been no widespread indication of discontent?”

            “When your father married your mother he received six messages contesting his decision while your grandfather received rather more.  When you were born there were thirteen protests received that your bloodline was not pure Númenórean in nature and thus you might not be acceptable to the populace of Gondor as a proper successor to your father when the time comes.  So widespread and persistent was the protest when it was learned your parents had given you the Rhovanion name of Vinitharya that in the end even your mother agreed you needed to be called by a name more proper to Gondor.  Every time your father or you have gone back to Rhovanion for a time protests are lodged with your Master of Protocol and Steward, almost always including complaints from lords from Umbar and Pelargir.

       “When was the last time you or your father made a progress within the southern reaches of Gondor, my Lord Prince?  How many of your personal counselors and friends are from Lamedon or Lebennin, much less Anfalas or Belfalas?  When the Lord of Ringlo Vale speaks in the Council, do you heed his words or even listen to him with respect?  The Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath on the southern coast near Edhellond has your ear, but can the same be said for he of Pelargir?

            “Umbar houses the greater portion of your detractors, and offers a haven for those whose ancestral loyalties have ever bound them more closely to Mordor than to Gondor.  Four families were recently sent here from that land to do obeisance to your father as their rightful liege lord, and rather more have been arrested for trafficking in the black arts and slavery.”

            “You say that some of these offer loyalty to Mordor.  Yet Mordor has not been a threat since the triumph of the Last Alliance.”

            “You think so, Lord Eldacar?  How many times have you and your father received reports of assaults by orcs on the inhabitants of Ithilien in the last year?”

            “I believe there have been about twenty so far this year.”

            “And last year?”

            “Last year there were twenty-eight reports.”

            “This year is only about a third of the way through, and already you have more than two-thirds the number of all of last year?  What about two years ago?”

            Eldacar’s expression was becoming more concerned.  “Two years ago there were eighteen in the total year, if I recall correctly; and in the ten years previous to that we had an average of seven attacks per year.”

            “How many assaults have been offered on your father’s officers within Harad in each of the last three years?  Are the numbers growing or decreasing?”

            The Prince’s face was growing more set.  “Such assaults are increasing, and the attacks against the border fort at Porthos also increase.”

            “How about attacks against your cousin’s peoples in Rhovanion from Dol Guldur and the Easterlings?”

            “Also definitely increasing.”

            “How are revenues from customs from the lower river ports comparing to those from Númenor vi Ennorath and the Harlond?”

            Eldacar turned to ledgers stored behind him and brought out three, then thumbed through each until he found the entries he sought.  Finally he looked up.  “Revenues from Númenor vi Ennorath have stayed steady over the past eight years; those from the Harlond have increased by almost a full tenth over the same period of time; those from the Pelargir anchorages have dropped, although the reports on ships accepting harborage there indicates half again as many ships docked there last year as did so eight years past.  The number of ships taking berths at the Harlond has decreased in spite of the rise in revenues; the number docking in Númenor vi Ennorath continues to be roughly equal--perhaps decreasing by a ship or two a year over the past eight.”

            Both considered the implications of the answers to Gandalf’s questions.  Finally the Prince of Gondor shut the ledgers.  “I see, Mithrandir, that neither my father nor I have paid sufficient attention to the deterioration of control throughout much of southern Gondor, and we have allowed our relationships to focus almost totally on my kinsmen within Rhovanion and those of Númenor vi Ennorath and the nearer fiefdoms, particularly Ithilien, Anórien, and those to the west.  I pray we have time to rebuild control and relations before my father must perforce accept the Gift and leave the Winged Crown to me.”

            “I agree, my Lord, and add my prayers to yours.”

            However, when his father died unexpectedly of a brainstorm nine months later the situation had not notably improved.  A few of the lords from the southwestern fiefdoms were well pleased with improved relationships with the King and his son and grandsons; but the situation in the cities along the lower portions of the River Anduin and those tributaries close to Pelargir had deteriorated badly.  Anfalas and Belfalas both turned against the son of Valacar, citing him as being of untenable mixed blood and therefore unacceptable in the eyes of the land.  That most of the forces supporting the King had high proportions of Men from Rhovanion among them in the end worked even more against him as many among the common people saw this as proof that Eldacar’s first loyalties were to his mother’s people rather than to those of Gondor.

            When after three years of struggle Eldacar was unseated from the throne of Gondor most of the citizens of the land rejoiced--or at least they did at first.

 *******

            “It was well done, my Lord Castamir, to use the sewer lines built by Valacar to access the heart of Osgiliath and so take the city,” the newly declared King was assured by his wife’s brother, whom he still accounted his best advisor.

            Castamir shrugged.  Ever a stern Man in nature, the years since the time he first saw those sewer lines planned in Rhovanion had hardened him thoroughly.  Always prejudiced against what he saw as foreign influences, he had become totally intolerant of any advice or devices he saw as having come from outside the purview of Gondor and proper Númenórean technology.  “The entire system for delivery of water to the city and removal of waste is improper,” he declared.  “We must see to a new manner of dealing with these needs.  Also, what has served to allow us entrance to the capital could as easily be used by an enemy to Gondor as it has by us who have ever sought to protect her sovereignty and integrity.”

            “Indeed,” his brother-in-law assured him.  “We must gather together the engineers to find another way to deal with waste.”

            But the engineers refused to consider changing the sewer lines or the aqueducts bringing water from Mount Mindolluin.  “We could take our water directly from the river,” one admitted reluctantly, “but as it passes the settlements and fortifications to our north it is much fouled, which is why Valacar accepted the proposal to bring water from the White Mountains instead.  As for reconstructing the sewer--doing so unnecessarily will only damage the structural integrity of many of the buildings and roads and bridges of the city, or would require total reconstruction of major portions of Osgiliath at the very least.  Those who built the sewage and water delivery systems carefully placed the pipes under the streets and thoroughfares, limiting the amount of construction that might be over them so that if there is damage to one or another they can be accessed for repairs with relative ease and with the least possible rerouting of traffic by other ways while some portions of the roads must be removed for a time.”

            It was agreed, however, that heavy grates would be placed over the ends of the sewers so that no others would be able to as easily access them as had Castamir’s folk.

            But Castamir’s triumph was not total.  Eldacar had managed to flee Osgiliath at the last moment.  His older son Ornendil had remained in Osgiliath, having arranged for his family to be ferried out of the city in a fishing dory north to Cair Andros, from which they fled to Rhovanion.  And so it was Eldacar and his second son Minardil survived as a possible threat to Castamir’s sovereignty.

            Ornendil had been captured, and a month after his taking of the Winged Crown found in the Dome of Stars Castamir held a great audience, compelling as many of the lords of the realm as possible to watch him take his vengeance on Eldacar’s proper heir.

            Ornendil, weighted with chains and manacles to wrists, ankles, neck, and waist, was dragged before the throne on which his father and grandfather had sat, and on whose steps he and his brother Minardil had been wont to play when they were children.  Ornendil stood as straight as the foreshortened chains allowed, realizing he was unlikely to survive the day but intent on keeping his dignity as well as he could, his eye fixed on his traitorous kinsman.  When Castamir’s brother-in-law as herald began to recite the charges against Eldacar’s son, Ornendil spoke over him, managing to silence him.

            “What charges are these, cousin, that you would bring against me?  You seek to charge me with breaking the peace of Gondor, when I did naught but remain in what has been all my life my father’s house, seeing to the responsibilities toward the entire realm he and his Council have laid upon me?  You would charge me with sedition when I have communicated only with lords of Gondor and the emissaries of my father’s allies since I began my service to our nation?  Never have I dealt with our enemies, for that has always been seen to since our great-grandfather Rómendacil’s day by King and Council and not the King’s heir save when he is directly advised by King and Council and is merely the conduit for their words and will.  Have I given aid and succor to the enemies of Gondor when I aided in the escape of my father, mother, and brother from your treachery?  What about the support you have received from agents from Rhûn and Harad and darker agents better known to the blackest of the Black Númenóreans?  Or did you not know such reports have been given to us....”

            Castamir rose to stand on the dais before the throne, his face black with fury.  “Silence him!” he roared at the officer who stood by Ornendil’s side.  “Do not allow him to speak another word!”

            “And how is he to do that without killing me outright?” Ornendil demanded bitterly.  “Or will you have my tongue cut out?”

            That he did--there before the entire court; and many were shocked, dismayed, and even outraged by the cruel order against one plainly helpless in the hands of his enemies.  When several who had previously agreed to Castamir’s preferment as King to replace Eldacar sought to protest, however, all who spoke out were ordered arrested immediately and two were further ordered taken out and summarily executed in the court before the Dome of Stars as an example of how those who spoke against the new King would be treated.

            As for Ornendil--he was ordered beaten to death with chains; and at nightfall his battered body was carried out and hung head downward from the walls by the main west gate as a warning as to of what outrages Castamir was capable.  Overnight he went from being identified as Castamir the Savior to Castamir the Usurper and Castamir the Cruel; but having let this rigid soul take the Winged Crown, the people of Gondor found it was going to be difficult to rid themselves of his vicious self-righteousness.

 *******

            Eldacar sat in the smaller audience chamber his cousin had given to his use and looked in horror into the eyes of the Grey Wizard and the five Men with him.  One was the Lord of Anfalas, and a second was the second son of the Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath, the capital of Belfalas and Lamedon.  The third was seneschal to the lord of Pelargir, one who’d ever borne him greatest of antipathy.  The other two were from Anórien and Ithilien.  By him stood his son Minardil, while his own attendants and his cousin’s wife had led his Queen from the room, her grief at the news brought them more than she could bear.

            “They cut out his tongue and then beat him to death?  Why did they cut out his tongue?”

            The Lord of Anfalas, who’d been among those convinced to join in the rebellion, stood tall and straight before the King he’d betrayed.  “Your son Ornendil sought only to shame his cousin and to point out he was himself blameless, Lord.  We knew it could only end in the death of your son, but we had expected that death to be at least somewhat cloaked in legal dealings, and for it to be an honorable one.  Instead Castamir made no pretense of providing evidence of treachery on your son’s part, and had his tongue cut out that his own perfidy might not be shown forth before all.  I will state now that he did so too late.”

            “You expected my son to die, though blameless of all save for helping to see to it my wife, other son and I escaped; and you would have allowed it if the legal fiction presented as justification was acceptable enough?”

            The Lord of Anfalas and Belfalas had the grace to blush, and the honesty to say, “I grieve to admit it, Lord, but this is true.  Know this, however, that yours was not the only son to die that day.  My own son spoke out without having the time to think, against the cruelty with which he saw Ornendil treated--spoke out before the entire assembly.  He was immediately arrested and rushed to the prison.  I was already out of the city on my way to confess to you I had mistaken my loyalties when I backed Castamir’s rebellion, for I had truly believed him to be honorable and to seek only to replace you on the basis of purer blood and a truer loyalty to Gondor as a whole when----”  The tears came to his own eyes, and he had to struggle for some moments to be able again to speak.

            At last the Man took a deep breath.  “At sunset your son’s body was hung in its chains from the city walls, and the heads of all who had been arrested were flung onto the road before the gates.  My son is also dead, Lord Eldacar.  What kind of monster have I helped loose upon our land?”

            For long moments Eldacar sat with his eyes closed, tears running unashamedly down his face.  At last he wiped his eyes with a sleeve, looked with a blank expression at the Man standing before him willing to accept whatever fate he might receive at the deposed King’s hands; then Eldacar rose, stepped forward to embrace the Lord of Anfalas in comfort.  “All of Gondor is without its rightful King,” he murmured.  “I would not add to that grief by depriving one of my vassal lands of its lord, particularly when his grief is as deep as my own.  I am so very sorry, my lord,” he added, “that you, too, must know the loss of a beloved son.  I am so very, very sorry.  And whatever I can do to set things right I will do--I so swear by the thrones of the Valar.”

 *******

            Ten years did the war rage, and increasingly lords and fiefs that had originally taken part in the rebellion came back to the support of Eldacar.  At last, after one more report of atrocities perpetrated against an entire village because one of its young Men had spoken against Castamir’s right to rule, Eldacar came south with a mixed army of Gondorians, Rhovanions, some of the migrant bands of horse lords from further north in the Anduin valley, and even some from Eriador who’d heard tales of the usurpation of the Winged Crown and come south to their distant kinsman’s aid; and there in Lebennin the rebellion was finally ended as Eldacar himself broke through the defenses surrounding Castamir and with great deliberation decapitated the Usurper. 

            But so many had died in that long war, including he who had been Lord of Anfalas.  His brother had been named Lord of Anfalas in his place; now having come before Eldacar with his sword in his hand, he offered it to Eldacar then bared his own neck.  “I took oaths against you, my Lord King, and repent of them.  But if my land is spared by my death at your hands then I offer myself freely that your rightful wrath may be spent on me and not on the people of Anfalas.”

            Eldacar now appeared much older than the ten years of his exile would support; his hair had gone grey and no longer did he show forth the pleasure he’d known before he came to the Crown.  His expression was stern as he examined the Man standing before him.  At last he turned to some of those who’d come with him to the King’s camp by the crossings of the Erui and asked, “How has he served Anfalas--well or ill?”

            “Well, my Lord King,” assured the Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath, who’d been besieged in his own city for much of the rebellion.

            “Do you truly care for the lands given your family for stewardship in the King’s name?” Eldacar asked.

            “Yes, my Lord King, I do.”

            “Your brother and your nephew have already been lost to the service of Anfalas and the realm.  I will not lose you, also.  Do you repent of what was done in the vain pursuit of what was believed to be purer blood on the throne of Gondor?”

            “I do indeed.”

            “Do you now swear loyalty to me as King for as long as I remain so, and my rightful heir after me?”

            “I do.”

            “Then utter the oath.”  Eldacar held the sword given him between his hands and watched as the Man took the hilts and swore.

            The Wizard known in Gondor as Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim, stood witness as he was to do for many who accepted this oath over the years.

The Taste of the Enemy

            The Mouth of Sauron sat in the small chamber in Dol Guldur where he accepted audiences for his Master, and spoke with the Dunlendings who had been summoned to his presence.  “And thou sayest that the White Wizard carries the plans for the water systems of Minas Anor and Osgiliath with him, and will show them as examples of what he will do for others?”

            “Yes, my lord,” the hillman called Glaurag agreed.  “He has shown them to our chieftains, for they seek to build cities in the hills to the north of Isengard, west of the Misty Mountains where we can best build fortresses for the safety of our folk and where we have good supplies of water.  Such lands are in the end easier to defend than the lower grasslands we ever seem to war over with the folk of Gondor.”

            The Mouth of Sauron gave his twisted, pleased smile.  It appeared that his Master’s goals would be more easily gained than all had hoped.  “And how easy dost thou think it would be to gain possession of these?”

            Glaurag looked to his fellow, then sideways at his dread host’s spokesman.  He swallowed and licked his lips before answering--he was sorry he’d agreed to come in answer to the summons, for this--creature--with whom he treated made him feel deeply sickened.  It may have once been a Man--perhaps even an Elf, although the rounded nature of its ears supported the former probability.  What it was now was questionable, for it was as if its blood had congealed in its veins, but the body apparently had not as yet realized it was dead.  A straightening of the sickly shape, however, drew him back to the realization the question asked was yet to be answered.  He licked his lips again.  “I believe it could be done, lord,” he managed to say.  “He dwells yet among us and indicated he would remain until the spring opens the passes again.  He was not much favored by King Eldacar of Gondor, and so he prefers not to pass through those lands that were once his if it can be avoided.”

            “Take them and send them to the hands of the lord who brought thee here--at the very least the one of the mountain showing the location of the reservoirs for the cities, and much gold will come to thee.”

            Glaurag’s companion finally spoke, his eyes now alight.  “How much?” he asked.

            The Mouth raised his hand to his mouth, and a ring whose very shape made the spokesman feel even more distressed could be seen on his long fingers.  Eyes hidden behind the mask the creature wore examined the Man who questioned about the gold.  “And what wouldst thou do with the promised gold?” it asked.

            “Buy swords--swords and horses.  We could take the grasslands of Calenardhon from the Sea Kings--take them fully for our own.  Your folk are not the only ones who wish ill on Gondor.”

            The Mouth laughed, and Glaurag’s stomach clenched at the sound.  “Oh, I am certain we are not the only ones who desire an end to the realms of the heirs of Elendil, friend.”

            Glaurag vowed to himself never to use that word again--being called a friend by this one was intolerable.

            “Many horses and swords will thy people be able to purchase with what we will send.  How much thou mayest require them or be able to use them is the question.”

            At the expressed threat in those words both Glaurag and his fellow rose.  More sorry than ever he’d agreed to come, but knowing there was now no other choice for his people, Glaurag promised, “We will get the plans and see them into Lord Regil’s hands.  I only hope he does not betray you.”

            The Mouth waved a negligent hand.  “Regil would not dare do so, and he hates the heirs of Valacar.  Merely to deliver the plans into his hands is all that is asked of thee.”

            Only when they were let out into the relatively free air outside the fortress of Dol Guldur did Glaurag begin to breathe freely again; and the whole time they rode back to the escort provided by Regil that waited near the crossing at Cair Andros he felt the malice focused on his back.  He wondered if he would ever feel free of the taint of that visit.

 *******

            Meanwhile the Mouth of Sauron met with Khamûl to report the success of the meeting, and together they walked deeper into the fortress where one of their Master’s experiments was being readied for release on the World of Men.

            A larger workroom had been cleared of all else save for foul bedding, a couple of cooking hearths, a few low tables, and large basins of stagnant water.  The sconces around the room held torches of burning gases, gases emitted from lower dungeons where unspeakable things happened.

            Here about fifty people had been brought at their Master’s command, people from an teeming land far to the east and south where overcrowding and heat seemed to breed diseases intended to slay all of Mankind.

            These fifty were what remained of the seven score and one originally taken by Sauron’s agents.  The one was an individual who had become very ill of a plague that had first been seen in those living about the fetid swamps that filled much of one great river valley of that land.  Sauron had ordered groups of people from about the country in question gathered and brought west to Dol Guldur, and there he sought to find out how the disease was transmitted from one to another.  This last group of a hundred forty and one had given him the answer--biting insects, and mostly midges and mosquitoes.  All in the group were now deathly sick with it; all that remained was for them to loose it upon the folk of Gondor.  Well, the means to do that was at hand.  These fifty, only recently bitten by infected mosquitoes, would be taken from the fortress tomorrow and transferred south to the beginnings of the marshes that stood north of the Black Gate; and the wriggling contents of the basins would be dumped into the waters there.  These pitiful ones would be there for the mosquitoes that would grow from the wriggling larvae to bite once again before they laid their eggs; and still more would be brought and kept in captivity about the northern reaches of the marshes until the Dark Lord felt he had enough insects prepared to set loose on Gondor and its allies.

            In a second great workroom the seven left of the twenty-five women brought from still another eastern land were kept, women all ill with another disease that the Dark Lord had learned caused not only great black pustules to build on the bodies of those infected, but also caused pregnant women to lose their children untimely.  The idea that he could perhaps lessen the numbers of the Dúnedain through the loss of almost an entire generation of children was pleasing to Sauron the Great.  No, he would not yet openly declare himself, but Sauron intended that his enemies be in no condition to stop the retaking of Mordor in the near future.  This disease was spread by the biting of fleas, and so rats and wolves covered with the pestilential insects were brought into the room next to that in which the infected women were kept on mats of rotting rushes, and even more creatures who were relatively free of fleas were brought into rooms on the other side; it didn’t take long for the fleas to find their way from their overburdened original hosts to their new ones by way of the sick women.  Even now orcs of one breed that had been found to be resistant to the disease were busy crating numbers of rats into great boxes with bedding, food, and supplies of liquid sufficient to get them to their destinations, and in a few days time would be carried north and set loose on Eriador, and south to Umbar where ships would carry them upriver into Gondor’s harbors, particularly the harbors of Pelargir and the Harlond.

            And in a third room waters filled with the life of the most fetid swamps of the east were being decanted into vials, vials that were destined to be carried west into Gondor....

 *******

            Saruman was not certain how it was he had earned the ire of Eldacar.  It seemed that particular King of Gondor somehow had blamed him for the invasion of Osgiliath through the sewer system he’d designed for Gondor’s capital.  Castamir’s army had, at the Usurper’s command, burned and razed much of the city, using tools and materials Saruman had created for the sole purpose of making it easier to install the sewers.  How the Wizard was to be seen as responsible for such actions Saruman had no idea; but as Eldacar’s descendants appeared fully willing to continue their grandfather’s prejudices indefinitely, or so it seemed, he’d found it wise over the past two hundred years to avoid both Minas Anor and Osgiliath themselves as well as much of Rhovanion.  His one attempt to sound out Telemnar certainly hadn’t met with positive results.

            Now Telemnar’s nephew Tarondor, who dwelt more in Lossarnach than in either the White City or the Capitol, was probably more forgiving in his nature--was at least more open to hearing what Curunír was likely to say in his own defense.

            Saruman had been spending much of the last few months among the Dunlendings.  An interesting people, the hillmen of the Dunlands--interesting and stubborn past belief.  They wished to rule the land of Calenardhon for themselves; yet although the lords of Gondor would have given them the freedom to settle much of the emptier lands of the northwest solely in return for their guard on the borders against orcs and those who’d taken southern Rhudaur, the folk of Dunland refused, claiming kinship with those who harried the lands of Arnor.

            Then there was the fact they claimed they wanted to rule Calenardhon, and yet would never move far from their familiar hills southwest of the Misty Mountains where they felt safe.  They would plant fields and set herds of cattle in the grasslands beyond their hills, but at any appearance of orcs or Gondor’s folk they would withdraw into the highlands, fields and flocks forgotten until the interlopers withdrew--at which time they blamed those who came through their lands rather than themselves when their crops were choked out by weeds or their cattle stolen away.

            But one of their leaders, Moran son of Marat, at least had appeared to display vision and ambition, and had said he wished to build a city and draw to himself others with vision.  And so he had asked to see the plans Saruman had drawn of Osgiliath and Minas Anor and the water and sewer systems Saruman had created for them; then he had commissioned the design of a city with water and sewage lines built into it to be constructed near the feet of the Misty Mountains. 

            In the last two weeks Saruman and Moran had been to the proposed site of Moran’s city, examining it and its lie, its proximity to water sources and means of taking care also of the drainage.  However, after the last week of the survey the Wizard was no longer certain of Moran’s true dedication to the project.

            “These pumps and privies you build into each building--are they truly necessary?  Cannot water be brought into homes from central fountains and wells where the women and girls can meet and gossip?” he’d asked just today.  “It appears to be an activity my own wife and older daughters enjoy.  And how it is I am to see the water system and devices and pumps crafted I cannot say, much less the piping.  We are rich in stone, but not in metals or the finer clays you have indicated are necessary to make the pipes and privies.”

            “Why not simply admit,” the Wizard grumbled to himself as he entered the quarters given him and closed the door behind him, “that he merely wishes a grander village than is the norm for these hills rather than a true city?  It would be more honest in the long run and would not have wasted....”

            His rooms had been entered while he was away with Moran, and his things gone through.  He hurried forward to examine the disarray that had been wrought on his rooms, and quickly sought out the specially sealed coffers that contained those items he’d collected that had the most value to him, and found that although someone had obviously attempted to open them the spells worked on them to keep them inviolate had held.  Swiftly he opened and briefly searched through each of them.  He was relieved to find each document, scroll, codex, and fragment was still there, as well as the few esoteric items and models he’d collected and crafted.  Well, if these had not been opened, much less rifled through, then what had the thief or thieves been seeking?

            It was not, however, until he finally gave up and took the rolled up plans he’d drawn for Moran and went to place them with those he’d done for Osgiliath and Minas Anor that he realized that they were gone from the great wooden tube in which he kept such designs, along with the mixed coins he kept in a small wooden chest.  Now, why would any seek to take such things?  It certainly wasn’t because they were worth anything to anyone besides himself.  He could easily enough reproduce them, of course.

            He supposed it might be easy enough to locate the ends of the sewer lines using those plans; but he knew that first Castamir and later Eldacar had done several layers of grates inside the openings, and that between himself and Gandalf there were now a number of other protections as well that made it unlikely an enemy seeking to enter them would get past the first two hundred feet--and those protections by the various parties were not indicated in those plans.  As for the one who stole his coins--well, they were spelled to find their way back to him, so he wasn’t particularly concerned about that loss for the moment--it was little enough that had actually been taken.  The thefts were inconvenient, not disastrous, he realized; and the thief or thieves at least a week gone from what he could tell.

            He thought for a moment for a proper punishment he might work on the thief from a distance, and decided to place a spell of laming on the thief or thieves’ horses.  He focused on the parchment on which he’d drawn the diagrams, noted it was some days east of himself, although he could not tell precisely where; he sent the spell down the tenuous thread that tied the diagrams to himself, felt it sliding well on its way...finally felt it hit home with a feeling of vindictive triumph.  Well, such would do well enough, and wherever the plans went lame horses would follow.  He certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for those who’d taken them.

 *******

            When both his own horse and that of his companion went lame a two-days’ ride from Lord Regil’s keep Glaurag was dismayed.  He was certain this must be due to the theft having been discovered by the White Wizard.  When the horses they stole also went lame within a twenty-minute ride of the farm from which they were taken he was certain of it.  His companion insisted they steal another pair, an act Glaurag felt was both dangerous and doomed to failure; they managed just to ride away from the keep from which they stole the beasts, an arrow embedded in his companion’s left leg, and the horses both went lame well within a quarter mark of one another.

            Glaurag managed to remove the arrow and to see it properly bound; but it was obvious the rest of the journey would have to be undertaken on foot and alone.  He left his companion in a rough cave he located with the coin he learned the fool had also stolen from the Wizard and sufficient food and water to last him three days, although he knew he would not be able to return in less than a se’ennight, and went on.

            Four days later he finally spotted Regil’s keep in the distance, although it took him most of the day to approach it.  There had been patrols on the road seeking him, most likely sent out by the minor lordling from whom they’d stolen the last horses.  He rather thought they ought to be done with the hunt by tonight, but at this point he didn’t much care.

            “Get these cursed things to Regil and be done with it,” he muttered as he worked his way through the twilit estate lands toward Lord Regil’s fortress dwelling.  “Until they’re out of my hands I won’t be able to do aught else.”

            He stood in the shadow of a tree within the fortress walls watching the doors to the house for quite some time before they opened and Regil himself came out to cross the keep toward his stables.  Glaurag waited until the traitorous Gondorian lord came even with him before stepping out of the shadows, his unsheathed sword in one hand and the plans in the other.  “You will take these now,” he said in a low and dangerous voice and he pressed the tip of his blade to the lord’s throat, “and give me the gold promised minus the price of two horses, give me those two horses, and I will leave.  Do you understand?”

            Something in the Dunlending’s voice convinced Regil he ought to simply comply; an hour later Glaurag was astride a horse he rightfully owned, leading a second laden with saddlebags filled with gold pieces, and he was headed once again west.  Once he was certain he’d left whatever curse was attached to those plans behind him now in Regil’s hands he kicked his horse into a canter until he found a game trail through the forest north of the road that hopefully would help him evade any further patrols or followers.  He did so none too soon, he realized as three mounted men-at-arms in Regil’s livery, two of them armed with bows, rode past the almost hidden trail head.  So, Regil had decided to have the gold he’d given him recovered, had he?

            Glaurag considered going back and taking his fury out on the treacherous lord’s hide, but decided against it.  Let Regil experience the curse himself--he’d soon rue the day he agreed to deal with his dark patrons, he would!  Glaurag worked his way westward screened by the forest, carefully keeping his own steed and that carrying the gold out of sight.

            A week after leaving Regil’s keep he found the cave where he’d left his companion and found it apparently empty.  As he finally entered it, however, he smelled a stench that told him both horses and the treasure the second one carried were now his.  The bloated leg, all uncovered, told its own story--his companion’s wound had putrefied, eventually killing him.  There were skins of water and food the fool had somehow managed to obtain, but Glaurag decided against taking it although his own supplies were spent.  No, he’d hunt along the way home.  He carefully skirted around the lands of the lordling from whom they’d stolen the second pair of horses, and finally found the farm where they’d stolen the first pair.  Here he approached the farmer and his wife, offering to give them the two fine steeds he now had for one sturdy beast the farmer kept in a back pasture.  An hour later he rode the cob out the farmstead’s gate and resumed his ride west, amused at having heard the farmer tell of having had his two riding beasts stolen and then finding them the next day some miles east of the farm, both lame.  They appeared to be recovering, the farmer told him, but he found himself wondering just what curse was following the thieves who’d taken them.

            Glaurag’s smile was grim enough.  He only hoped Regil and his folk were having their own set of problems due to that cursed set of plans.

 *******

            It took three days longer than it ought to for Regil to reach the place where he was to meet his contact, and the cloaked figure had been most impatient as it reached for the rolled parchment.

            “What happened?” came the impatient question.  “Did all your horses go lame or something?”

            “Or something,” Regil answered bitterly.  “Actually, all our horses went lame three times!”

            The cloaked Man--if, of course, it was a Man--peered closely at him past its hood, then considered the rolled parchments it had accepted with a look of cautious respect.  This was likely to be a difficult mission.  “Your reward awaits you in Osgiliath,” it told Regil.  So saying the figure turned away and disappeared into the growing dusk.

            Regil watched after the way the creature had gone suspiciously, then turned with his Men and headed south--on foot.  He looked up with concern after about a quarter mark--it was really far too early for it to be this dark, then slapped at his wrist where a mosquito had lit.  Then another landed on his face and was biting at his cheek. The man-at-arms ahead of him was struggling to scratch the center of his back where it had apparently begun itching unbearably, and as Regil watched a mosquito landed on the Man’s neck above his gorget.  Soon the entire party was writhing with discomfort as more and more mosquitoes lit on them all, biting them unmercifully.

            In a few days all were ill with chills and fever, and the surgeon attached to the company guarding Cair Andros was scratching his head with trying to understand what was wrong with them--and with the growing number of welts he was amassing due to this absolute plague of mosquitoes that was darkening the sky.

 *******

            Two weeks after that, when all within Osgiliath and a good number of those in Minas Anor were ill with chills and fevers the likes of which none had ever seen before, two orcs labored up the side of Mount Mindolluin, guided by directions given them by the cloaked figure who’d received the scrolled plans, studied them, and then burned them to rid all of the curse they apparently carried.  No guards were being kept on the approaches to the reservoirs for either Osgiliath or Minas Anor, for too many of those who’d taken ill with the current plague were Guardsmen.  And so it was that none was there to see as the orcs reached the water supply for the capital and carefully emptied into it half the vials they carried.  As they turned down the path toward the second water supply, however, the orc carrying the remaining vials tripped and fell flat, the vials he carried smashing against the rocks of the mountainside and the foul liquid it carried rolling back toward the small Man-made lake they’d just left. 

            “If they know we didn’t poison both...” began the one who carried the vials as he cautiously raised to his feet.

            “Fool of a snaga!” the second one exclaimed.  “Do you think they’d let the likes of us live if they knew?  No--best say nothing if you want to see next week.  The poison went into the water, and that’s all they have to know.  They’ll be happy enough when they see it strike the foul place over the river.”

            They carefully made their way down the mountainside, the one who’d carried the vials sucking at a cut on its arm as they went.  Within an hour it was dead and its companion was abandoning the body as quickly as it could, hoping that just breathing the stench of the foul liquid as it oozed down the bank into the reservoir wasn’t enough to do similarly to itself.

 *******

            Within two days the last of King Telemnar’s family was dead, and the White Tree of Minas Anor had failed.  Tarondor arrived from Lossarnach a week later to find almost all within Osgiliath dead or fled, and half of Minas Anor dead or critically ill with chills and fevers.  There was much talk by those who could say anything of dark clouds having risen in the east and been blown westward over Anduin, and of having been repeatedly bitten by flying insects the numbers of which had never been seen before, and then of great loosening of the bowels by most of those left within the capital followed almost universally by death.

            Tarondor looked at what was left of Osgiliath.  The water in the fountain outside the Dome of Stars seemed fouled and smelled horrid.  He immediately gave the order none of his Men were to drink any water from within the city; and the two who’d done so before the order was passed to them became violently ill within an hour and were both dead two days later.

            The rest worked at gathering bodies and seeing them burned, there seeming to be no other means of disposing of them.

            The Grey Wizard arrived on the third day after Tarondor’s own arrival and began to help as he could, ordering the building of great pyres so that the bodies of the dead could be burned as swiftly as possible and hopefully the contagion contained.  On being told of the apparent contamination of the water supply for the city, however, he advised the new King to send Men up Mindolluin to see if there was any sign an enemy might have somehow poisoned the water supply.

            A day later those who’d gone returned to find Mithrandir starting three funeral pyres burning just outside the walls to Osgiliath, Tarondor by his side.

            “We found the body of an orc halfway down the mountainside, below the lake that feeds water to this city,” one reported.  “On the rocks over the reservoir we found shards of glass inside a cloth bag, although we touched it not with our hands and breathed as we have done here through folds of cloth over our faces.  It appears at least two of the cursed beasts were involved in contaminating the water supply, and that this one infected himself with the disease he carried in the vials, for the fouling around the body was the same as what has been seen here.”

            Tears slipped from the eyes of both King and Wizard at the news.  They turned to look again at the burning pyres.  “The water is not likely to be safe to drink again for at least a year then, my Lord King,” Mithrandir said, shaking his head.  He looked back at the King’s Men who had been into Minas Anor.  “How about within the White City--is it, too, filled with such disease as here?”

            “No, Lord Mithrandir--the chills and fevers, yes; but not the loosening of the bowels that apparently killed our Lord Telemnar, his wife, and his four children.”

            “Then they did not make it to the second reservoir,” the Wizard sighed, breathing a prayer of relief.

            Tarondor did not enjoy the full gift of healing common to the rightful King, but with Mithrandir’s aid they began to fight the continuing chills and fevers.  Eight years previous one of the ship traders who indulged as much in exploration as in trading had brought back several plants from a land far to the west, plants he had been assured by those he managed to communicate with there would prove useful in dealing with many diseases.  The leaves of one were chewed by the natives of that land to fight chills and fevers, and the healers in Osgiliath and the White City both had become interested in it and the other plants and the descriptions of how they were used, and had planted them in herb gardens in both cities.  Now much harvesting was being done, and within a month’s time many who’d survived the first tortures of the illness were finding relief after first chewing the leaves of the one plant, then drinking the bitter draught made by steeping the leaves in water for a time.

            But now more illnesses were breaking out, mostly first in the harbors and then in farmyards around the nation.  Dead rats and dogs and cats were found in the wake of the disease.  It seemed to spread fastest where rushes were spread on house floors and allowed to remain too long or where many animals were kept together or in poorer inns where several folk might share a bedplace, and where sheets and blankets weren’t changed often.

            By analyzing the spread of the illness, orders went out from the new capital of Minas Anor that all were to clean themselves and their animals and their homes and especially their bedding regularly; that inns were to be closed until all bedding was boiled and aired and mattresses restuffed with clean materials; and that bedding must be changed at the very least once every three days; that all thresh in homes was to be burned along with the bodies of all who died of the plague and the bodies of any infected animals; and (at Mithrandir’s suggestion) all households that kept cats or such dogs as regularly killed rats and mice were to be relieved of a portion of their taxes for each such animal they kept, up to three for a household and ten for a farm or business.  Within three months this third plague appeared contained, and within five no more cases were being reported anywhere within the realm.

            Tarondor had the White Tree of Minas Anor removed and replanted a seedling found in the King’s Hallow above the city in its place.  But now Osgiliath was fully abandoned.  When no one could drink the water there for another several months at the earliest, what was the point?

            After the planting of the new White Tree Tarondor stood upon the keel of rock looking out eastward toward Osgiliath and Minas Ithil, his handsome face set.  “This has the taste of Sauron to it,” he said, his voice tight with a mixture of grief and fury.  “How else would three different plagues hit us, one confined only to Osgiliath and carried by orcs, one coming in a dark cloud from the regions of the Black Gate, and the third apparently from animals infected with the disease and spread somehow through filth?”

            He gazed at the abandoned city on the river.  “And now none may live in Osgiliath unless they will brave the water of the river or still have access to the ancient wells that once served it.  The tower that stood over the Dome of Stars was destroyed by Castamir along with so much of the city’s beauty and majesty, and its Palantír is lost in the depths of the Anduin.  The thrones of the Dome of Stars have been destroyed, and the Dome itself cracked.  Even the tombs have been razed for the most part.  Fortunately most of its libraries had already been carried here, and Castamir never entered Minas Anor to loot and burn and otherwise destroy here as he did there.”

            Mithrandir’s gaze as he looked down at the ruins was full of grief.  “I agree about this having to it the taste of Sauron.  I will call a council of the Free Peoples to consider the situation.  Will you come yourself, or at least send one to speak for what has been done here in Gondor?  As for what might have happened in the past few months north in Eriador, Rhovanion, Éothéod, and the Elven lands or Dwarf kingdoms I have no idea.  I was traveling southward along the valley of the Anduin when word reached me that plagues had struck Gondor like a hammer and I came here as swiftly as I might.”

            “All would definitely have gone the worse for all the land had you not,” Tarondor said.  He turned to search the Grey Wizard’s face.  “I was never intended to be King.  Yes, part of the gifts of Elros Tar-Minyatur have come down to me, but only a lesser son’s portion.  How long I will live who can say?  I doubt I will know the full term of my ancestors who wore the Winged Crown.  I curse the memory of Castamir and how he set in motion so much that in the end led to this great loss.”

            “You would blame him for the plague of mosquitoes and the disease they brought, or the other diseases Gondor has known?”

            “I can rightly blame so much of the lessening of our land on him, Mithrandir.  How such a one as he, proud past bearing, small-minded and cruel, could have sprung from the lineage of Tar-Minyatur and Elendil I cannot imagine.  He destroyed so much and so many.  He could not bear criticism or what he saw as defiance, and so must punish not only those who questioned him but the homes and land they loved as well.  Look what he did to Osgiliath and its people merely for having supported the presence of Eldacar and his family!  And now the last dignity of the city of Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion together is stripped from it.

            “Tell me, Mithrandir, that Castamir was not merely the pawn and tool of the Enemy!”

            The Wizard sighed as he again turned east, one hand clutching his staff, the other the wall before him.  “I cannot disagree, Tarondor,” he said quietly.  “And certainly, as both of us have said, these waves of plagues have Sauron’s feel to them, particularly the black clouds of mosquitoes coming from what I must assume are the marshes that have covered so much of what was Dagorlad.  Between the evil let loose in the days of the Kin-strife and what has happened now so much of Gondor’s might has been lost.”  He looked suddenly again into the King’s eyes.  “However, you must not give up hope, my Lord King.  Far less was destroyed either by Castamir or by these plagues than had been intended--of that I am certain.  And, by acting in hope, good will be brought out of the evil all have seen here.  Will you send one north to attend a meeting of the proposed council?”

            “I do not believe I could attend myself, but I am willing to send one to it.  Merely tell me when and where, and I will have one come.  Let the Wise know why we of Gondor believe Sauron was not totally defeated when Isildur took the Enemy’s weapon from his hand, and why we think he seeks now to return.”  The King again turned eastward.  “And how long, do you think, that Isildur’s own city will stand, there on the walls of Mordor itself, now that Osgiliath is abandoned?”

            Gandalf looked eastward again himself, troubled mightily, for he was certain that in this Tarondor had the right of it.

The Granting of the Shire

            Bilbio Bagger awoke one morning to a terrible noise from outside the ridge into which the family smial had been dug, followed by cries of surprise raised by both Men and his fellow villagers.  He hastily threw on his clothing and hurried out to find his kinsman Holtgard in confrontation with a group of Men, Holtgard’s family standing a safe distance behind him.  “You’d best leave,” Holtgard was saying, “or I’ll have to fight you.”

            Bilbio was alarmed.  It appeared that this time Holtgard had perhaps taken on a bigger enemy than he might look to conquer, for these Men were big and broad, and probably not above taking what they wanted.  But one did need to back up family when it was needed.  Bilbio managed to catch the attention of several other Hobbits headed out to find out what was going on and drew them aside.  “Don’t let any others join Holt at the moment,” he warned them quietly, “but those of you who have bows or slings or spears, go get them now.  We won’t accomplish anything if we just run up alongside Holtgard and try to talk to these, for none of them appears to be of the King’s folk and they aren’t likely to listen to us.  No, we need to surround them and throw a few stones of warning at them to get their attention; then when they know they are likely to suffer if they try anything, then we talk.  Warn your wives and children to slip out the back way to the hidden bolt-holes in the forest and to keep quiet.  We don’t know what this lot is likely to do.”

            The others all silently indicated their agreement, and within minutes the village was being quietly evacuated while the menfolk gathered their weapons and found protected sites from which to threaten the invaders.

            Holt was still standing between the Men and his wife and children, but the Men had stepped closer, were doing their best to loom over the small farmer and those behind him; and a few were actually moving sideways to try to surround them, perhaps seeking to capture one of the womenfolk or a child to use as a shield or to threaten.

            “I tell ye we was give this land!” insisted the leader of the Men.  “The village head over that way said as we could settle here, for no one was livin’ on it.”

            “I’d not call me and mine no one,” Holt insisted.  “We’ve lived here for over three hundred years now.  Now, you can just leave peacefully or----”

            “Or what, you little manling?  What can you do against the likes of us?”

            “The village head over that way has no authority to be giving away land, especially land that his folk aren’t living on anyway.”

            “I asked you, runt, what you thinks to do about keepin’ us out of land as we’ve took a likin’ to?”

            “Do you think we are totally without defenses?”

            The Man stepped back half a step and ostentatiously gave the lone grown Hobbit and his huddled womenfolk and young ones behind him a scathing examination.  “And what defenses can you give, you rat people?  Any of you up to facing this?”  He drew out a rather ugly knife.

            His stance was that of one accustomed to fighting with such weapons, and Holt found himself straightening, watching the tip of the knife with concern.  There wasn’t a great deal a lone Hobbit could do against an armed Man who knew how to use his weapons.

            Those who had the group surrounded were watching the place where they knew Bilbio had secreted himself with concern.  It was time, he decided, to let these know that Holt wasn’t as isolated and without protection as they thought.  He shook the bush by him to signal the rest, and suddenly the knife-wielder found his upper right arm impaled by a short yet nevertheless deadly arrow, and two of the Men who’d gotten closest to the family group behind Holt were staggering as rocks hit them.  Several of those behind the leader found arrows in their shoulders, and one in the back of his knee, while one was flat knocked unconscious by the rock that hit him squarely in the temple.

            The rest turned in shock, trying to identify where the rocks and arrows had come from; but the Hobbits amongst the trees were slipping sideways to new vantage points and were already prepared for a second volley should it be called for.  Bilbio stepped out and signed for the rest not to show themselves.  Something about his stance and the bow he held ready to fire gave the Men pause.

            “Do you truly think he was without any defense at all?” Bilbio asked, his eyes hard.  “And simply because we are smaller than you, do you think you can take what you want from us?”

            One of the others who had stood behind the leader and who appeared less belligerent asked, “And how was we to know as this land was already took?  We don’t see no houses or barns or fields.”

            Bilbio used his arrowtip to point out the village of Bagmaker’s communal grainstore and threshing floor.  “Perhaps our homes aren’t obvious to such as you, but certainly that ought to be a sign that this land is already farmed--that and the obvious fields of grain you came over to approach our village.  You can’t have missed that those fields were just recently harvested,”

            The Men traded looks, and the leader, clutching at his arm and white with shock, licked his lips.  “So what, there’s fields after all?” he asked.  “With no houses, how’s we to know as they ain’t abandoned?  And why’d you shoot at us?”

            “Why did we shoot at you?” demanded Holtgard, drawing himself up to his full three and a quarter feet in height.  “You come at us in a big group and shout at us and threaten one of us with a knife, and you ask why we might shoot at you?”  He shook his head in disbelief.

            One of the Hobbits nearest the grainfields slipped sideways through the woods somewhat and finally came out of hiding to approach Bilbio.  “There are more Men over that way with a large empty wagon,” he said quietly in Bilbio’s ear.  “One of the two left with it is approaching to find out what’s going on, I think.”

            Bilbio nodded.  “Back into hiding,” he said softly, “and keep him covered as he comes.  If he comes too close, fell him.”  He gestured toward the path the Man would have to follow, and turned back to the others.  “If you are truly looking to settle these lands, then where are your women and children?  Where are your tools?  Why did you come not with plows but with a single great wagon?  It appears to me your intent is to harvest only what we have already gathered.”

            Again the Men looked at one another.  The one on the ground was starting to rouse.  One of those near the leader murmured, “I thought you said as these would be easy to scare.”

            “Shut yer mouth,” growled the leader.  “These folk ain’t deaf, you know.”

            “No, indeed we’re not deaf,” Bilbio said.  The Men drew closer together.

            There was a whack! and a cry of surprise from the path the Men had entered from.  “What...?”

            Bilbio called out, “You, there--stop where you are.  In a moment we are going to send your fellows back your way.  Several of them have arrows in them and will need to have them removed.  I suggest you go back to that village of Rumstad over there where the head supposedly told you this land was free for the taking and have their healer deal with them.  None of the arrows is likely to kill anyone, although the one with the arrow in the back of his knee might well end up crippled if he tries to walk on it.  Break the shafts off and get them loaded in that wagon of yours, and get you gone.  And I suggest you don’t come back.”

            “Why, you little rats!” began another Man, drawing his own knife and preparing to put it through Holtgard’s chest--until a rock hit him between the eyes and he fell backwards. 

            The one who’d claimed not to have seen the fields he’d crossed bent over him, concerned.  “Burl, Burl--you all right?”

            But Burl didn’t rouse, and another crouched down to check.  He looked up, his face drained of all color.  “He’s dead,” he said, his voice hoarse.

            “Dead?” demanded the leader.

            Bilbio looked at the Men and in the direction from which the rock had come, then back again.  “Do we not have the right to protect ourselves?  He intended to kill Holtgard there.”

            “Burl was my brother!” cried the one who bent over.  “You killed my brother!”

            “And you would have killed an unarmed Hobbit and perhaps several members of his family in order to steal our harvest,” Bilbio returned.  “Your brother had his knife ready to throw.  We Hobbits may not be skilled with edged weapons, but we know how to defend ourselves and our land.  Now I strongly suggest a couple of you get the one with the arrow in his knee between you and two others take your Burl, and that you leave as you came, and that you don’t come back.  Should you return one of the King’s Men will be here to greet you.”

            The Men grumbled, but did as they were told, slowly dragging away the body of the downed ruffian as they turned back.

            Bilbio’s son Mero came out of hiding to stand by his father as they watched the Men disappear back the way they’d come.  The older Hobbit watched after them, then turned to his son.  “Do you think you can get to their wagon first?” he asked.

            “Of course, A’da,” Mero answered.

            “Then do so.  The one who was left will be distracted, and will probably come to help with the hurt one and the dead one.  Make certain there’s no drink in the wagon--especially if it’s spirits or ale.  Dump it out, and do it now, before they get there.  Let them go dry to the healer.  We don’t want them drinking themselves into a rage to come back and get vengeance before the day’s out.  They’ll probably have to stop and get some water, and the nearest place other than here they can get to the river’s bank is three miles north.  They’re more likely to actually go to Rumstad that way, and the folk there won’t easily support them against us.  That will give us time to get one of the King’s Men here to hear our side of the story before they can come back.  Then track them until they’re to the village.  If they seek to return, come back the faster.”

            Mero nodded and ran off as quietly as only a Hobbit or an Elf could go.  Those near the path watched to see the Men make their way to their wagon, and only when all were loaded into it and it was driven away did most return to the center of the village.

            One of Holtgard’s sons was sent off to the bolt-holes to call back the women and children, and a few set about preparing a morning meal while the elders gathered to discuss the situation.

            The village was bigger than it had been when the Grey Wizard had come to witness the marriage of Bilbiolo and Platina of the Weavers.  There were about twenty family holes now supporting a population of slightly over a hundred individuals, and all the male Hobbits regularly practiced with bow and sling, while all, from youngest bairn to oldest gammer, kept up their skills with thrown stones.

            “That was the third time in a year we’ve had strange Men come here,” Imo Longsmial said, his eyes shadowed with concern.  “And this time they was set to actually kill.”

            “I know,” Corio Bagger, Bilbio’s brother, replied.  “If they hadn’t been so loud we could have lost both Holtgard and the grain we have stored before anyone was the wiser.”

            “How are you going to get a Kings Man to come here?” asked Holtgard, arriving with his youngest daughter in his arms.

            “Why were you provoking them, Holt?” demanded Imo.

            “If I hadn’t, would any of the rest of you awakened in time to stop them taking our winter’s store?” Holt demanded.  “We can’t survive without that grain, and you know it.  We worked hard to get what we did from the harvest this year, and it’s just barely three quarters of what we harvested last year--and we were battling the weevils for it by the time spring got here.  Our families can’t live on nothing, you know.”  He turned back to Bilbio.  “How are you going to get a King’s Man here?  And how are we going to feed him once he is here?”

            “The folks at Dorlath have several of the King’s Men stationed there.  I’ll go there today and be back by tomorrow afternoon.”

            “And if those ones try coming back tonight?” asked Imo.

            “You’ll have to set folks watching for them,” Bilbio explained.  “Mero’s following them to make certain they actually go to Rumstad, and I told him to pour out any drink they have with them so they’ll have to go at least to the low bank three miles up just to get water, and they won’t be able to drink themselves into a state to come after us.”

            “They’ll never forgive us that one of their folk died,” worried Jessup Sackins.

            “But it would be all right with them to have killed Holt and perhaps one or more of his lads and maybe his sister, wife, and their mother?” demanded Corio.  “No, we have the right to protect our own.  You saw that fellow--he intended to kill Holt, just because Bilbio told them to leave our village alone.”

            “What were you and almost your whole family doing out there just at dawn?” Bilbio asked Holt.

            “It was Snowdrop here,” Holt answered him.  “She was having a bad dream, and woke us all up saying bad folk were coming, absolutely insisting on it, even.  So finally I took her out just to show her they weren’t----”

            “Except she was right--again,” Bilbio sighed as his wife Violet arrived from the bolt holes with their granddaughter in her arms.  “She dreamed it right when the hail storm was coming last spring, and when the wild boar came through and uprooted so many of the young trees we had just planted, and the time the river overflowed....”

            Violet sighed as she eyed the small child in Holt’s arms.  “It appears this one dreams true, so perhaps we need to heed her dreams.  As for you, trying to face those Men down by yourself was as foolish a thing as anyone’s ever done.  It’s a tûk you are if you’re anything.  That you’ve lived this long is a miracle, with all the foolish things you have managed to survive in your life.”

            “Yes, it’s Holtgard the Tûk I am--Holtgard the lucky Tûk.”

            “You should take that as your second name,” Imo commented as he accepted a wooden trencher of food from one of the younger ones.

            “Where’s Mero?” Violet asked.

            “He’s shadowing the Men to make certain they go to Rumstad.  We’ll have warning if they try to come back.”

            “You have him following Men in a wagon pulled by horses rather than ponies?” his wife demanded.  “He’ll have to run to keep up, and will be ready to drop when he gets back!  What if they see him?  And why are you bolting your meal?”

            “I need to get to Dorlath and fetch back a King’s Man in case they come back or try to complain against us.”

            Not long after he was off himself heading for the Dúnedain village of Dorlath in search of one of the King’s Men, pasties and dried meat and fruit in his scrip, a water bottle over his shoulder.  He followed the familiar path, hurrying as he could, arriving not long before sunset--except----

 *******

            There were King’s Men there, examining the smoking ruins.  Bilbio walked out into what had been the village square, and suddenly found two swords at his throat and three archers with their bows drawn on him.  He froze, waiting to be recognized.

            “Put down your weapons--this is a Perian, not an enemy,” commanded a young Man.

            “How can we be certain he had no part in this?” asked one of the archers.

            “I--I just arrived myself.  I was coming to the village for--I was coming for aid for our folk.”

            “This was the work of Men, not Periain,” the young Man said.  “No Perian would have done what was done to those,” and he pointed at a few twisted shapes lying on the other side of a smoking wall.

            Uncertain what it was he was seeing, Bilbio came forward where he could look more closely, then was turning aside to become noisily ill.  Then the young Man was kneeling by his side, supporting him, murmuring soothingly at him.  At last he found his stomach emptied and starting to settle, and he looked up into the young Man’s eyes, seeing grief, fury, and determination in equal parts there.

            More Men were coming in, two of them carrying small children in their arms, children who were alive and clinging to them.  “We found them crouched about the body of a young woman, either their mother or perhaps an aunt,” one of the soldiers reported.  “She had two arrows in her.  She must have bled to death.”

            Their young captain’s jaw clenched.  He turned his attention to Bilbio.  “You said you were coming for aid yourself?”

            Bilbio looked about at the remains of the village, then paused as he heard furtive movement in the bushes.  He pointed that way, and quietly the King’s Men melted to one side or another.

            Out of the shadows of an orchard came five older children, two lasses among Men and three lads, and one woman carrying an infant in her arms.  They looked about warily, then with growing relief as they recognized their own folk in the armed Men.  “You came!” the woman said.  “You were too late to save the village, perhaps, but not to save the rest of us.  There are a few more, I think, here and there hidden in the fields and woodlots.  They came in the middle night.  They took some as slaves, I think, and some of the women among us, they----”

            “We know,” the young captain said.

            “Mostly they appear to have been after our stored harvest,” she finally managed to add.

            “It was the same at our village,” Bilbio said.  “It was just ere dawn when a number of Men came with a large empty wagon, apparently intending to steal our grain.  We were able to chase them away, and we slew one of them.  We sent them off toward Rumstad, told them to use the healer there to get the arrows out.  They had knives, and at least one had a sword.  They intended to kill us if any of us got in their way.”

            The armed Men all looked at one another.  “This sounds as if someone is purposely focusing on smaller villages,” the captain said, “stealing their harvests and taking some as slaves, then taking all they’ve gathered for some purpose of their own.”

            “Common thieves, or a small private army?” one of the older Men suggested.

            “Shall we go and find out, gentlemen?” the young captain asked.

            “What of these, though--the survivors of Dorlath and this village of Periannath?” asked another younger Man.

            “I came only to fetch a King’s Man in case they should return,” Bilbio said, shaking his head.  “Our folk are on the watch, and my son is following the Men and their wagon.  They did turn toward Rumstad.”

            The captain thought, then gave a nod of decision.  “Pergilad, you keep five others here by you.  Dig proper graves and see the fallen here honored properly, and then gather all goods and food that can be gathered.  Verdig, I’m sending you as messenger to Fornost--bring back ten more Men and two wagons, and supplies for these.  We’ll send them west toward the lands surrounding the Crossroads.  No, make that at least five wagons, and we’ll see about moving the Periain and their harvest as well.  We don’t have enough Men to protect these lands now, what with Angmar’s increased activity.”

            “Shall we wager on whether or not Angmar is behind these attacks and the stealing of the harvests here?” growled the older Man.

            “Why should we wish to move our village?” demanded the Hobbit.

            “There have been forty assaults on villages and farmsteads in this region in the past two months,” the Captain explained.  “All have begun in the night, and all that we’ve been able to investigate were preceded by visits from strange Men who appear to have been watching the growth of crops and judging when they would be harvested.  This has been true of villages of both Men and Periain.

            “You say your folk routed those intent on taking your village.  How?”

            Briefly Bilbio described the encounter, including the fact a thrown stone had apparently led to the death of one of the Men.  “My own folk are fearful, Master,” he said, shaking his head.  “We managed to kill one of their Men, and so they are more likely to want vengeance as a result.”

            The captain straightened.  “I see.  It was well and masterfully done, your routing of them.  But you are correct--they are more likely to want vengeance now.  No, we’d best find them and those who sent them, and see an end to it.  But at least now we have a clear idea as to where these were headed, which indicates where their commanders are likely to be.  And you are certain they are not of our folk?”

            “Definitely not of your people, Master,” Bilbio replied.

            The Man again considered.  He looked again at the one identified as Verdig.  “If you find my father’s troops, send them toward Rumstad.  Tell him we may have found those who have done these attacks, and that they are far more numerous than we’d thought.”

            “Yes, Lord Argeleb,” Verdig answered, clasping his right arm to his chest and bowing slightly.

            “And you say you sent your son to follow the wagon sent apparently to carry your grain?” Argeleb asked the Hobbit.

            “Yes, Master.  Mero will watch them well.”

            “How many horses to pull the wagon?”

            “Two, sir.”

            “And how many wounded?”

            “Four all told, plus the body of the one known as Burl.”

            “With one to drive the wagon, that’s at least six in it.  That’s a heavy load,” Pergilad  noted.  “They won’t be moving fast.”

            “You saw no other horses?”

            “None, Master,” Bilbio told him.

            “And how many Men in all?”

            “Perhaps ten still able to fight, sir.”

            “Sixteen, then, sent to take your stores, and most now on foot.”  At last the captain smiled.  “Then it appears we may at last have a chance of catching up with them fairly easily.”  He turned.  “Dúngil--fetch our horses and tell most to mount up.  We are going to hunt some raiders, and if possible take them alive.”  He looked down at Bilbio.  “Would it disturb you to ride before me, small Master?” he asked.

            The Hobbit swallowed.  “I suppose not, Master.”

            The woman with the babe was coming forward.  “Captain, you are our Prince?” she asked, her face losing much of its burden of care.  “Oh, bless you, my Lord Argeleb, that you yourself are come among us and will avenge our village.  The Valar guide you!”

            And then things were happening swiftly as horses were being brought up, the tall, young captain was swinging up into his saddle, and Bilbio found himself being lifted up and settled before Prince Argeleb himself....

 *******

            “Now, why would me and mine wish to go further west?” demanded Lithiro of the Sackers.  Once those known now as the Sackers had been part of the village of the Makers of Bags, but their quarrelsome and suspicious nature had led them to leave and found a village of their own, one to which many of predominantly Stoor blood had been drawn.  One of the children of Merlin and Starflower had gone with them, but the other four had chosen to remain in the village of the Baggers, and in time a few like Jessup Sackins had returned to the first village.

            Bilbio sighed as he tried again to explain to this, his distant kinsman.  “The King and his son are pursuing a war in the area.  They’ve found several bands from Angmar were sent down to steal as much of our harvests as they can, and then to burn the villages and even salt the land in some cases.  They’ve enlisted folk from south of here to aid them, giving them part of the harvests they steal and apparently taking the rest north back to their own lands to support their armies.  I’m not certain whether their harvests have been worse than ours or if they’ve raised so many soldiers they don’t have enough left to work the land; but they are intent on taking all foodstuffs they can get, and are taking many as slaves as well.

            “I’ve seen many of the farms and villages they’ve taken--they’ve all been burnt afterwards.  If we want to keep from having our people taken by the raiders or ridden over by the armies we’re going to have to move out of the way.”

            “I’m not going west,” insisted Lithiro’s older son Beled.  “If we must leave our own village we founded and dug out ourselves, then I’m going east, back over the mountains, back to the great River where our folk lived before.”

            Lithiro’s brother Blado looked from his brother to his nephew, and sighed as he returned his attention to Bilbio.  “How long do we have to get ready?”

            “Two weeks.  The King is providing wagons to carry our goods and our stores, and we can take them all the way to the Breelands.  So far the enemy hasn’t disturbed those lands, apparently.  But we have to leave.  Dorlath is no more, and those who managed to survive and who were rescued from slavery are going west with us, west and in some cases north.”

            “Wise idea,” grumbled Lithiro, “when the enemy is from the north to head that way as if it was safer.”

            “Well, the enemy is both from north and south of us,” Bilbio pointed out.  “They haven’t assaulted the King’s fortress of Fornost yet, though.  I think most who go north intend to go there, or perhaps to Annúminas, although that’s not as safe as Fornost.”

            “And you’re going west?” asked Lithiro as if only now was he certain Bilbio was indeed leaving his home village.

            “We are all going west.  The village of the Makers of Bags is simply no more at this point.  We killed a Man to protect our harvest, and then helped kill more when the raiders returned.  If they come again they’ll kill all of us, and the King’s Men can’t spare enough to serve as guards indefinitely.  Now, will you be ready in two weeks when the King’s Men come with the wagons?”

            Blado sighed.  “I’ll go with you, then.  Can’t speak for all our folk, but those who agree to come--we’ll be ready.”

            And when the wagons came, two thirds of the village of Sackers were prepared to load their goods and two thirds of their harvest into the supplied conveyances as well as their own; and the rest were preparing to weather it out till spring and then head east, back over the mountains to the homelands of their ancestors.

 *******

            Marcho and Blanco, sons of Snowdrop and the Fallohide Snowdrop had married, and grandsons of Holtgard the Took, watched as more refugees entered Bree.  Many of these were from the southlands, folk who had come north ahead of the forces of the Dunlendings, folk with no knowledge of living with Hobbits.

            “This is impossible,” Blanco said, shaking his head.  “How are we to deal with trying to live alongside these?”

            The east gate of Bree village opened, and through it came a detachment of sixteen soldiers escorting another line of wagons and what appeared to be seventy more Hobbits, fathers carrying children, mothers leading others, older lads and lasses pushing barrows and pulling carts, occasionally leading cattle or swine, and a few wealthier ones driving their own wagons pulled by teams of draft ponies or oxen.

            The Men arriving from the south looked at the Hobbits from the east and goggled.

            Mero Bagger came to stand behind the two younger Hobbits.  “The Breelands can’t absorb all of us,” he sighed.

            Marcho stood up and turned to his older kinsman.  “It’s time for a new migration--one only of Hobbits this time,” he said.  “I’m for going north to Fornost to see the King.  I think it’s past time we Hobbits demanded a land of our own, one we don’t have to share with Men.”

            “Blado would only say we were definitely the Took’s grandsons, leaving the security we have now to look for empty places for ourselves,” Blanco pointed out.

            “Well, if Granfer was a fool, then he was a wise enough one to follow Bilbio here and protect his own as he always did.  Now let’s find out just how wise or foolish we might be.”

            Followed by Mero, the two brothers approached one of the captains of those who’d escorted the Hobbits in through the gates.  “Captain,” Blanco called out, “if we were to go north to Fornost would we find the King?”

            “You will if you reach there within the next two weeks,” the Man answered.  “But why would you wish to find the King?”

            “We have a boon we wish to have of him.”

            The Man shrugged.  “He’s always had a soft spot for you Hobbits,” he commented.  “I doubt he’d turn you down if it’s within his ability to grant you whatever you might wish for.  But it’s a long way by foot.  How many of you would be making the trip?”

            Blanco looked at Marcho, who shrugged, and then both looked back at the soldier.  “The two of us, unless,” he said turning to Mero, “you’d wish to go with us.”

            Mero looked from one to the other, then shook his head.  “If you’re going to beg lands from the King for our folk, then I’ll need to stay here to convince those who haven’t been able to take lands of our own as yet that we’ll all have a chance if you’re successful.”

            The brothers nodded, then turned decidedly back to the Man.  “Just two, for now,” Marcho told him.

            “Well, I’m headed north to Fornost myself tomorrow to make my report, and will be taking four Men with me.  We could have you ride with us, if you’re willing.”

            The two brothers took identical deep breaths, looked again at one another, then turned and let the breaths go, nodding.  “Yes, we’ll be ready,” Marcho said.

 *******

            Argeleb looked at the two Hobbits who stood before him, saw the trust they gave him.  “Let me think on this overnight,” he said.  “I’ll have my seneschal give you rooms for the night, and I’ll give you my answer in the morning, if that is acceptable to you.”

            “Very acceptable, my Lord King,” Blanco said.

            “Very well,” the King said, starting to turn away, but a cut off question from the other brother caught his attention.  “You had something further to ask?”

            Marcho flushed somewhat.  “It’s just the story we were told some time ago.  Did our uncle Bilbio really ride before you on your horse?”

            “You are related to Bilbio of the Baggers?” the Man asked, surprised.

            “Yes.  He and our grandfather told us of it when we were bairns, you see, and Mero was telling us as we left we looked just like his father did, riding before the King’s son as they returned to the village from Dorlath.”

            Argeleb smiled.  “Yes, a brave Hobbit if there ever was one, Bilbio of the Baggers; and I remember Mero as well, how winded he was for he’d just returned to say the raiders were on their way back with reinforcements.  We had so little time to prepare.”  He examined the two of them.  “Your folk all acquitted themselves well that day, as they had the preceding one.  I wish to grant your request, but must think on what lands will suit you best.  As I said, I will give you your full answer in the morning.  Go now with Dunald here, and he will see rooms prepared for you and a repast for your refreshing.”

            Argeleb accepted their bows, and left to mount the stairs to the tower and the door onto the walls.  He would rather not be here in Fornost, for he had no love of stone walls and towers, after all; but Annúminas would be too vulnerable to attack if he were to dwell there at the moment.  The constant battles with forces sent from north and south as well had set so much of Arnor again in turmoil, and he wished to see the lands under his governance at peace again for at least a generation or two.

            He emerged onto the walls and began walking the circuit of them, eventually coming where he could look southwards.  That was where he truly wished to go, truth be told--south to their sister nation of Gondor, to seek perhaps a new understanding between the North and South Kingdoms, perhaps make an alliance with Telemnar.  It was said Telemnar had two daughters and two sons.  Perhaps one of those daughters would find herself attracted to Arvegil, and a bit of the division between the heirs of Isildur and Anárion might be erased.

            He wished Gandalf were here, but the Grey Wizard had been gone for some years.  Who knew when he might return to the Northlands again?

            Before he’d left the last time, just after Argeleb accepted the Sceptre and donned the Elendilmir for the first time as King of Arnor, Wizard and new King had stood here on these walls.  The winds of sunset had blown over them, blowing Gandalf’s hair and beard into even more tangles.  The Wizard had left his great hat below in the rooms that were ever his on his visits, and the light of the setting Sun had shone brightly on him, turning his silver-grey locks into a fiery halo about his head.

            “I’ve been thinking of the lands there west of the Baranduin, my Lord, and thinking what might be best to do with them.”

            “What of them, Gandalf?” Argeleb had responded.

            “They are yours, are they not, through inheritance as well as administration, particularly as with Endorgil’s death Mirucar left no other heirs beside his sister, who was married to Celebrindor, is it not true?”

            “Well, yes, I must suppose so.”

            “Yet none of your ancestors has given thought to seeing them settled once more.”

            “No, we haven’t, for Celebrindor foresaw they were to be set aside for a special purpose.  However, we have no idea what that special purpose was intended to be.”

            Gandalf had nodded.  “I see,” he said.  “I’d always wondered.  They are a gentle land, rich for farming, filled with hills and valleys, ridges and the floodplains of the Baranduin.  Very little is left to indicate these were the heart of the farmlands for Cardolan.  A people might find peace there, and the ability to flourish, if given the chance.  A people that would be faithful, if in its own odd way, to your descendants.

            “Tell me, Argeleb,” he continued as if changing the subject, “what you think of Hobbits.”

            “Hobbits?” Argeleb answered, bemused by the question.  “What are Hobbits?”

            “You don’t know?” Gandalf asked.  “Oh, dear me.  Well, I’m certain you are aware that there live amongst your folk a people that is quite small and prefers to live in quiet places....”

            “You mean the Periain or Periannath?  I’d have thought them but an old story if I hadn’t come upon them many years back when I served as my father’s primary captain.”

            “You’ve met Periain?”

            “Yes, in the ruins of Dorlath.  One of their folk, Bilbio of the Baggers, had come to seek help against raiders come to steal his village’s harvest.”

            At the name the Wizard’s face had softened, although his attention was obviously caught the more.  “Bilbio,” he said quietly, “Bilbio of the Baggers.”  He smiled.  “And what has become of the village of the Makers of Bags and its people?”

            Argeleb sighed.  “We had to empty it and send them west to the Breelands.  Angmar and those Dunlendings from southern Rhudaur were invading that region, and were stealing all the crops our folk had harvested and burning all the villages.  All of the Periain we could convince to leave the region were sent to the Breelands, and many dug their homes there into Bree Hill and work alongside the Men of the village.  And we look to have many more working the land thereabouts--already they awaken it to farming again, and their harvests have been rich.”

            “Indeed?”  The Wizard chewed at his lip briefly, then smiled again.  “The lands there, west of the Baranduin--they could support a good number of Hobbits, don’t you think?”

            “What?  Hobbits in the heart of what had been Cardolan?”

            “Why not?  They are excellent farmers, and would make of it an idyllic country, don’t you think?  And you must remember that Cardolan is no more.  Perhaps it is time for a different stewardship to come to it.  From the Baranduin west to the far downs, from the northern moors to the marshes of the south....”

            And so the day had come that a land was asked of him by Periannath--by Hobbits; and he found himself fully inclined to indeed give them that land.  Yes, give them the land indeed, just as Gandalf had suggested so many years ago.

            Well, why not?

            He went down into the Citadel and called for his archivist and his scribe, his Steward and legal advisor, and for much of the night they worked at seeing the agreement written.

            In the morning after enjoying a wonderful breakfast served them in their rooms, Blanco and Marcho were called to meet with the King in the Council room.  There on a table sat a map and a scrolled document, now open.  “We have found appropriate lands for you,” the King said without preamble, “and not far from your current dwellings.  Once this was the primary farmland for all of Arnor; but since the division of the Kingdom much has changed.  It has lain empty for a long time, but I would see it peopled again with those who would care for it.”

            “And what is our part of the bargain?”

            The King smiled.  “At the moment the scribes and copyists are readying more copies of the charter we prepared overnight, but all is set down here in this scroll.  Your people keep the roads and the great bridge over the Baranduin in repair, you assist our Men and Messengers when they must ride the Road west toward Lindon and Mithlond or south toward the Sarn Ford, you acknowledge the sovereignty of the King, and you send archers to support our troops if a general muster of the armies of the North Kingdom is called.  In return that land is yours to settle and farm as you please, and you may govern yourselves again as you please as long as your laws do not conflict with those of Arnor.  When you have sufficient excess to trade abroad, our agents will be pleased to purchase foodstuffs and other goods from you for the benefit of the entire realm.”

            The Charter was written first in Sindarin and then in Westron, and Blanco found himself going over the text with the aid of the lawyer, questioning how and why it was written as it was.  In the end, after going over the terms and agreeing to two minor changes the two brothers indicated they would accept it.

            Two more copies were brought in, and the scribes were quickly set to amend them in keeping with the original.  The two Hobbits stood, trembling slightly with anticipation, as they finally saw the two copies set down by the one they’d already read.  They could find no differences between the three scrolls, and finally all prepared to sign.

            Argeleb’s scribe, who was unaccustomed to having to work all night and so long into the following day as was happening now, found himself yawning as he brought out the quill with which the document was to be signed, and accidentally knocked over the bottle of ink--fortunately onto the floor and not onto the prepared documents.

            “Never mind,” the King indicated.  “Just set something over the spill to blot it up and fetch another bottle of ink.”

            The scribe hurried out and came back with a new bottle and set it before the King.  Argeleb the Second uncapped it and took up the quill pen and dipped it into the ink and scrawled his signature across the paper.  The new ink proved to be red.  He sighed, then noted that the eyes of the two Periain were wide with surprise, and that they were very impressed.  He shrugged.  If the two signing for the Hobbits were happy with the signatures being written in red ink, who was he to question it?  Let them have their signatures in red ink, and he would know that the empty lands that had once been the heartland of Cardolan were well cared for.  He handed the pen to the taller of the two brothers, and Blanco signed his name, then Marcho.

            The seneschal signed it next, and the Steward, his scribe and his assistant, then Arvegil as the one who next would have to see the terms met, the lawyer and finally his the clerk who would see the King’s copies filed in the archives here and in Annúminas.

            “Seven witnesses to the signing,” Marcho noted, and his brother nodded.  With that they stood as tall as they could and stepped back, bowing to Argeleb and his son.  “We will care well for this land, our Lord King,” he said.  “We will care very well for it, and we do not think you will ever regret having granted it to us.  Thank you.”

            “Indeed, we thank you,” Blanco repeated.  “To have a land that is proper only to our own kind is something we have never known.  But we will ever care for it--of that you may be certain.  Now we will go to prepare for our return to Bree.”  And accompanied again by Dunald they returned to their quarters to gather the few belongings they’d brought with them for the trip back south, and the King ordered food sufficient for the journey be readied for them.

            That he had just prepared a legacy that would work to the good for all of Middle Earth he never realized during his lifetime.

Journey North

            Gandalf left the White City behind him and set off northward around the eastern end of the White Mountains, going slowly and examining all as he went.  Cemeteries on the edges of the towns and settlements of Anórien were filled with graves dug in the last year; woodlots had been hewn down and the scars of the pyres on which the later bodies had been burned could be seen everywhere.  He passed empty houseplaces and abandoned farms, and villages left empty when the few survivors had decided to leave their griefs behind them in hopes of finding a brighter future in a different place, joining other villages or seeking the comfort of distant family who had made it through the plagues.

            Calenardhon seemed emptier than ever it had, although he found this somewhat illusory.  He found in his forays southward that many of the villages appeared to have been resettled in the foothills of the mountains, as if hiding from the plagues that had struck others.  He was greeted warily, although some at least showed signs of relaxing once they received his news that the illnesses had been fought successfully in Minas Anor and southern Gondor.  The word that they should keep dogs and cats apt to keeping rats and mice under control seemed to grant them surety that all was not lost.  But many had died here, although nowhere as many as had died in Gondor proper.

            Then he started north.  Dunland had been worse hurt than Calenardhon, and the settlements west of the Road from what had been Eregion were equally hard hit.  He found himself once again helping to cut wood for pyres and seeing them lit, seeing dead animals gathered and burned along with the bodies of those lost, finding ratters and other creatures to help control those animals known to be the worst carriers of the diseases.

            “Why must we burn these bodies?  Why not bury them?” demanded the son of Moran, who had died recently.

            “That they not further spread the diseases.”

            “But how can those who are buried spread diseases?”

            “If animals uncover them they can possibly contract the disease even from the dead and spread it to the living.”

            The Man appeared uncertain, but at last grudgingly gave the orders suggested by the Wizard, further frustrated that Gandalf had insisted they cut down wood only from the forests north and west of them, not east toward Fangorn Forest.

            “You will rue it if you do otherwise,” Gandalf warned him and those around him.  “The Onodrim will not take well anyone destroying their trees.”

            None of those within Dunland had any idea where dwelt the Onodrim or what kind of people they might be, but none openly questioned the Wizard’s warning, so sternly was it given.  They also agreed to see to an increase of the population of cats and such dogs as killed vermin, and to see to the burning of the bodies of any animals they found dead; but many appeared to privately question the wisdom of the advice given even as they publicly indicated they would heed the Wizard’s words.  The Dunlendings watched the departure of the Grey Wizard with mixed feelings, although mostly they felt relief to see him gone.  “Ever,” commented Moran’s son, “does that one come when evil stalks the land.  A carrion crow he is.”

            “While ever the evils seem to follow in the wake of the White Wizard,” one of his Men pointed out.  “If I were to have the choice between the two of them, Gandalf is the one who ever seeks to set things right.”

            “Pah,” Moran’s son spat, “there appears to be no profit ever in dealing with either of them, white or grey.  I’d rather see neither.”  So saying he turned back into his house, finding another village further into the hills than his own had sent word that the plague had come among them and begging his aid in fighting it.

 *******

            As Gandalf approached Tharbad he became aware that he was being watched from the woodlands that bordered the road on the eastern side.  It was not observation by Elves, he realized; and he did not think it was Men.  But what kind of folk might it be?

            He carefully settled his goods in the branches of the trees and set up a camp for himself with a small fire, and waited to see what might come of the watch being kept on him.  Throughout the evening he heard nothing, and finally he determined they weren’t likely to approach, whoever they were, as long as they thought him awake.  So he ostentatiously yawned and wrapped himself in his grey cloak and laid himself as if to sleep, keeping watch under lowered lashes to see if those who were observing him would approach his camp.  It was well over an hour before his watch was rewarded, by which time he’d nearly slept indeed.

            “But if he has any food to spare, it’s up there in the tree!” he heard a soft voice whisper.

            “Hush!  You’ll wake him!”

            “We need something, Modoc.  The bairns haven’t had anything for hours, and I couldn’t bear to lose them.”

            The Wizard decided that it would be best to respond to that, but that he ought not to sit up and frighten them more than they were already.  “If you were to ask,” he said without stirring, “I would likely share with you whatever I have.”

            He saw nothing, and heard nothing for some moments--certainly no rustle of grass or bushes.  It was odd, but interesting, this waiting game.  Finally a voice spoke aloud, “Then you are awake, then?”

            He sat up slowly and stretched.  “Indeed, yes.  You can come out, for I offer no danger to anyone unless they serve Sauron or those who follow his way.”

            A small figure came out of the brush, the branches barely moving as he left their shelter, the grass barely indicating any movement; certainly his visitor moved almost as silently as an Elf.  Gandalf’s eyes widened with interest.  “Hobbits?  Here so close to Dunland?”

            The one who faced him looked at him suspiciously.  “You know of my people?” he demanded.

            “Well, yes I do.  Although most I knew lived either east of the Mountains in the valley of the great river, or north in Eriador proper, those who came over the passes above Imladris.”

            “We came by way of the pass above the great Dwarf city, shown the way by those who remember when more of our folk lived east of the mountains, they say in payment for the debt their folk have felt they owed ours from the days Harfoots lived near them and provided them with much of the food for their folk who dwelt under the mountains.  There are few enough Hobbits remaining in the valley of the Anduin now.”

            “And why do you come here at this time?”

            “Much illness stalks the lands east of the mountains.  We thought to flee it, but find it seems to follow us where we go.”

            “Are there any among you who are ill?”

            “We lost nine in our journey westward.”

            “When I went north along the banks of the Anduin and its tributaries some years back I saw none of your villages.”

            “With the manner the ones from the south and east of the river have sought folk to take, we have had to hide from them.”

            “Ones across the river?”

            “Yes--the yrch folk--goblins from south of the great wood.  They would come over the river, and find those to take easily, take them--take them alive.  We had to hide our homes.  We saw them take so many of the Men who lived near us--their children and women, mostly, but now and then a Rider.  Then they found the village of the Stream Fishers, and they took six before we found a way to get the others away from there.”

            “What did they do with them?”

            “How do we know?  They came in the night, crawled into a hole, then disappeared again, taking the father of a family and three others.  Then two nights later they came for two more.  We came two days later to find the village in chaos.  We took those who remained away, hid them in another smial.  We came back, hid in the brush watching the village for four nights before they came back again.  There were four yrch who came.  We destroyed them.  But we never found where they took our folk.”

            “You destroyed them?”

            “Even yrch folk cannot move if there are arrows through their knees or where the legs attach to the body.  Believe me--we destroyed them.  Then we began to lie in wait for those who came for the women and children of the horse folk.  The horse folk found the bodies of the goblins the next day, but never knew who it was who left them there.  One of the goblins was yet alive.  They took it, questioned it long.  Then the horse folk moved their village and went north.  It was a loss, for we had been able to find much of use to us in what they threw out of their village, and now and then when we left gifts of fish they would leave gifts of other meats or cloth in return.”

            “What forms have the diseases taken that killed your folk?”

            “Black boils followed usually by death in a matter of days.  A few who ventured near the marshes near the mouth of the Entwash suffered from chills and fevers which finally would go away, but return soon enough and then grow worse again and then better before growing worse once more.”

            “Do any of those who came with you suffer from this?” the Wizard asked.

            After a pause during which the one facing him looked back at the brush from which he’d emerged, he answered, “Two, a father and his son.”

            “How many children do you have with you?”

            “Six, from four families.  One is the daughter of the father who was taken.”

            “Do any have the black boils?”

            “No.”

            “What food do you need?” Gandalf asked as he stood and reached up to bring down his satchel, calling on his ring to allow a certain--increase--in the food it contained.  He carried with him plants and seeds and even some of the liquor made from soaking the leaves used in fighting the fever and chills carried by the mosquitoes, for he’d planned to take them to Argeleb and Elrond that there be a treatment for the chills and fever here in Eriador.  Well, as he had a need for the liquor now, he hoped his description of how the healers of Gondor brewed it would be enough. 

            The next day he went into Tharbad and purchased supplies and two ponies for the group.  Together they started on the road further north.

            Modoc was taller than the rest of his group as well as fairer, his curly hair a dark golden brown in color where most of those who accompanied him had hair a great deal darker and, for the most part, straighter.  “I’m surprised,” Gandalf noted, “that your folk carry bows.  Most of the Stoors I’ve known don’t do so.”

            Modoc shrugged.  “My father came back over the mountains from the westlands with some who were returning to the valley of the Anduin.  He left those he accompanied when he met my mother.  He became the leader of our village.  He insisted our folk learn to use the bow for our protection, and as we grew up I and the other children also learned to use the bow.  He would tell us of the lands he left, of the village he was born in on the River Mitheithel, of how his people traded with Men among the Dúnedain.  When we determined to go west to escape the diseases that killed so many in the valley of the great river we hoped to come there in time, there where he told us of, in the lands of the King.”

            Gandalf nodded, smiling.  “Then it is likely I have known his people.  No longer do they live along the Mitheithel, however--they have moved into the Breelands as enemies had begun to invade the region of the land of Eriador where once most of the Hobbits dwelt.  The King has assisted them to move westward.  I would suggest you follow suit and look also to settle in the Breelands, for you will be welcomed there.”

            “And where are these Breelands?” Modoc asked.

            “North of us, here upon the road at the crossing of this road north toward the King’s cities and the West Road toward the Elven Havens on the Sundering Sea.”

            The Wizard looked about them as they traveled.  “I must leave you soon, but I will give you this warning--avoid camping where there have been signs of animals.  And if any animal approaches your group behaving in an unusual manner, use your bows upon it--or stone it.  Do not allow it to come closer.”

            “Would it be ill with the ravings?” Modoc asked.

            “Ravings?” asked Gandalf.

            “It’s what our folk call it, where the creature cannot drink any more and in its agony seeks to bite what it can.  It also is becoming more commonly seen east of the mountains.”

            “They call it the water rage here, and I had not heard of cases of it seen in Eriador; but I’ve not been returned for long.  But the plague of the black boils, it has been learned, is carried by animals likely to carry fleas, especially rats; and such animals also tend to be ill.”

            “We will remember your warnings.  But I fear we will never be able to repay your kindness.  Even now those who were ill recover from their fevers.”

            “It is the least I can do for your folk, as brave as they have been.  And you can repay me by settling among your own kind and helping bring the earth back to fullness again.”

            Four more days did he travel with the Hobbits before he finally left them, certain that now that they were well into Argeleb’s realm they would do well enough on their own.  At last he took leave of them, turning more eastward toward Imladris.  He felt strongly he must see Elrond as soon as was possible, tell him of the death of Minardil and then those of his son’s family, and plan for the council requested by Tarondor.  He turned to watch as the group of Hobbits he’d aided continued following the road, and offered a prayer to his Masters for their aid to this small yet doughty folk.

            As Gandalf traveled further north into what had been Rhudaur he found chaos, for war had raged widely between invaders from the south and north and the armies of Arnor off and on for the last forty years.  The advancing plague spread in the camps of the opposing armies, then leapt to the civilian population surrounding the battlefields.  The remaining cities in what had been Rhudaur were devastated, and entire villages were emptied as had happened in the southlands.  Compounded by the raids and foraging committed by the invaders, the population of all of Eriador was much diminished.

            Yet the diseases seemed to spread even more rapidly among the enemy armies than they did among the King’s forces.  After all, as the Heir of Isildur Argeleb had received training in healing during the years he’d spent in Imladris during his youth as fosterling of Elrond; his orders that camps be kept as clean and orderly as possible, and that food and water be carefully protected deterred the proliferation of vermin among the Dúnedain.  Once Gandalf spread the word that it had been found that the plague was being spread primarily by diseased animals encouraged by filthy conditions, camp surgeons and village healers began directing the spreading of shavings of cedar and other woods known to be disliked by mice and rats around the perimeters of the camps and settlements; and many added herbs known to kill fleas and lice to the grasses and other materials used to stuff mattresses and pillows.  With orders to see the bodies of the dead and animals found dead burned and to keep all as clean as possible, to burn thresh and see it used no more, and to otherwise discourage the proliferation and presence of rats and mice within their settlements and homes, the plague was seen less and less.

            The invading armies, however, were losing more Men by the day; until at last most of those who remained headed northward, seeking to flee ahead of the spread of the disease.

            Then still another plague manifested itself--indeed, the water rage.  Here the means of transmission was unmistakable--a bite by an infected animal passed the disease to whatever animal or person it bit.  The eventual loss of personal identity and inability to drink, the pain the disease brought and the occasional violence such agony could cause were greatly feared, and rightly so.  The disease was first seen among wolves, but soon was seen in all manner of fur-bearing creatures.  The only good thing to say of its advent was that once knowledge spread that the disease was apparently rising among the animals of Rhudaur, hostilities slowed even more markedly as all found themselves watching out for signs of animals behaving in an unusual manner.

            Elrond himself left Imladris to approach Argeleb, suggesting that those bands of the enemy remaining be isolated and left to the mercies of the epidemics.  “Here we can allow the forces of the enemy to destroy themselves.  Box then into a small area, and their willingness to live in filthy conditions will do more to dishearten them and to reduce their numbers than the most complicated of military strategies.”

            Gandalf found Elrond and his escort in company with Argeleb and Arvegil’s own legions camped just south of the ruins of Amon Sûl.  Elrond greeted the Wizard, and almost immediately asked, “You have seen these diseases, those of the plague of black boils and the water rage?”

            “Indeed yes, and even more.  Have mosquitoes and other biting insects proliferated here as they did in Gondor, bringing with them serious bouts of chills and fevers that appear to repeat regularly and for long periods of time?”

            “We’ve seen such illness in some of the refugees from the southlands who have come here, but not among the population in general,” Argeleb advised him.  “Such things were seen in the South Kingdom?”

            “Yes--they told me when I arrived in Minas Anor that the sky was blackened as clouds of biting insects arose out of the marshes abutting Dagorlad, flying mostly south and west.  Settlements and towns along the Anduin near the northern borders are now empty due to the disease.  Then orcs carried vials of contagion up Mindolluin and with them poisoned the water supplies for Osgiliath, and most within the city died within two days, including Telemnar and his wife and children.  He’d been king for only two years since his father died repulsing a Corsair assault on the Pelargir.  Telemnar showed great ability in leadership that day, and the forces of Gondor were victorious; but see to what his leadership came?”

            The news of the death of the entire royal family of Gondor caused consternation.  “Sauron seeks to leave Gondor with no proper leadership?” demanded Elrond.

            “You consider this the work of Sauron?” Gandalf asked in response.

            Elrond turned his face south and east as if by will alone he could see over the distances and through the mountains and forests lying between himself and the evil of Dol Guldur.  “I will swear the stench of Sauron lingers over all these plagues, that of the mosquitoes and that of the black boils carried by vermin and now that of the water rage as well.  The mother of my wife tells me that all of these are seen also east of the Misty Mountains, and that all have been seen first in the lands between Dol Guldur and Mordor.  She says also that orcs approaching Khazad-dûm slain by their border wardens were found carrying crates of diseased rats and wolves.  These plagues have little effect on Elves, and we’ve had no reports of widespread deaths amongst Dwarves; but amongst the Men of the Valley of the Anduin both the plague of the black boils and that of the water rage have been common, and throughout southern Rhovanion many have suffered from the chills and fevers you tell us came borne by the mosquitoes.”

            Gandalf sighed.  “So I have been advised as well.  The water rage had not been reported in Gondor when I left it; but with the poisoning of Osgiliath and the loss of the settlements and towns along the River so much of the population has been lost, particularly there in the regions nearest the capital and Minas Anor, that I doubt that the Enemy sought to do more there to cause consternation.  But Tarondor, who has taken his uncle’s place as King of Gondor, agrees with you that this has the stench of Sauron upon it, and he would see a council called to which he will send an envoy.”

            “Tarondor would send envoys to such a council?” Arvegil asked in wonder.  “Then he must indeed be concerned.  The Kings of Gondor have expressed little enough worry for the actions of the one they call the Necromancer for most of this Age of Middle Earth.”

            “The diseases sent in the vials of glass to be poured into the water supplies of Osgiliath and Minas Anor have been shown to be as dangerous to orcs as to Men,” Gandalf said, “and the second great cloud of mosquitoes released from the marshes north of the Morannen just before I left Tarondor’s side was blown east as a strong wind from the Sundering Sea cleansed the land of Gondor.  I suspect those lands that lay so long under Mordor’s sway have been as devastated by the experiments as was northern Gondor.”

            “But how are we to deal with this epidemic of chills and fevers if it comes our way?” Elrond asked.

            “I have brought seeds and starts of a healing herb from another great land over the Sea, one the healers there told the explorers from Gondor has been shown effective in countering the disease and its symptoms; and they, too, have found the disease is most rife where mosquitoes breed in warmer climes.”

            “Warmer climes,” noted Arvegil.  “Then perhaps little enough of that disease will come our way, Adar, Adar Elrond.”

            “I will see these seeds planted in Imladris where they will be better protected, then,” Elrond suggested, “and will see the plants dispersed as reports come that the disease is seen and recognized.  And I will share them with the rulers of the Golden Wood as well.  I suspect they will see more of it than will we.

            “So,” he continued, looking at Gandalf with calculation, “the Powers have seen to it that the proposed second wave of the chills and fever should rebound upon those most likely to fall upon Gondor from the east, while here in the north the invaders from south and north have been harder hit by the black plague than the folk of Eriador, although among the folk of Eriador there has yet been much death and loss.  If we are careful, we should be able to contain the effects of the water rage as well.”  He looked at Argeleb.  “I suggest that your folk begin to look at keeping non-poisonous snakes, toads, and large lizards as pets alongside cats and dogs, for such creatures cannot contract the water rage and will further help to stay the spread of those vermin that carry the black plague.”

            “I will suggest it,” Argeleb agreed, “although few enough of my folk can tell poisonous from non-poisonous serpents.  But toads are thought entertaining and so the suggestion we encourage them in gardens would be well received.”

            Arvegil nodded.  “And I will see to it the word is passed that any creature seen behaving in a manner not typical of its kind is to be slain with arrows and its body burned as soon as possible.”

            “If we are to have a meeting of the Council,” Argeleb asked, “then where shall that meeting be?  To hold it here in the North would be most difficult for any envoy sent by Tarondor.”

            “In Rhovanion, then?” Elrond suggested.  “In Rhovanion in the late spring of the year coming?”

            All looked to one another, and finally there was a general nod of agreement.  Elladan looked into his father’s eyes and asked, “But what of Saruman?”

            “He must be included,” Elrond said, “or at least apprised of the council.  But I’ve heard nothing of his movements for some time.”

            “He had been before me amongst the Dunlendings,” Gandalf said.  “One of those who had held lordship among them had thought to build a city, but in the end did not do so as the black plague hit his folk.  Saruman had been advising him in how to plan the water supply and drainage from it.  He died just ere I arrived, and I fear I disrupted his funeral.  His son did not take the news his father’s body should be burnt rather than buried well.  Saruman had left their people some months previously, although they did not tell me whether he rode north or west or east.”

            “So, none knows where he is at this time?” Argeleb said.  “Then all we can do is send word in all directions hoping he will hear and come.”  The rest indicated their agreement.

            “Well enough, then,” Elrond said.  “Now, Gandalf, if you will tell me how it is the virtue of these plants is best bestowed....”

 *******

            Gandalf agreed to carry the news and word of the coming council west to Mithlond and those among Elves who lingered yet in what had been Lindon.  Among other things, he was curious as to the fate of the Hobbits who had been shifted west to Bree and, he now understood, beyond the Baranduin River.  That Argeleb had agreed to such a disposition of those lands pleased him greatly, and Elrond had also appeared both surprised and reassured by the news the Periannath would settle there.  “I cannot tell you precisely why this word is as comforting as I find it,” the Elf said privately to Gandalf before he left the company of the King, “but I find in my heart a feeling that such will in the end work to the good for all.”

            “You feel it, too, do you?” Gandalf answered him.  “That you also know such surety reassures me, although I suspect it may be a great time before we see the reason why such a grant should have been desired by Valar and Creator.  I find myself mostly glad that such a people has at last a land of its own where they may bring their own gifts to bear on bringing forth beauty from the earth.  A most delightful folk, the Hobbits.”

            “I will send Elladan with you west, that he might bear back to me whatever word Círdan might wish to send, and that he might aid you should you find the plagues have preceded you to Bree and beyond,” Elrond suggested; and soon after, with the son of Elrond by his side, the Grey Wizard began his journey west, mounted on a horse given to his use by Argeleb.

 *******

            The Hobbits watched after the Wizard as he rode northeast, then turned to follow the road themselves, reassured when they realized others traveling the King’s highway paid them no mind to speak of.  As they began looking for a place to camp for the night, however, Modoc suggested his cousin Delac find a secluded hollow that couldn’t be seen from the road.  When Delac returned appearing extraordinarily pleased with himself Modoc found himself intrigued.  “What is it?”

            “Only that I have found the perfect place for our night camp, Modoc.  Come and see!”

            As they entered the small clearing Delac had found Modoc was at first confused, then laughed.  The open space was encircled with a shrub they had always called pestbane, a plant used to kill many insects that seemed intent on making life uncomfortable for Hobbits.  Modoc laughed with delight.  “Well found indeed, cousin.  Well, we should sleep well enough here.  And we must make certain to take many of the leaves with us.  In the morning all of you take leaves, crush them in your hands, and rub the juice on your skin wherever you can reach, then take more with you.  We’ll look for such stands as we travel to refresh our store--shall we?”

            The next morning after they’d broken their fast they did as Modoc had suggested before starting their day’s march.  In the evening they found themselves glad for the luck in having found the bushes the previous night as they overtook another party of Hobbits along the road, this one with four suffering from the plague sores.  They were able to use the leaves they’d brought with them to rub down their new companions, and offered what aid they could to those who were ill.  An errand rider from the King’s people found them, and fetched a healer from the nearest village.

            Two days later they were able to go on.  Two of those who’d been ill had died, and the other two appeared likely to recover in time.  Four of their family members stayed with them to bring them afterwards, indicating they would follow when they could.  The healer had been excited to learn of the pestbane, and immediately sent some of his folk out to harvest more and to seek even more stands.  The realization that here was an excellent way to combat the plague of black boils was very satisfying.

            Two weeks later they reached Bree.  The gate guard shook his head as they arrived.  “You going to remain here in the Breelands, or follow them as went west across the Baranduin?” he asked.

            The Hobbits looked at one another.  “What’s this Baranduin?”

            “River--a day’s walk that way,”

            “Who went that way?”

            “Lots of Hobbits gone that way.  King give land to you Hobbits, you want to go.”

            “A land was given to Hobbits?” asked Delac.  “Since when is there a land only us Hobbits might live in?”

            “Two Hobbits whose family came from the eastern river valleys begged it from the King, and he give it to them--to them and all the other Hobbits who might wish it.  You goin’ to follow?”

            “Perhaps.  We’ll have to discuss it--our group.”

            And the next day they were heading along the West Road, into the lands given, reportedly, to Hobbits and Hobbits only.

 *******

            “You want to settle here in the Shire?” asked the Hobbit who stood before the others on the Great Bridge.

            “Yes, if we will be accepted.  To have a land where only Hobbits dwell....”

            “That is the gift given us by the King.  But there has been much illness here.”

            “Here, too?  We saw much of it in the lands east of the mountains, and as we traveled north.  We have learned much of how to deal with the pests that spread the disease.”

            “Pests?”  The Hobbit on the Bridge straightened.  “The diseases are spread by pests?”  At Modoc’s nod he smiled with much relief.  “Then, if you know how to fight its spread we welcome you indeed.  Too many have we lost.  But I fear I have been rude--Foldgard of the Tooks, at your service.”

            The newest residents of the Shire exchanged looks.  Finally their leader turned.  “Modoc from the valley of the Anduin, at your service--Modoc and my companions.  We are come to join you.”  And as they crossed the Bridge Modoc looked back at the lands between the river and the forest to the east.  “No one lives there?”

            “No, not at this time.  The King gave us the land west of the River, not that east of it.”

            But as he followed Foldgard of the Tooks westward, Modoc cast covetous looks back at the ridge he could see rising between the river and the distant forest.  It looked such a perfect place to dig a smial....

Call to Council

            Accompanied by Elladan, Gandalf went west from his meeting with Argeleb and Elrond, passing into the Shire in the darkness of night, camping in wooded areas during the day to watch the new residents of the area building their homes and cultivating the land, and felt very pleased with what he saw.  Some homes were being built openly now, and they even saw artistic embellishments to how they were constructed in some cases.  Hedgerows planted by the farmers of Cardolan were being renewed by the new Hobbit residents; and children played along them, waded in the ponds and shallow streams, or stood guard over their family’s fields with piles of stones at hand.  Goodwives gossiped as they beat their clothes on rocks along the small rivers and watched their children play, or hauled buckets of water up to their smials or low houses to fill kettles over large fires outside the kitchen doors.  Those nearing adulthood had been set to gather extra foodstuffs from fields and the edges of forests, and often were seen swatting away the greedy hands of their younger brothers and sisters from provender intended to supplement the stores from the last harvest.

            But signs there were of the plagues of the outer world having come here also, with burial grounds already established all too clearly boasting numbers of graves a year or less old, and that lost look folk tend to get when they turn to share a comment or observation with someone beloved who is no longer there to hear, or who look for the child playing in the fields or coming along the lane who is no longer there to be watched.  He saw none who were openly ill, however, indicating that most of the Enemy’s ill-sent diseases had finally passed from the region.

            “They are much given to farming, obviously,” Elladan observed.

            “Yes—if one among the Valar is their patron it must be Yavanna,” Gandalf agreed quietly, examining the round windows clearly displayed in a smial dug into a bank to their right.  Along the Mitheithel and the Anduin and its tributaries, windows had been uniformly screened that they not be easily detected.  Here in the land granted to them as their own the Hobbits were choosing to declare themselves openly, and none would stand in doubt as to where their doors and windows might lie.

            Halfway through the land they found they were not the only folk other than Hobbits sojourning in the King’s gift, for the folk of Gildor Inglorion surrounded them.  “You have business here in the land given to the Periain?” Gildor asked the Wizard.

            “We go west toward Mithlond to bring news of another council begged by Tarondor of Gondor, one to which Argeleb will likely send his son,” Gandalf answered.  “Will you come?  We hope it will be held in Rhovanion in the springtime.”

            “Does it focus on the waves of diseases loosed on the mortals of Eriador?” asked the Lord of the wandering Elves.

            “Indeed,” Elladan answered.  “My father, my brother, and I have been long among the Dúnedain aiding in dealing with the plagues, and it appears that at last they have been controlled.”

            “How is it,” asked Gildor’s son Glorinlas, “that Tarondor is now in a position of authority to seek such a council?  Is he not nephew to Telemnar?”

            “Yes, Telemnar indeed was uncle to Tarondor; but Telemnar and his wife and four children all perished of disease that has all but emptied Osgiliath,” Gandalf explained, going on to describe the poisoning of the water supply for the capital of Gondor and the effects of the various plagues that had swept through Gondor and Arnor.

            When he was done, he and the Elves found themselves searching one another’s faces.  At last Gildor muttered phrases in Adûnaic that the Wizard had not known the Elf knew, and many of those who’d accompanied Gildor and his son into the heart of what had been Cardolan found themselves discussing the news from south and east in low tones.  At last, having apparently exhausted himself of his store of Adûnaic expletives, Gildor looked between his son, the son of Elrond, and Gandalf.  “Tell me this is not Sauron whose mind is behind these atrocities!” he challenged.

            Gandalf sighed.  “I cannot say for certain one way or the other, although I will swear also it sounds like the doings of the Accursed One and his minions.  However, Saruman is not as certain, and cautions us not to speak of this in certainty as the accustomed enemy when it may well be a new one.”

            “A new one who has managed to remain in power now for how many hundred years?” demanded Gildor.  “Nay, I will not assume this is someone newly come to evil when the actions are so reminiscent of what was wrought on our lands during the Dark Years.”  He glared south and east toward the area where Dol Guldur lay at the south end of Thranduil’s realm.  “And with each new year the manner in which the free lands are assaulted grows increasingly inventive,” he muttered, half under his breath.  He again looked at his son in question.  “What think you, Glorinlas?  Shall I go to this council?”

            The younger Elf sighed as he also turned his eyes as if seeking out the stronghold of this dark Enemy.  At last he answered, “I think we must send at least one, do you not agree, Adar?  Would you go yourself, or would you have me go in your stead?  But you know more of the Necromancer’s actions in this last half age than I do, and are in a better place to compare them to what is remembered of Sauron’s doings from the First and Second Ages.”

            Gildor took his own steadying breath.  “Then I will go, also.”  He turned to the Wizard.  “When will you leave Eriador, and by what route?”

            “In the second month of the new year in the reckoning of mortals,” Gandalf said.  “I will go over the high passes east from Imladris then, for I would find Radagast and bring him also, and what wandering tribes there may linger in the northern regions of the vale of Anduin.  Pelastor and his folk still linger there, I believe.  Perhaps he will again bring to the council what he has seen.  And, as I come south, I may find some from among the Hobbits who will come with us, for they have shown themselves perceptive and caring for the fates of others.”

            Gildor and Glorinlas shared another look, then turned back to the Wizard.  “Then one of us will be in Imladris at the beginning of that month to accompany you,” Gildor told him.  “Would the two of you wish to join us for the night?”

            Gildor’s party left shortly before daylight, and Gandalf and Elladan headed west shortly after.  As they went by a series of green hills Gandalf saw and recognized the Hobbit  Modoc he’d met along the North Road.  “I would speak with him,” Gandalf explained to his companion, “and learn what more has befallen him since last I saw him.”

            Modoc was guiding a plow dragged by a pair of small oxen in fields being carved in an area of low rolling ridges and valleys.  Gandalf was pleased to see the furrows being dug were not straight but curved to match the terrain, so that in heavy rains or winds topsoil would not be as easily lost as they would were the furrows straight.  Woodlands were sparser in number here than they’d been eastward, and so it would be difficult for the Wizard to hide himself other than by skulking amongst the hills and vales.  Gandalf stepped out from the cover he’d taken, allowing himself to be seen by the Hobbit, who on recognizing the Wizard gave a cry of pleasure and hurried toward him, leaving oxen and plow behind him.

            “Our friend!” Modoc called as he came closer.  “And what do you do, here in these lands?”

            “It is Modoc I see?  Well met!  I am on my way west on the King’s business, although my companion and I travel quietly that we not disturb the folk who have settled here.  So, it appears that the plagues made their way here also, but appear to now be past.”

            “Yes, your news that it had been learned they were caused by fleas carried by animals with fur has helped to stop the plague of the black boils, while there have been no cases of the water ravings reported, for all animals seen to behave unlike the ways of their kind have ever been destroyed out of hand and their bodies burned.”

            “Very wise.  So, you have chosen to settle here in the lands gifted to your kind by the King.”

            “Yes.  Most of the desirable land in the Breelands appears to have already been claimed and farmed.  To live openly in a land given wholly to our kind we found desirable, so this is the way we turned.  Because I carried news on how it is the plague might be defeated I have been befriended by the folk of the Tooks, who have taken this land as their own.  They have offered to allow me and those who accompanied me to settle here among them, although I think we will in time return to the valley of the river to the east to settle there.  We are, after all, a people who settled ever in river valleys, we with strong Stoor blood.”

            “Excellent!  Well, I will tell you our business--there is to be a council of leaders of all peoples for those who will come to discuss the spread of the various plagues that have killed so many throughout all lands.  Would you or any among the Hobbits of this land wish to come with me to it?”

            The Hobbit’s expression became more alert.  “Where and when will this council be held?”

            “In the spring.  At the end of the second month of the new year there will be a gathering of those who choose to go east of here, near the base of the pass where the East Road climbs over the Mountains of Mist.”

            “The way my father came back into the valley of the Anduin, then.”

            “Yes,” confirmed the Wizard.

            “Where do you go from there?”

            “Across the mountains and then south through the valleys to Rhovanion.  We hope to convince some of the horse folk from Éothéod to attend and speak to the kidnapping by the goblin folk of which you advised me, and your news as to how Hobbits also have been attacked will add to the amount of attention given this information.”

            “Then, if I were to go, I would travel through the lands from which I came.”

            “Yes, that is true.”

            “How long before I would return here?”

            “In a year’s time, perhaps--maybe earlier if you were allowed to ride with the King’s son, who plans to attend, for he would seek to return swiftly here once more.  He cannot be long from the land of Arnor.”

            “You would not seek to take me now?”

            “No, not this moment, for we must go first west to the Grey Havens and to Lindon, and then return east again to the passes.”

            Modoc looked thoughtful.  “It would not be easy for me to go now, for we have found one my son loves and would take to wife, a child of one of the Tooks.  It is for her sake we work her father’s lands before I go east again to the river valley, which we call the Marish, for much of it is very wet.  Can you linger a day or two, and I will tell you what I know, and how to find the homesteads of my people of which I am aware, so that you might stop with them and perhaps get more news on how the evil from the south of the Mirky Wood affects them?”

            At a sign from the Wizard Elladan came forward.  “This is one of the sons of Elrond of Imladris.  Either he or I will return this way in perhaps two weeks.  Can you write out the information  you wish to convey so that we can take it with us?  It would perhaps be of more value, if neither you nor any of your kindred will agree to go with us, then merely your words remembered.”

            “I don’t know how to write,” Modoc began slowly, “although Blanco, the father of my son’s beloved, certainly does.  I could enlist his aide to write out our story, if you wish.  Then, when you return, you can come to the farmstead he has dug out for himself beyond that ridge there, if you don’t find me here working in the fields, to fetch it.”  He was examining Elladan with interest and some awe.  “You are from among the Elven folk, then?  It is a great honor, for my family has ever held but the greatest of respect for your people.”

            “Few enough of your folk have we seen, but of those we have known we have found reason to honor you in return,” Elladan said with a most graceful bow.  “Then if Mithrandir and I find ourselves parting and it is my duty to return this way, I will seek out to take the letter you would send.”

            With that understanding, Elf and Wizard took their leave of the Hobbit and continued on their way, assured of more knowledge of how the hidden Enemy in Dol Guldur sought to disrupt the lives of those who sought to live free in Middle Earth.

 *******

            Círdan spoke of incursions of ships from the southlands, apparently from Umbar and even Harad, along the common routes of fishing and trading vessels sent out by Elves of Mithlond and Lindon and the Northern Dúnedain.  Four northern ships had been assaulted, and one lost; but two of the enemy’s ships had been captured.  On board had been found crates of dying animals covered with fleas, and many of the sailors aboard the ships were sick or dying themselves.  The animals had been slain cleanly and their bodies consigned to the sea with prayers of apology to Ossë and Ulmo, the enemy sailors given what aid was available, and the two ships fired after the surviving sailors were moved to a Dúnedain vessel (once the captain was assured they were free of fleas themselves) to be transported back to their own lands. 

            It had been learned agents from an unknown source had hired the vessels to carry their deadly cargo northward, and had incited the Corsairs and Haradri slavers to seek prey further north.  This news added to the decision by Círdan to send Galdor to the council to take place in the spring in Rhovanion.

            While Gandalf and Elladan tarried in Mithlond, a Dúnedain ship returned from a voyage southward with news two more vessels from Umbar had been found drifting with the tides off the coast south of Lindon.  On one ship all the crew had been found dead, and on the other they found but two alive, one of whom died, both covered with black pustules.

            “They were filthy beyond belief,” the captain said.  “One sailor was sent aboard both ships, and he insisted on swimming back to our ship from the second rather than rowing back in the ship’s boat, for he said the place was filled with biting fleas.  He even took the remaining sick sailor into the water with him to wash away the accumulated filth, and brought him aboard naked and nearly drowned.  Our Man became ill, but we were able to save him, although it was a near thing.  We fired both ships, and after giving the remaining sailor what aid we could we sent him ashore to the care of the fisher village at the mouth of the Baranduin.”

            No search had been made of either vessel once it was certain the crews were dead.  Círdan exchanged looks with Gandalf.  “More plague vessels,” he commented.  “It would seem our enemy is intent on destroying the population of Eriador by whatever means he can.  However, it appears that the length of the journeys against the currents by those lacking in knowledge of our waters works against him, leaving the ships carrying his cargoes of death vulnerable to his designs.”

            Círdan agreed to send out some of his swifter vessels to watch for more incursions from the south, and it was decided that from now on one warning would be given the crew of any unknown ship sighted, and then it would be fired from afar if it failed to turn back to its own lands.

            Within days Elladan and Gandalf left Mithlond, and Elladan turned southward into Lindon to speak to kinsmen there while Gandalf went back through the Hobbits’ lands to his planned meeting with Modoc.  Blanco was working alongside Modoc and his son in the next field to that in which he’d been working before, and together the three turned from their sowing of barley to meet with the Wizard as he came out to meet openly with them.

            “Who is this enemy who sends these plagues?” Blanco demanded.

            “We are not fully certain, but he is known at this time as the Necromancer.  He has built a stronghold in the lands south of the realm of Thranduil, far east of the valley of the Anduin, and from there he has let loose many great evils against all the free lands.  We do not know what all he does to those he kidnaps, but it appears that he delights in murdering them viciously, somehow apparently harvesting their life forces for his own evil purposes.  We do know that evil wolves and goblins and other creatures of darkness flock to him, and when his power is rising they breed freely and harrow the surrounding lands.”

            “Whatever we can do to aid in the fight against him, which I admit isn’t much, I swear to offer those who oppose him,” Blanco said solemnly.  “I make this now for myself and all my progeny from this day forward.”

            Delac looked at his future father-in-law with concern.  “But how are we to aid in such a fight, A’da Blanco?  We are not warriors, but primarily farmers.  We have no great might to send out against evil enemies far away; and I have no desire to return to the valley of the Anduin myself.”

            Modoc, however, was shaking his head at his son’s words.  “No, Delac, he has the right of it.  Perhaps we can offer little aid at this time; but never underestimate the power of love, perseverance, and faithfulness.  In the end, the work of ants can carry away a mountainside while armies of Dwarves with great picks make little headway against it.  In our way, we can offer support even to the King of Arnor, as he made plain in the charter for this land he granted to Blanco and Marcho.  And who knows?  Perhaps one day we of the Hobbit folk will rise to trouble the counsels of the Wise themselves!  One can never know.”  He began to chant, “For the want of a peg the wheel was lost; for the want of the wheel the cart was lost; for the want of the cart the harvest was lost; for the want of the harvest the people failed--and all for the want of a wheel’s peg.”

            Those words were to return to Gandalf centuries later, when he found himself looking into the haunted but determined eyes of a Hobbit not fourteen miles from the field he now stood within.

Fireworks and Protocol  

            The White Wizard found news awaiting him as he reentered Rhovanion--another council had been held, here in these lands, and Mithrandir yet lingered in the hall in which that council had met.  Saruman felt fury rush through him, for he felt he, as the White among the Istari and chosen head for such Councils, ought to have been present for any such meeting.  He accepted the guidance of the young Man who had advised him of the council, apparently an errand rider of Gondor, and soon was led to a large hall on the north side of the capital.

            Gandalf was within, standing in the center of where three tall tables had been pushed together, working with various earths and materials.  Paper and parchment were to be seen on several sides, much of it stiffened and rolled into tubes.

            “And what is it you are about, my brother?” Saruman asked.

            The Grey Wizard looked up from his occupation and smiled.  “Ah--here you are at last.  We began sending out messengers in search of you over a year past.”  He continued in filling one of the tubes with a black powder from a stone basin on the main table, then added another powder and then a wad of parchment he tamped into place with a fine wooden rod.

            “You would have a council without my presence?” Saruman asked.

            “It was called by Tarondor of Gondor, Saruman, and set for late this spring.  We sent out messengers in all directions, and one even entered Harad to seek you there.  But it appears we are not to find you until you return here to the free lands again.  Where did you go?”

            “I’ve been sojourning in Rhûn,” was the answer.  “When I realized Moran of Dunland had no intention of using the designs I offered for the building of his proposed city I decided I would go east where at least my attentions are noted and appreciated.  Why was this council held?”

            “As I said, Tarondor of Gondor requested it, and asked me to summon to it all who desired to discuss the evil seen in the western lands.”

            “Who came to it?”

            “Arvegil of Arnor for his father, Tarondor and his son, Gildor Inglorion, Elrond of Imladris and his son Elrohir, Celeborn and Galadriel of Laurinand, Radagast, Galdor of Mithlond, three from Lindon, various lords from here in Rhovanion, a few from Éothéod, and two representatives of the folk of Khazad-dûm.  I’d hoped that the Hobbits would send a representative or two, but they chose in the end not to do so.”

            “And what is the evil that has been seen?”

            Gandalf carefully tamped three packets wrapped in fragile paper into the tube on which he’d been working, then placed a cap of stiffened paper over it and set it aside, coming to lead the White Wizard to a pair of comfortable seats by the fireplace.  “I believe there in Rhûn, also, you would have seen much illness comprised of severe chills and fevers, and possibly also outbreaks of a disease in which great black boils break out on the skin of the sufferer, followed probably by attacks on people by animals that have spread the water rage.”

            “The first two we certainly did see, the latter mostly along the western borders of the land.  What of them?”

            “The source of all three appears to have been Dol Guldur.”  Gandalf reached to where a ewer of wine sat on a small table near his chair, and poured a cup for each of them.

            Saruman examined him with a mixture of consternation and disbelief.  “You cannot know that for certain.”

            “We cannot?  Then why did the plague of the chills and fevers start with clouds of mosquitoes out of the marshes that are overwhelming the burial grounds of the Dagorlad?  Why is it orcs and Men have been found carrying crates of animals covered with fleas or suffering from the water rage on wagons heading for the passes of the Misty Mountains, on ships from Harad and Umbar, and near the Gap at the south of the mountain chain?  Why is it the body of an orc was found upon Mount Mindolluin near the reservoir that has fed the city of Osgiliath just after all within the city who drank from the public water supply became seriously ill and died?  Yes, that water supply was poisoned with a pestilence the virulence of which none who’ve not seen its effects can fully appreciate!

            “Telemnar is dead, along with his wife and all four of his children.  The number who remain in Osgiliath has diminished to only a few, those who used the well system at the southern side of the city.  Tarondor has already removed to Minas Anor, and looks to officially remove the capital there as soon as it can be effected.

            “Moran has died of the plague of boils brought on by the infected fleas, and his son is now lord of the Dunlendings and resents having to see bodies of those infected by the plagues burned.  Throughout Eriador both Argeleb’s folk and the enemies of his realm have been much diminished, including the folk of the Hobbits.  With the assistance of the Hobbits and Tarondor’s healers and Elrond’s wisdom we have been able to find ways to stem the flow of the plague of black boils, while explorers from Gondor, returning from voyages to distant lands, have brought herbs to ease and even cure the chills and fevers carried by the mosquitoes.  All watch for animals that act improperly, and the water supplies of Osgiliath and Minas Anor and other major cities and villages within Gondor are now guarded.  But the number of deaths from all these sources is incalculable.

            “Círdan has set ships to keep watch for vessels bearing these diseases from the south, while herbs to kill and deter pests are used in all lands in bedding and underlying carpets.  Thresh may no longer be used.  And the last release of diseased insects from the marshes of the Dagorlad were swept eastward by a great west wind instead of widely infecting Gondor and Rhovanion as happened before.

            “And this was definitely deliberate, brother.  It was deliberate!  This was no mistake, no happenstance--not when there is proof it is carried to the borders of the lands founded by Elendil and his sons by orcs and evil Men.  Do you blame Tarondor for his desire to see a council called?”

            “Would you seek to blame Sauron for these actions?  Will you insist the Necromancer is Sauron?”

            “Who else has ever commanded both Men and orcs, my friend?  Who else would so misuse the sailors of Harad and Umbar, not caring if those who carry his cargoes of death will live or die on the chance they might reach their goals?  Saruman--he is vicious, uncaring.  He doesn’t even care if his own die to see his enemies die!  Who is he?  Only one has reason to hate the heirs of Elendil and Isildur, and it is their lands, their cities, that have been most deeply affected.  Almost none linger now in Minas Ithil, and the same is true of Osgiliath as well.  And there is evidence Minas Anor was also targeted--one of the vials of poison broke above the reservoirs, cutting and killing the orc that carried it.  Only because the second vial broke was Anárion’s city spared, Saruman.”

            “But you cannot be certain!”

            Gandalf looked at his companion with disbelief, then turned his attention to his winecup.  “If you say so,” he muttered.

            They sat in silence for a time.  At last Saruman asked again, “What is it you do there, with the black powder and the tubes and parchment?”

            “I was sifting through the knowledge held in my staff the other day, and found memories of questions and answers with one of our masters about the use of various earths and metal salts.  There has been so much in the way of evil and hardship throughout the free lands of Middle Earth lately I decided I would seek a means of raising spirits.  I had been reminded that one could use various metal salts to create fires of different colors.”

            Saruman raised one elegant eyebrow.  “You would create different colors of fires?”

            Gandalf shrugged.  “I appear to have an affinity for fire, and different colors of flames can lift the hearts of those who see them.  The Hobbits of the valley of the Anduin will dip cones from conifers into different liquids containing mineral salts to cause the flames of their hearth fires to take different colors.  It appears to hearten them.  I had thought to make flames of different colors and perhaps shapes to shoot high in the air to cause delight.”

            Saruman rose and went near the table, starting to reach for one of the candles to take with him, although Gandalf stopped him.  “Remember, this is to be a controlled flame, so you must not bring other flames near it.”

            “You say you were sifting the memories in your staff?”

            “Yes--to remind myself of what we are and our mission here I do this regularly.  Otherwise I find myself beginning to forget and drift toward manhood and its limitations.  I find at times I must remind myself we are not of Middle Earth, and will in the end have the chance to return to our proper place, although in some ways I will grieve when that day comes, as I have found so many delightful people here.”

            “Like the Periannath?” commented Saruman ironically.

            “Ah, indeed like the Periannath,” Gandalf agreed, as he took his place at the table.  “Most delightful individuals they are, and most perceptive, although there are few enough of them left in the valley of the Anduin.  They managed to learn that orcs from southern Mirkwood were kidnapping folk both of their own people and of the horsemen whose lands overlap their own, and found ways of sharing this knowledge.”

            Saruman paused in his investigation of the black powder in the stone basin.  “You know this?”

            “Oh, there is no doubt.  The Hobbits use few weapons, but they do employ bows, and are excellent as archers as they are with thrown stones.  They left an orc immobilized with arrows through its joints where the horsemen of Éothéod could find it, and once it was found it was questioned closely.  They were very thorough in their questioning, apparently.  They too are a highly interesting folk.  I find in them a singularity of purpose and basic honor to their character that bodes well for their future.  It appears they are descended from those of the Edain who chose to remain in Middle Earth when Elros led away those who accepted the Land of Gift, and to their keeping did Oromë leave the Mearas.  Few will seek to ride the Mearas themselves, but those horses that gather about them they have mastered and use well and wisely.”

            “Yet they remain a wandering people, with no cities and few settled villages.”  Saruman touched the tip of his finger to the material in the basin and then tasted it.  He looked up.  “Saltpeter and sulphur?”

            “And ground charcoal.”

            “But that will explode.”

            “Indeed it shall.  But if one limits the amounts and directs the explosions, and sets secondary charges using other mineral salts, one can have spectacular effects in the sky.  The Hobbits of the Anduin valley were enchanted with the one assay I tried whilst I was among them.”

            “I went through that valley not long ago--perhaps merely a century ago, and found none of their folk there.”

            “Few remained at that time, although some, mostly of Stoor stock, have returned.  But of those a few return once again westward, although they appear to be taking the more southern passes this time.  The number who remain in the valley of the Anduin is small indeed, and their settlements well hidden.  That the Necromancer’s orcs managed to find at least one or two, however, indicates they are not hidden well enough, perhaps.  However, this time I was given directions to three such colonies.”

            “By whom?”

            “By one who had left to again go westward.”

            “What would the Necromancer wish with such folk as the Periannath?”

            “That we do not know, Saruman--but then we know only he appears to take folk of all kinds on whom to perform his--experiments, or apparently to somehow harvest their life force for his own purposes.  Why should the Periannath be any different?”

            The coarse powder in a second, smaller stone bowl was a pasty grey.  Near it lay a stack of squares of thin paper and threads dipped in paraffin.  “What is this?” asked the White Wizard.

            “A powder of magnesium mixed with other materials to help the heat become enough to cause the metal to catch fire.  The mixture is wrapped in the fine paper with one of the long wicks hanging from it, and then placed on top of the mixture of the black powder and that powder there that, once it is fired by the explosion of the black powder, sends the packets high into the air with the wicks burning.  Once the fire of the wicks reaches the packets it causes the lesser powders to burn, which fires the magnesium, causing  drops of pure silver fire to drop toward the earth.  I am not fully happy with the wicks, however, for they are easily extinguished, allowing some of the packets to fall to earth intact.  Should such packets be thrown into a fire it could cause much consternation and possible danger, or so I’ve found.  I’ve made certain to collect those packets that did not fire and bring them away.  It would not do to have a Hobbit child or a rider from Éothéod be hurt by the results of my experiments.”

            Saruman’s lip curled.  “Hobbits?”

            “So the Periannath call themselves,” Gandalf admitted

            “Ever you waste time with lesser folk,” Saruman sniffed.

            “Yet they are a determined people, and in tune with tilled earth and its Song.  Knowing them has helped ease my heart of much anxiety and grief.  They, too, have suffered from the plagues sent by--by the nameless one.”

            “It was an errand rider from Gondor who led me to you.”

            “I begged his loan from Tarondor in case I should have further word to send north before I go there again, and to assist in the search for you.  I’ve not yet needed him for the former purpose, and it appears I may soon release him back to his lord.  However, he has not been loth to remain by me--his folk are of Rhovanion, and he has kin and a wife and children here.”

            “So, the Kings of Gondor have continued their alliance with Rhovanion, although the lesser lords of their lands are not pleased with it.”

            “Yes, they have.  But Rhovanion was much diminished by the plagues of mosquitoes and the illnesses they bore as well as by the plague of black boils.  Many have begun removing north and eastward toward the long lake and the lands about the lonely mountain, there east of Thranduil’s realm.”

            “Thranduil sent no envoy to this council?”

            “One of his captains only.  He and his sons remained within their own realm to lead their protective forces.  Lately even more of the great spiders have begun to breed in the lands surrounding Dol Guldur, then to move northward to spin their webs about Thranduil’s own forest hall.  There is talk of building a citadel of some kind that is less vulnerable to them and to the increased number of wolves and orcs that now frequent the forest as well, but so far none can agree on what kind of citadel would be best, or where to place it.  They consider the stone mount near the center of their lands, but they have not the ability to work stone sufficiently to make an effective fortress there.  The orcs they find easy to locate, trap, and slay; the spiders are more difficult to defeat for one does best to aim a blow to the slender joint that joins head to body, and one that close is also close enough to be grasped and bitten and so poisoned.  As for the wolves--they are the most difficult for they are of the forest itself and know how to blend with their surroundings and disappear swiftly from sight and awareness.  Yet these are more clever and wary as well as more vicious than are common wolves.”

            Saruman appeared troubled by this report.  He thought deeply for a time, finally asking, “How was it Dwarves attended this council?  Did not Gláin make it clear Dwarves had little to add to further discussions of this sort?”

            “Indeed he did, but it is not only Men, Elves, and Hobbits who have suffered losses from the Enemy’s actions.  Eight Dwarf colonies on the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains have been attacked recently by orcs and trolls together, and two of those have been lost, including all women and children living there.  Three colonies have been assaulted on the western slopes, and so many have been lost the survivors of two have abandoned their halls to join in other colonies, while those who have removed westward to the Blue Mountains and eastward to the Iron Hills have reportedly been fighting off incursions both of orcs and invading Men, apparently mostly from Angmar.

            “Then there is the matter of Khazad-dûm itself--twice recently have newly opened galleries in the mines been found to adjoin orc-holds, and they have had to fight to protect the Dwarrowdelf itself.  Nay--they hoped to find advice as to how to deal with these increased incursions, and to warn of the rapid increase in the numbers of orcs who appear to now live under the mountains.”

            This gave much pause, the idea that the Dwarves had so enlarged their halls under Caradhras that they were inadvertently breaking through into orc-holds or possibly the haunts of cave trolls and other dark creatures.  Gandalf saw the concern flickering in Saruman’s eyes.  “Yes,” the Grey Wizard said, “and there is the vague memory left to me that even darker evils were buried beneath the roots of the mountains at the end of the War of Wrath that they not trouble the Children of Ilúvatar and other living creatures.  If the Dwarves were to dig too deeply...?”

            “What do you expect--that they’d let loose one of those frozen into the shapes of horror they took in service to Morgoth in the wake of Angband’s fall, Mithrandir?  Can you imagine such beings as Dwarves would be so foolish as to dig so deeply?”

            “And why would they not, Curunír?” demanded Gandalf, obviously determined not to be stung by his superior’s tone but responding nonetheless.  “They are a stubborn breed, the Dwarves of the Misty Mountains, and you know as well as I that one of the Rings not taken most likely remains there, there in Dúrin’s own halls, that given to the lord of Khazad-dûm by Celebrimbor himself.  Although Sauron did not gift it, he yet had his hand in its making, and the destructive pride and greed he fed through his Ring before Its loss can certainly be seen in the lords of that realm.  Do not delude yourself that if they find a vein of mithril that appears to lead downward toward the deep-buried prisons it would not be followed for fear of what might be found.  And if one of our imprisoned former brethren were to be set free, imagine the horrors that would follow.”

            “No brothers to me are they,” insisted Saruman.

            Gandalf straightened.  “Yet we came to be together in the Creator’s own Song, those who remained in the Light and those who chose the destructive darkness, my friend.  I cannot deny I, too, have heard the call of power over others and have longed at times to follow it.  It is so easy to fall to such blandishments as evil offers, and I fear to lose myself as those buried beneath the pillars of the earth have done.  Ossë described to me how close he came to following them....”

            The White Wizard gave a snort of disgust.  “Ossë is barely of our kind, Gandalf.”

            The Grey Wizard’s brows rose alarmingly.  “Barely of our kind?  Barely of our kind?  Rather, we are barely of his kind any more.  We are the ones who agreed to this form we bear, and to carry most of our memories of our true nature in our staves, Curumo.”

            Saruman looked up sharply at that.  He had forgotten that name--or almost so.  Suddenly he found himself remembering even more, and felt himself go white.  What Gandalf had said of needing to sift through what was held in his staff that he not lose himself suddenly had more impact.  He deliberately changed the subject.

            “Such a council as this should not have taken place without my presence.”

            “And yet we did our best to find you, to let you know.  It was agreed that any of those wishing to call such a council could do so.  Would not the King of Gondor rank as one of those who had the authority to do so?”

            “The King of Gondor didn’t bother to come before.”

            “No, he didn’t, but his brother King in Arnor did.  Is Tarondor of less import than Argeleb solely because his ancestor chose not to come while his distant cousin did?  The horselords of the valley of the Anduin have come to both, although they had little enough to say at either, other than to speak of what they had observed.”

            “And your Periannath didn’t even bother to come.”

            “Yet they sent their own report.”

            Saruman was shaking his head.  “You told these witless halflings about the Council of the great and wise?  Whatever for?”

            “Are they not a part of Middle Earth, brother?  Do they not also have their witness to offer and their own part to play?  Do you know all of the Music of Ilúvatar, Saruman the Wise?  I admit I do not, but open myself to see it played out each day as it must be.  Even Iarwain sent a report--a small one, I admit; but he has his ear to the wood of the trees of his own forest, and listens to the reports brought him on the winds of the western part of Middle Earth.  He is pleased with the lands granted the Perianneth by Argeleb the Second....”

            “What lands?”

            “What were the farmlands and larger settlements and cities of Cardolan.”

            “When did this happen?”

            “Some years back now.”

            “I thought the Periannath settled near the Mitheithel.”

            “And as war has raged over those lands the King has moved many peoples westward for their protection, including both Men and Hobbits.  Between those from Angmar and those who have been advancing northward through Rhudaur those lands were overrun by invading forces.”

            The two Wizards went quiet, Saruman examining his fellow Istar coldly while Gandalf remained still, watching him somewhat warily.  Finally the Grey Wizard spoke.  “Again, it was agreed anyone could summon a council, and apparently Argeleb, Elrond, and Celeborn were all ready to request one at the same time as Tarondor, as was Círdan.”

            “Yet you said he did not attend, and that Argeleb sent his son.”

            “Yes--many sent representatives, mostly because with the recovery from the plagues, situations in each realm must be monitored.  More came to this council than the last, Saruman.  More feel the situation is grave, and are certain the unnamed Enemy will only escalate the violence of his attacks as time goes on.  We must fight him--somehow, we must fight him.”

            “Yet we know not surely who he is.”

            “We don’t?”  Gandalf stood, his hands at his sides, as he waited for Saruman’s reply.

            At last the nominal head of the Council said quietly, in a coldly controlled voice, “We cannot be certain who it is who holds sway in Dol Guldur.  It may be but Khamûl, or another of that number.”

            “You think that the wraiths of Men, even with the power offered by Celebrimbor’s Rings to augment their own, could have imagined sending plagues of such virulence and by such various methods as these?  No, their thoughts have ever been primarily for the brutality of the first and heaviest of strokes.  War hammers and swords have ever been their weapons, not fleas and mosquitoes, rats and dying wolves.  Subtlety of this sort is more in line with the mind of Sauron.”

            “Perhaps.”  Saruman turned away, went toward one of the windows and looked out.

            “Plus,” added Gandalf carefully, as he reached again to his bowls of materials and ran his fingers over a pestle carved of granite, “there are changes to the orcs now being seen in Middle Earth.  There are more varieties issuing out of Dol Guldur and assaulting folks here in Rhovanion, northward both east and west of the Great Wood, and down through east Anórien and Ithilien.  They are many of them more manlike, much resembling the hillmen of the southeastern Misty Mountains, between Khazad-dûm and Fangorn, and others that resemble the folk who live in the lands north of Rhovanion.  A few have even sported the golden hair of the horse lords of Éothéod.  If he is breeding Men to his creatures to get these new varieties....”

            Saruman turned abruptly in his shock.  “He would not!”

            “He has taken Men, Hobbits, and even Dwarves prisoners, spiriting them away south and east.  We don’t know what is his purpose in doing this, but it appears the expanded breeding of orcs may be part of it, as well as whatever it is he continues to do with the murders of individual prisoners.”

            “That is continuing?”

            “From all any can tell, yes.  And apparently there have been wagons coming from the south and east bringing supplies for the fortress, while the scouts on the borders of Rhûn speak of seeing women, older Men, and even what appeared to be entire families being brought through the crossings and headed north toward Dol Guldur in wagonloads at night about six months before the plagues began.”

            “Women?  Families?”

            “Fathers, mothers, children, apparently even grandparents.  These were not described as having the appearance of the people of Rhûn--the eyes on some were almond shaped, their hair dark and straight; while others had what appeared be very dark skin and hair that was fine yet curly.  Their languages in the few cases where the scouts were able to follow closely enough to hear speech was unintelligible, and definitely not any of those of Rhovanion, Gondor, the Anduin valley, Khand, Rhûn, or Harad.”

            “You did not see these yourself?”

            “No.  I was in southern Gondor until the reports came of Telemnar’s illness.  By the time I reached Tarondor’s side most of the population of Osgiliath was dead, and the chills and fever were seen on all sides.  Tarondor is frustrated, for he did not inherit the full measure of the gifts common to the lineage of the Kings of Númenor, although he is responsible enough for three Kings.

            “The attacks are continuing, and the Enemy seeks to use Man’s own weaknesses to his advantage.  He does not proclaim himself openly, yet the chill of the Nazgûl is felt as those fell beings come and go, disappearing into the wastelands between Rhovanion and Mordor.  How much longer Gondor will be able to keep a detachment stationed in Minas Ithil none can say; they lost many Men who regularly know that duty in the plagues, and the standing armies of Gondor lost many more.  My journey north from Gondor once all was in hand to contain the pests and to use the new herbs from afar was slow, for I went afoot and I took a survey as I traveled to see how each land and people was affected.

            “Everywhere I found villages abandoned, and others removed from their original sites by many miles.  The plains of Calenardhon are all but empty, the people of that land moved mostly southward into the mountain valleys or eastward toward Anórien.  The city Moran had planned for his proposed capital of Dunland is not likely to be built now, not with the need to recover from the massive number of plague deaths.  Those who have entered Rhudaur from the south and east were among the worst hit, and tended to accept my advice to keep animals such as cats and dogs to control rats and mice or to be careful in the storage of foodstuffs and grains with the least grace.

            “The Dúnedain of Arnor were perhaps the least hit in terms of numbers of deaths, but nevertheless suffered deeply, for their population has already been so markedly depleted due to the constant assaults from southern Rhudaur and Angmar that they can least afford to lose more.  Here their continued friendship with Elrond Eärendilion has stood them in good stead, for with their greater knowledge garnered from the training of their healing gifts offered them in Imladris, both Argeleb and his son were able to order immediate actions to isolate pockets of infection and limit its further spread, and were beginning already to realize the plague was associated with the increase of diseased rats and mice and so begin to actively avoid the situations likely to entice such vermin to their villages and encampments.

            “Even those Hobbits living in the Breelands and the farmlands of Cardolan proved susceptible to the plagues, although their intimate knowledge of herbs found to deter pestilential insects and vermin assisted them to deal with the plague of the black boils more quickly than had happened in other places; yet they, too, lost a good tenth of their population.  They and the northern Dúnedain were among the swiftest to accept the knowledge I was able to bring them from the healers of Gondor and act upon it, and when I went through their lands it appeared the disease was already contained.  All swiftly accepted the need to beware of animals seen to be acting in unusual manners so as to avoid people being infected with the water rage.

            “The news that Men and orcs had been employed to carry animals infected by both the water rage and the plague of the black boils has caused the greatest consternation, and equally among Elves, Dwarves, and Men.  No, the Dwarves do not appear to be susceptible to the chills and fevers carried by the mosquitoes or the plague of boils; but the fact this Enemy will specifically target the lands of the Dúnedain and will use such means, and does not care for the health or safety of those he employs to bring the disease closer to its target is distressing.  If he finds a condition that affects Dwarves or Elves specifically, will he not hasten to use whatever means he can to send it their way, no matter what the cost to his own slaves and servants?”

            Saruman listened closely.  There was no question the point was a valid one.  He pondered on what he’d been told, and at last asked, “Who led this council?”

            “As host for it, Viducalma of Rhovanion.  His lands were hardest hit with the plague borne by the mosquitoes.  Both Gondor and the folk of the Golden Wood sent him aid.  All agree all need to fight the diseases together.”

            “And you think it possible Sauron is breeding Men to orcs?”

            “How would you take the evidence of apparent new strains, including a number found with the golden hair of the Riders of Éothéod?”

            “If we knew more about how such creatures breed....”

            Gandalf’s expression of disgust was palpable.  “You’d wish to know such things, Saruman?  It is not enough to see the results?”

            Saruman’s voice grew icy once more.  “And why not, Gandalf?  If we are to disrupt the breeding of more, would it not behoove us to understand how it is done?”

            Gandalf took a deep breath, then picked up one of his stiffened tubes, turning it between his fingers.  At last he answered, “Nay--you have the right of it, my brother.”

            “Then I will seek to find out how it has been brought to be.”  Then, after a time of further quiet thought between them, he continued, “Elrond’s daughter--has any further thought been given to a proper marriage for her?”

            “And what would you do--marry her off to some great Elven lord here in Middle Earth to cement ties with Imladris?”

            “Her children will be important.”

            “And if she is to find her heart is meant to be given in Aman, or perhaps to one not yet born?  Already has she known well over a thousand years, during which time she has come to know almost all the great Elves in Middle Earth, and her heart has not yet been stirred.”

            “One need not have one’sheart stirred to do one’s duty to continue the lineage of her father and mother.”

            “For such as Arwen, I strongly suspect it will be needful.  Nor will you win the approval of her father, mother, or brothers to marry her off only for matters of policy.  Elrond is stubborn in this--only because of the constancy of his ancestors in their love for one another was he born at all.  He will not order his children either to love or not to love as their hearts dictate, and Celebrían and her parents concur.”

            There was no further argument to that, and Saruman recognized the fact.  Again he shrugged and went quiet.  He could not truly fault Gandalf, for he was certain he’d find messengers had indeed been seeking him for a year, and that Tarondor of Gondor had called for the council.  Certainly by allowing Viducalma to lead it Gandalf was not putting himself forward.  Nor did he believe Gandalf was lying to him in the information he was sharing--Gandalf was not one to hide facts or even gloss them over, not in the White Wizard’s experience.  No, quite the contrary--he was almost painfully transparent.

            At last he said, his voice still cold, “I will have to take thought as to how to let you know where I go should I again leave the free lands of Middle Earth so that should others seek to call for another council I might be certain to attend.  And you should also send me word when you move from one region to another for the same reason.”

            Gandalf considered this suggestion, and at last commented, “That is reasonable, Saruman.”

            The White Wizard turned his attention back to the materials on the tables.  “So,” he commented, “you would seek to send controlled fires of various colors into the sky to lift the heart.  But is there no reason such materials as this could be used for a more practical purpose?”

            Gandalf thought momentarily before answering, “I can see its application to mining and perhaps during warfare to bring down a fortress wall, but consider that dangerous knowledge to share with most mortals.  Once the knowledge of such things is given, how does one see that knowledge contained that it not fall into the hands of those who will use it irresponsibly or to wrongly destroy the fortresses of their opponents during campaigns of conquest?  Nay, I would prefer not to even suggest such things to mortals.  Once such knowledge becomes general it cannot be taken away again effectively.”

            Saruman shrugged a shoulder and lifted a brow, then asked, “How do you make certain these packets will go upwards and not by accident strike those watching?”

            Relieved at the change in subject, Gandalf began to explain.

Seeking Cooperation

            “He may not have inherited the full legacy of the line of Kings,” the White Wizard muttered as he left the doors to the King’s House of Minas Anor behind him, “but it appears Tarondor has managed to inherit the longer lifespan.  How many years is it since he first accepted the Winged Crown?”

            “A hundred, three score, and two,” the Grey responded, “although I doubt he will live more than a few more days at this point.  Telumehtar is well prepared as a leader of Men, but does not appear to have any more of the healing gift than did his father, although it is certain Narmacil has received more of that gift than either his father or grandfather.  That Telumehtar married the great granddaughter of Hyarmendacil may well have aided in that, at least.  I do wish, however, he had accepted the suggestion of Arvegil to consider his daughter Dúngileth--to have seen the two lines, north and south, reconciled and reunited would have been a blessing I fear Gondor needs desperately.  I strongly suspect Tarondor has lived this long in relative peace only because the Enemy’s own people were as strongly depleted by the plagues loosed over Middle Earth from Dol Guldur as were those of Gondor and Arnor.”

            “We do not have proof, Gandalf, that Dol Guldur was the source of the plagues, and there is the fact that Rhûn and other lands to the east were so strongly hit.  Would the Necromancer endanger his own folk in this way?”

            “I have told you before, my friend, that animals infected with plague and the water rage were found being carried by orcs, Dunlendings, Easterlings, and ships from both Umbar and Harad toward the passes of the mountains and the settlements of Rhovanion and other lands to the north in the Anduin’s valley as well as the shores of Eriador.  Such things were deliberate acts against the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, and you know it.  Never has Sauron--or the Necromancer--shown much care for the well-being of either his own creatures or his allies, as you know full well.  Why do you continue to fight the realization that it is most likely Sauron himself who hides in the fortress there?”

            “Even if it is Sauron, he can do nothing without his Ring.”

            Gandalf sighed.  “Yet the Necromancer grows stronger each year, and once again his creatures are increasing in their activities.  After the last council the forces of Laurelindórenan combined with Thranduil’s folk to sweep the valley of the Anduin, and the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm and the remaining settlements in the Misty Mountains did the same in the passes and the foothills of the range alongside Elrond’s forces and the armies of Arnor, destroying many orc-holds and again driving the trolls north from the Ettenmoors.  However, there is word that a dragon has assaulted the Dwarf keep of Kheled-zigal, just south of the border of Angmar, causing much consternation to the folk of Khazad-dûm.  Arveleg has sent troops to aid the survivors, and it is said the dragon failed to linger, as this was no rich mine or settlement but merely an outpost of Dúrin’s forces.  The children of Mahal will not admit it, but I suspect at least one of the Rings gifted by Sauron had been taken there, and that the dragon has managed to consume it.”

            “That leaves but two, if you are correct?” asked Saruman.

            “So I strongly believe, my friend.”  The Grey Wizard’s brow wrinkled with concern.  “But the need at the moment is more immediate.  Umbar, since it reasserted its independence, is again financing the establishment of a fleet of Corsairs.  There have been six major assaults on coastal fortresses in Gondor, including the unsuccessful one recently perpetrated against Númenor vi Ennorath; and at least five Gondorian traders have failed to return from voyages in the past year alone.  Then there is the matter of the two ships of the King’s own fleet that were sunk off the Mouths of the Sea three months ago.

            “The King’s agents in Umbar have established that the lords of that land have sent several small embassies north, at least three to the borders of Rhûn and two toward Dol Guldur, in the past five years; and the last to return brought much in the way of gold, just before four more keels were laid in Umbar’s shipyards.  If nothing is done and soon, Umbar will be in a position to destroy most of Gondor’s shipping and the Elven haven kept at Edhellond by the lords of Laurelindórenan and to barricade the port there within five years.  And if they send a fleet up the Anduin toward Minas Anor, the capital could easily fall.  Telumehtar must consider the protection of Gondor’s waterways.”

            “Why have Gondor’s troops in Ithilien and Osgiliath not stopped these deputations from Umbar passing through its lands?”

            Again Gandalf sighed, shaking his head.  “There are not enough troops in Ithilien to keep an efficient watch along the Road.  Minas Ithil is all but abandoned--it was badly hit by the plague of the chills and fevers, and it appears its water supplies may also have been poisoned, but with a less virulent agent than was used in tainting the waters of Osgiliath.  It was enough, however, to kill many already weak from the chills and fevers of that plague of mosquitoes.  Most of its remaining population has abandoned it, and the garrison there is vestigial at best.

            “As for Osgiliath, only a few stubborn souls remain to dwell there, those and the two garrisons kept there by Tarondor since he removed the capital officially to Minas Anor and replanted the White Tree here.”

            “Then what do you suggest at this time?”

            “That you and I work together to convince Telumehtar to arm himself against Umbar.  Right now he and the Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath between them almost have sufficient ships and forces to destroy Umbar’s incipient fleet and subjugate it once more; if we both speak to the dangers Umbar poses we can see to it he averts the danger to the realm.  And, if in so doing we also convince him to seek alliance with Arnor, it will be so much the better.”

            “And why should Gondor seek an alliance with Arnor?  Gondor is once again rich and thriving, while Arnor is little better than a ghost of a kingdom at this point.”

            “That may be, but it, also, recovers from the evils of the plagues.  Both Argeleb and Arvegil proved worthy stewards, and I have no doubt Arveleg follows in the footsteps of his sire and grandsire.  And if the two kingdoms will but join forces again and perhaps seek reconciliation and reunion then it may be possible to stop further regrowth of the Shadow.  Between the two lands there are sufficient forces to reestablish a proper guard on the borders of Mordor----”

            “Pah!  And what is there left of Mordor, Mithrandir?  Rubble only.”

            Gandalf couldn’t keep himself from bristling as he replied, his voice cold, “The foundations of Barad-dûr remain, Curunír, until the Enemy’s Ring is found again and destroyed.  With the power the Necromancer gathers to himself, even if he is not Sauron he may yet re-enter those lands, see the tower rebuilt, reopen the Sammath Naur, and renew the assaults on all the living lands.  There is almost as much power there in Barad-dûr and Orodruin combined as he placed in the Ring; and it may be accessed by one sufficiently ruthless and determined to gather it to himself.”

            “There is no sign he seeks to do such a thing.”

            “Then why is the cold of the Black Breath felt by the few who seek to keep what sketchy watch there is on the borders of Mordor?  Four have been stricken with it that we are aware of, and six others have not returned from their scouting trips.  That they have died in horrors somewhere in the wilderlands or might indeed have been taken by the Nazgûl who haunt the gates is probable.  So many of those who farmed the lands of Ithilien or husbanded its woodlands have already died or removed this side of Anduin, and those who linger feel abandoned by their King and his forces.  With a proper alliance between the north and south kingdoms there could be sufficient new troops made available to assure Ithilien does not fail and that no new Dark Lord enter Mordor to renew its terror toward the West.

            “Then there is the question of the border fort at the crossings of the Poros--if the garrisons there fail, the Harad Road will open again to its troops, and you can be certain that if the Necromancer is Sauron he will have troops led from there to assault all who remain east of the River as well as to eventually attack Minas Anor.  Tarondor has, in the last fifty years, sent his troops by ship to man the fortress, although until the last hundred years those who served in Ithilien were positioned to support the fortress as well.  But with almost none stationed there, should Umbar manage to keep the King’s ships from reaching the mouth of the Poros there will be no way to bring Men or supplies there in a timely manner.”

            Saruman nodded thoughtfully.  “Another reason to do what we can to convince Telumehtar he must set a defense against Umbar.  And it may well prove that a focus on the south will finally wipe away the resentments felt toward the line of Kings for the time of the Kinslaying.  There still remain many in Pelargir and Anfalas and Belfalas and nearby regions who feel the Kings have paid far too much attention to the north and east and little to them.  Shall we seek out the King’s son, then, Gandalf?”

            Relieved to find himself and his fellow apparently committed to working in cooperation on this, Gandalf nodded, and together they went down to the Sixth Circle where Telumehtar was reviewing the troops before returning to resume his watch by his father’s side before the old King failed altogether.

 *******

            Telumehtar sat on the bench at the side of the parade ground for the barracks compound and listened to the arguments of the two Wizards.  At last, when all had been said, he commented, “So, it appears the one who dwells in Dol Guldur is supplying Umbar with gold to help finance its predations against our lands and the haven the Elves keep in Númenor vi Ennorath?”

            “So it appears.  Have not your father and his Council discussed this with you?”

            Gandalf asked.  “It is one subject he sought to share with me on my arrival.”

            The Prince of Gondor slowly shook his head.  “I knew that Umbari agents had gone north and east, but assumed what gold was brought back came from Rhûn.”

            Saruman shook his own head.  “Nay, Lord Prince, for I have spent much of the last year in the tents of the Rhûnim, and there was no talk of any gathering of treasure for any purpose other than for the enrichment of its own leaders, who are now being threatened by invasions of those fighting from great wains to the north and east of their lands.  Now, there were movements of trains of wagons through the lands of the Rhûnim from the south and east----”

            “And whose were they?” asked Gandalf, his voice sharp.

            “Those of traders, or so I must suppose,” Saruman answered his tone indicating the trading of Men held no interest for him.  “What does it matter whose they were?”

            Gandalf looked to the face of the son of Tarondor, and saw the anxiety he felt himself mirrored in the eyes of he who so shortly would be King of Gondor.

 *******

            Several days later, following the acceptance of the Winged Crown by Telumehtar, Gandalf agreed to go north to carry word to Elrond and Radagast on the threat offered Gondor and to see if either those in southern Rhudaur or those in Angmar had begun making more than the merest threats against the north kingdom, having been assured repeatedly by his companion that he would remain in Gondor to make certain Telumehtar followed through on arming against the increased aggression from Umbar.  It was Gandalf’s desire also to visit Khazad-dûm along the way to learn, if the folk of Dúrin would allow, how the reports of the dragon’s assault on Kheled-zigal were being dealt with, and what policies were going forward to offer protection to other outposts and the lesser kingdoms and mining settlements.

            “You will encourage Telumehtar also to send envoys to Arnor to treat with Arveleg and Araval, will you not?” he asked as he hoisted his personal satchel (a gift from Blanco of the Tooks) to his shoulder.

            Saruman gave an elegant shrug.  “I shall discuss it with him,” he said. 

            It was not as definite a commitment as Gandalf would have liked to receive, but it was, he realized, all he would get now.  With a nod, he turned and began his journey down through the circles of the city, headed for the road north.

 *******

            Mounted on a dun-colored horse given him by Telumehtar, Gandalf went north and then west toward the Gap of Isengard, again examining conditions as he went.  Hamlets along the road were once again growing throughout Anórien, and fields and woodlands both appeared to be thriving.  However, where before most were open villages, now most were of stone rather than of mixed stone and wood, and now most were surrounded by stone walls.  Even individual farms were now walled where before most were marked by pole fences or hedges.  There were sleek cats sitting atop the walls now, and the barks of dogs apt for ratting as well as the deeper barks of dogs for guarding, hunting, and herding could be heard as he passed gates to villages, farms, and keeps.

            Calenardhon, on the other hand, remained mostly empty.  The hamlets he saw to the south along the foothills of the White Mountains were fewer in number than he remembered even after the worst of the plagues, and their folk greeted his few approaches with a degree of suspicion.  He saw no Ents near the borders of Fangorn as he’d seen none of the Woses along the edges of the Drúadan Forest.  He felt some concern, for this suggested that even greater division stood between the peoples of this region than had been known before.  Once the sages of Gondor who inhabited Orthanc had greeted the Onódrim with courtesy, and the farmers who worked the lands near the Drúadan had on occasion left gifts of cattle or poultry or excess vegetables near the openings of the hunting paths of the Woses in recognition of the fact the Wild Men kept their fields and woodlots free of marauding bear and boar; now Isengard was empty, there was no sign of respect toward the Woses, and there were signs that axes had been used on the southernmost trees of Fangorn.  Gandalf was alarmed--such would not only cause great anger and grief to the Onódrim, but would be likely to drive the Ents back further into their ancient forest realm, perhaps causing them to refuse to do their part when the time came.  He sought out the nearest village, and found it populated by Men from Dunland.  Did they never retain the constant warnings he’d ever given them?  Grim, he entered the obviously struggling place intent on convincing its folk of the errors of their ways.

            “And why are we not to cut wood there?” demanded the headman for the village, irate at having this stranger enter their village to tell them their business.

            The Wizard looked at the Men of the village, one of whom had lost a leg when his axe rebounded unexpectedly from a blow on a tree, one of whom had his head heavily bandaged from a limb falling on him, one with his leg twisted from having been caught under a fallen tree for some hours, a fourth blind in one eye from running into a twig that had gone unseen, and sighed.  Apparently these were too unattuned to the life around them to realize they’d run afoul of the very woods they’d looked to have shelter them.

            Nor was the village in much better shape--wooden walls were warped and twisted, pales of the palisade erected to offer some guard were fallen, mud refused to stick to the underlying wattle....

            At last Gandalf was able to convince them that the poor crops they’d been able to eke from the surrounding land indicated this was poor land for farming, and they allowed him to coax them to move their village some miles to the west, now well clear of the eaves of the forest.  Here there was a small patch of wooded land clearly not part of the larger forest, a clear stream running down to feed the Isen, and excellent arable land.  Gandalf would have begrudged the delay to his own journey had he not felt that leaving the villagers where they’d settled was tantamount to inviting murder at the roots of the Huorns.

 *******

            He continued on more rapidly once he was certain the villagers were now safe.  In Dunland he was greeted with suspicion; in southern Rhudaur  he saw much the same until he turned eastward toward the Redhorn Mountain.  Hollin had remained mostly empty, with what few farmsteads and small villages had been established clustering near to the North Road, away from the depths of the lands that had once comprised Eregion.  And it was here that he met the Ranger and his companions.

            He’d paused along the way toward the gates of Khazad-dûm and was cooking a few fish he’d coaxed from the stream beside which he’d hobbled his horse when he heard the muffled sound of horses’ hooves on the leaf-mould that littered the ground and noted the dun swiveling his ears toward the quiet noise.  The horses stopped well short of his camping place, and had he not been what he was, it was probable he would not have noted them at all.  He did not sense ill intent, although he certainly noted caution, which of course was appropriate to the setting; so he set himself to waiting patiently, laying his hand on his staff to increase what he had in his small skillet--a luxury he’d permitted himself solely because this time he’d come mounted.

            They were skilled woodsmen, he thought with respect, for he barely heard a rustle; then he was aware of at least two pairs of eyes examining him from the scrub--perhaps three, but if so....  Suddenly certain of the origin of one of the watchers, he found himself smiling in his beard and wondering how long it would be before the others officially made themselves known.  As, however, they appeared willing to remain still and watching for quite some time, he at last said in Adûnaic, “Well, this will burn if you don’t soon come forward to share it with me.  Did you bring anything in the way of bread with you?”

            He heard Elven laughter from high in the tree nearest him, and looked up to see clear grey eyes looking down on him, then turned to see two Men rising behind the nearby scrub.  “Elrohir,” he called up, “will you remain up there for the duration, or join us for the meal?”

            The two Men looked up into the tree also, their eyes full of inquiry, but the son of Elrond was already rapidly descending.  “Well met, Mithrandir,” the Peredhel greeted him in Sindarin.  “And what do you here?”

            “I could ask the same of the three of you,” the Wizard answered him in the same language.  “You are far from Imladris or Annúminas.”  He examined the two Men’s grey cloaks and the silver stars that held them closed, then paused as he recognized the one pinned to the shoulder of the taller of the two.  This was one of those of the Dúnedain who was by nature beardless--the Elvish strain was particularly strong in him, Gandalf realized.  “And what,” he continued again in respectful Adûnaic, “does your father’s son do this far south, my Lord Prince?  And you might think to bring your mounts here, for there is sufficient grazing and water to allow them to also fill their bellies at their leisure.”  At a nod from the Elf and a sign from his lord the second Man went quietly back to fetch the horses.

            “It is many years since I last saw you, Gandalf,” Araval of Annúminas greeted him.  “Indeed, the last time I was yet a boy.”

            “Indeed, it is many years since I was in Eriador, for I have spent much time east of the Misty Mountains amongst the Elves of the upper valley of the Anduin and in Thranduil’s realm, watching the movements of the creatures of evil there.”  Gandalf realized his tone had gone quite formal.

            “Yet your tracks indicate you have come from the south and are heading toward the mountains once more,” Araval countered as he sat across the small cooking fire from the Wizard.  “My father would welcome your counsel, I believe, for there has been more evil introduced into what had been Cardolan.”

            The Istar straightened, now alert.  “What kind of evil?”

            “It appears spirits of ill intent are gathering about the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad.  A year past, at the height of the winter, there was a riding from the lands of Angmar, and it appears one of that riding was Angmar himself.  They skirted the Breelands but headed west along the West Road until they reached the region of the Barrow-downs.

            “We don’t know precisely what was done there, but we know they brought women and children with them, and that those women and children they brought did not return north with them when they left.  It appears they made use of the stone circle just west of the royal cemetery for whatever was done, and our scouts who searched the area afterwards found daubs of blood on many of the standing stones.”

            Gandalf let an oath of dismay escape him.  “More death magic,” he said, his spirit disturbed.

            “So it appears,” Elrohir replied as the second Man returned leading three horses, one a sorrel and the other two dark bays, one of the latter plainly an Elf’s steed.

            Araval continued solemnly, “Two of those sent to examine the area did not return, and I myself followed their trail in search of them.  I found myself surrounded by malevolent spirits, several of which seemed intent on capturing me.  If the blood of the Eldar didn’t run as truly in me as it appears to do, I suspect I would not have escaped.  As it was I could command them to stay clear of me, but I was much drained before I made the Road again.  Iarwain came out to me afterwards, saying he’d been summoned from his home by the trees of the Old Forest with word that much grief had occurred.  We were joined by Glorfindel, and together we did what we could to bind the evil spirits to the area of the burial mounds themselves, that they not wander freely through the Old Forest or trouble those who Ride the road.  But none of us held enough power to cleanse the place or break the spell that gathered them.”

            Elrohir, his fair face stern, added, “I came there afterwards again with Glorfindel.  All cots and villages within two leagues of the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad had been devastated, most of their inhabitants appearing to have died of terror, and some plainly having been possessed.  We found only a very few still living, and their spirits were deeply disturbed and their minds broken by the terrors they’d endured.  We brought them away, but I doubt any but one single child will ever regain his sanity.  As for the child--even he may never fully recover. 

            “Glorfindel unveiled himself, and the evil ones fled before him, back to the mounds; together he and I did what was necessary to complete the binding attempted earlier.  Again, however, we had not sufficient power between us to cleanse them away, only to contain them.”

            “Evil spirits, you say?  Of what origin?  Could you tell?”

            “Not fully.  Some seem to be of unhoused Elves, and a few of those Glorfindel appears to have been able to free.  There may have been some of Men, apparently oath-breakers unable to leave Middle Earth due to curses uttered upon them for their infidelity.  But most are of unknown origin.”

            The Wizard gave a deep sigh as he shared out the fish amongst them.  “I will need to come there, obviously; and perhaps your father would agree to join me, Elrohir, although what we might do beyond what has been done already I cannot say.  Probably little more than to bind them solely within the borders of the necropolis.”

            “Some of the mounds there are most ancient, dating back to the days before our ancestors went north and east following Eärendil to fight against Angband, while others date from the Dark Years, added by those who dwelt in those lands at the time the stone circle was built,” noted Araval.

            “Is that why Arnor used it for so long as the royal cemetery?” asked Gandalf.  At the Man’s nod of assent, he said thoughtfully, “It is likely that most of the wights called there by Angmar centered on those internments from the Dark Years, but they will infest all of the mounds before long, I fear.”

            “We’ll not use it again,” Araval said, his tone carefully controlled.  “It is perhaps as well that we tend to bury our dead in the earth itself now, as do the folk of the Breelands and the Periannath.  It makes it harder for wights to corrupt the burial grounds.  Always there has been a feeling of dread hanging about the tumuli from the Dark Years, for many who died then were grievously slain indeed from what any can tell.  But to have the tombs of our own folk sullied is a grief beyond telling.”

            The other Dúnadan asked, “You come now from Gondor, do you not?”

            Gandalf nodded.  “I have spent much of the last year there.  Telumehtar accepted the Winged Crown from his father just ere I left Minas Anor.  It appears the land may soon be assaulted by raiders from Umbar, funded by treasure given by Dol Guldur and fed through Rhûn from other lands further east.  But in the reports brought from Rhûn by Saruman it appears that another threat builds even further to the east.  I was coming north to speak with you and your father, Lord Araval, and with Elrond.  However, first I wished to stop by the Dwarf kingdom to confer with Durin.  Radagast sent south reports of attacks on their northernmost settlements.”

            “Then you have heard of the destruction of Kheled-zigal by the dragon already?” asked Araval, obviously relieved.

            “Yes.  Radagast had no good to say about the affair.”

            “Two young dragons attempted to settle between there and the passes above Imladris,” Elrohir reported, “although one was slain by the defenders and the second flew away northward again when some of our folk came to the aid of the small Dwarf mining community it had attacked.  This was a mine for iron and copper.  None can say what drew these smaller worms to such places.  Certainly Kheled-zigal had no store of treasure, for it was but a fortress meant to keep an eye on the movements of Angmar.”

            “So Radagast advised me.  The smaller settlements on the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains are all deeply disturbed; and tales are told as well of attacks again being perpetrated on them by orcs.  No matter how often the goblin caverns are cleansed more are bred until they return again to full strength.”  He examined the three of them.  “You have as yet to tell me why you are so far south of the lands where your peoples are most secure.”

            Araval sighed, took another bite of fish, and finally answered, “We came south in part in search of you and your counsel, as I said before.  As you move freely east and west, north and south, we thought perhaps you could see more clearly the pattern of the newest of assaults on the free lands.  But we two also were accompanying Lord Elrohir toward Laurelindórenan to bring the Lady Arwen back to her father’s house.  Lords Celeborn and Amroth were to have sent a troop to accompany her over the Dimrill stair, and we are to meet not far to the east of here.  We will serve as scouts as we go north again.”

            Gandalf nodded.  “Wise indeed are those ruling Lórien.  Then you will not mind if I accompany you toward the gates of Khazad-dûm?”

            “Indeed, we would be glad of it.”

 *******

            They camped during the night, and after breaking their fast with smoked meat and waybread, they resumed their journey eastward.  Not far north of the western gates to the great Dwarf kingdom they parted for a time, and Gandalf went to seek entrance.  The gates, however, were shut, and the door wardens surly.  “No one save our own folk are admitted at this time through the western gates,” he was told.  “If you wish to speak to Durin then go about to the main doors to the eastern vales.  It is three days journey from here to the dwelling places of our peoples, past our most productive mines.  We will not have outdwellers spying out our secrets.”

            Seeing this as a somewhat natural response to the assaults on the Dwarves by dragons but nevertheless frustrated, Gandalf turned away north again toward the passes.

            “They would not admit you?” asked Elrohir once he’d rejoined the company of Peredhel and the two Dúnedain.  “That is most discourteous.”
            “Considering their own lands and peoples have been attacked, I can understand,” Araval commented as he offered Gandalf a share of the ptarmigan he and his fellow had snared for their evening meal.  “Although they cannot fault you as you have been absent from Eriador for some years.  They cannot expect intelligence on the movements of dragons to the west of the mountains when you have been far to the east.”

            “I thank you,” Gandalf sighed as he offered some of the fruit he’d gathered from the remaining orchards of Eregion he’d passed as he’d returned to them.  “But this adds several more days to my journey, for I must now take the Stair over Caradhras if I am to speak with Durin; and I would prefer to do so before I meet with your fathers.”  He looked up eastward toward the pass, frowning.  “Nor am I particularly eager to have to take this horse over that way.  There are places here on the western slopes I remember as being particularly narrow and treacherous from my last crossing over of them.”

            “Those sent by my daeradar will be mounted, as will be my sister,” Elrohir pointed out.  “This indicates they and the Dwarves who oversee the upkeep of the pass will have made certain the road is safe.  Durin may have little if any love for Elves, but not even he wishes to earn the ire of Amroth and my grandparents.”

            “I’ve had little enough to do with Amroth, for he has been usually away to the south at the Havens or east consulting with Thranduil during my own visits to Laurelindórenan,” Gandalf commented.  “I believe I’ve spoken with him but twice in all the years I’ve been in Middle Earth.”

            “He has been fighting the Sea Longing for several years now,” Elrohir admitted.  “He has lingered here in the Mortal Lands only for the sake of Nimrodel, who has been unwilling to leave the land of her birth.  When I last visited she told me she did not foresee herself ever coming to the shores of Aman, but could not say what might keep her from there.’

            The Wizard considered.  “Perhaps I should speak with her when I come over the mountains, then, if she will receive me.  Never has she been eager to leave her own place above her river when I have met with your daeradar and daernaneth.”  He sighed.  “When are those from the Golden Wood to meet with you?”

            “Probably late tomorrow,” Elrohir answered him.

            “Then perhaps I should begin my own crossing today while the light remains that I not meet them in the narrowest places.”

            “Would you have us await your return?” asked Araval.

            Looking upwards again at the pass, Gandalf slowly shook his head.  “Nay, Lord Prince.  I may be delayed several days; and if dragons are indeed now becoming restless I would not have the Lady Arwen remain in one place too long lest they see her as prey.  However, it was undoubtedly wise you take the western route northward, for orcs are more active at this time east of the mountains, from what I myself have seen and the reports of Radagast and those Dwarves who have sent word to me have told.”

            He finished the ptarmigan and the fruit, then went to wash his hands at the nearby stream and turned to his horse.  With aid from Araval’s companion he saw it saddled and bridled, then clapping his great hat on his head he took up his satchel and swung himself into his saddle.  He gave the three others a last look.  “Go north, but warily.  I will follow as I can, and probably will arrive in Imladris shortly after you.”

            He was on his way down the eastern slopes when he finally met with those who accompanied Arwen westward.  Examining the grim expressions on the fair faces of the Elves of Lórien he paused once he’d offered his greetings.  “I left Lord Elrohir and his companions a half hour ride from the mouth of the pass,” he told them.  “They expected you yesterday in the late afternoon.”

            “There were yrch to be dealt with,” explained the leader of the group.  “They’d set an ambush not far above the beginning of the Stair.  The naugrim who see to the keeping of the Stair aided us to see all found out and killed, and are even now sealing up the entrance to the cavern the foul creatures had sheltered within.  They are also deeply troubled.”

            “I must speak with Durin, and will bear word of this attack to him, although I don’t doubt the Stair keepers will have sent their own report,” Gandalf said.  He examined Elrond’s daughter.  “You are well, Lady?” he asked her.

            “Yes,” she said.  Her face was pale, but she was composed enough, and Gandalf sensed an underlying anger to match that of the leader of her guard.  “But I am going to insist Glorfindel and my brothers see me trained in the use of a knife at the very least.  I need to be able to assist in my own defense should such a situation occur again.”

            “A wise decision, if a regrettable one, Arwen,” he replied.  “Well, I saw no other signs of enemies in my own climb up the western slopes.  Go with care, and advise your brother and Araval to see to it your journey home is swift and most carefully scouted.”

            “Araval is come with Elrohir?  Then I am to be well guarded indeed, for he is a most canny one, and very gifted with the Sight.”  With that she smiled.  “Go on with you, Gandalf, for my daernaneth indicated she was awaiting you.”  She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, smiling to see the pleasure he showed at the gesture.  She signed to the troop leader, and the Elves rode onward, leaving Gandalf with the rest of the way clear before him.

            The site of the battle was plain enough, and already a pyre smoldered to rid the pass of the bodies of the slain orcs.  Two Elves and four Dwarves were to be seen, the Elves overseeing the burning of the pyre and the Dwarves examining the results of a controlled rock slide they’d caused to seal the entrance to the cavern beyond.  “There were about twenty orcs of the mountains,” he was told, “but ten more that were far greater, Uruks from Dol Guldur from their gear.  How they slipped by the guard on the edges of the Golden Wood we are uncertain.”

            With that much more intelligence, Gandalf turned into the Dimril Dale to seek the eastern doors to the ancient realm of Dúrin.

 *******

            “What can I tell you?” asked Durin VI over their beakers of mead.  “Khazad-dûm itself has not been attacked again in over a hundred years; but once again the smaller settlements, fortresses, mines, and workshops are under threat.  The orcs of the mountains are now often joined by larger breeds from east of the River, it seems.”

            “Have there been any more breaches in the galleries where your miners work?” Gandalf asked.  “The stories from your father’s day were not good.”

            “We opened into a tunnel and some caverns obviously once used by orcs, there some sixty years back; but exploration proved they were empty of all but bones.  There was evidence some pestilence struck its inhabitants, and all but a few appear to have died.  Those who survived appear to have left hastily.  Our people went through and found and blocked all entrances from the south and east, and caved in all but one of the tunnels leading toward the mountainside, and we keep a strict watch on that.

            “We’ve also found two dens for cave trolls, one of them inhabited at the time.  The two inhabitants of that den will not trouble us again.”

            “And you continue to remember not to follow veins of precious metals down toward the roots of the Mountains?  To dig greedily or deeply could lead you to worse finds than orc holds and troll dens.”

            Durin’s face grew stony.  “Do you think to guide our actions, Tharkûn?  We will not allow any to do so--we never gave in to the rule the Dark One sought to impose through the rings gifted us, and we will not allow those who dwell on the skin of the world to dictate limits to our delving now.”

            Gandalf felt deeply troubled.  “No, Sauron never ruled you--but he yet infected the holders of his gifts with greed and suspicion toward those alongside whom they must dwell.  I tell you yet again that there are horrors imprisoned under the pillars of Middle Earth, and they must not be freed.”

            “I will keep your warning in mind,” Durin grumbled.

 *******

            Gandalf left shortly before sunset, desiring to spend the night out under the open sky and stars.  Why he found the Dwarrowdelf oppressive, for all its beauty and majesty, and particularly at night, he could not say, but he found himself unwilling to sleep there if he could help it.

            It was long after twilight that he finally crossed the stream of Nimrodel, much eased to hear its clear singing.  Then he heard yet another voice singing, above him this time in one of the few great mellyrn that grew close to the edge of the realm of the Golden Wood.  His heart lifted the more, and at last he lifted his own voice to join that of the singer.

            Rarely did Gandalf let his true Voice free here in Middle Earth, but Laurelindórenan was not precisely a part of the Mortal Lands; feeling free of the constraints set on him by his form of service, he offered a deeper counterpoint to the song sung by the Lady Nimrodel and her stream.  The true Lady of the Wood paused in her own song in astonishment, then rejoined the song, the two voices blending with that of the joyful water, singing of growth and peace and starlight under a shifting golden roof as she descended from her home to sit upon one of the lowest boughs of the mallorn where she could rejoice in the Light of her visitor.  When at last the song went still they remained, Gandalf sitting on the back of his mount, Nimrodel on her limb, listening to the water echo back the final strains. 

            At last she spoke.  “Welcome, Olórin.  And what brings you here to our realm?”

            He smiled up at her.  “A need for peace after too many rumors of war and selfish policy, my Lady Nimrodel.  And to join your song is a joy of its own.”

            She shrugged.  “Never had I thought to sing alongside one such as you, Lord Mithrandir.”

            “No lord I, lady--merely the grey pilgrim your people have named me.”

            “Pish!” she responded, shaking her head.  “It is true I never trod the shores of Aman as did our beloved Galadriel, but I have heard enough of the Song to appreciate your true nature, even if the honor accorded you by Artanis did not make your identity plain.  She is even now making her way here, alongside Celeborn and my Lord Amroth.  How long will you stay with us?”

            “No more than two nights might I spare at this time, for I have reports to carry further northward, to Arveleg and Araval, Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor and Lindir, Galdor and Círdan.”

            “There have been no further outbreaks of the plague of the black boils?”

            “No, none in well over a hundred years, for which we offer thanks to Ilúvatar and the Powers.”

            She nodded thoughtfully.  “Yet reports reach us of a pox that has begun to be seen amongst the folk of Rhovanion.  It appears to have first been seen near the borders of Dol Guldur, starting perhaps three months past.”

            “Stars and Moon!” exclaimed the Wizard.  “So, he sends out yet another plague to trouble the Men of Middle Earth?”

            “So it would seem.”

            “Then I would best leave tomorrow,” he sighed.  “Elrond may have a strategy to fight it.”  He slipped from his horse and stretched, then loosened the cinch for the saddle the dun wore.

            Nimrodel went back up into her home high in the tree and brought back wine and a light repast, and once his horse was groomed and resting under the trees Gandalf joined her, both seated upon a great root for her home tree, speaking quietly of the further news he brought as they ate.  At last she sighed.  “I agree with those who see the hand of Sauron in this,” she said.  “Why it is that Curunír refuses to accept the Necromancer is our old Enemy I cannot say.  He continues to grow in strength, while the number of our folk left in Middle Earth continues to diminish.  Pelastor sent word two cycles of the Moon ago that his son will lead a number of his folk west to Mithlond in the fall of the year to take ship for Eressëa.  And the Valar know that Amroth is eager to follow them.  Even now a ship is under construction at the southern Haven on his command.  He would not willingly linger until the Cursèd One again has reached his full power.”

            “I have heard tell,” Gandalf said with as much delicacy as he could muster, “that you would rather remain here, in Middle Earth.”

            She gave him a straight look.  “I have not seen either myself or my beloved Amroth arriving there, not on any grey ship.  Nay, I fear our fate lies on this side of the Straight Path.”

            “You have told him this?”

            “Would you tell anyone you love that you know the form of death that awaits him?  Or yourself?”

            “You see death for yourself and him?”

            She did not answer, merely continued her steady gaze until he at last looked away, reaching for her hand and holding it gently.

            “You will find, lady, that it is not as horrible as you might think,” he said very quietly.  “I will not say it is comfortable--too many mortals have I now seen die of too many causes to say such a thing, and too many more will I stand beside before I return to Aman--if I ever do, which itself is still uncertain.  The losing of the integrity of the body can be terrible--that I will admit; but once free of it--you will be surprised at the freedom you find, and the comfort you will know in Námo’s Halls.  And there is the promise that the two of you, when you are ready, may be rehoused and know the peace of the Blessed Realm as is proper for your kind.”

            “Thank you, Olórin,” she said softly.  “You comfort me.  But I will not allow them to take me easily.”

            “Do not, lady.  And do not let the Enemy have you alive."

            There were no veils between them as each saw into the heart of the other.  She was very pale in the starlight.  At last she answered him, her voice steady and determined, “I will not.”

Fighting Fire with Fire

       At Galadriel’s suggestion Gandalf remained two days, until a child was brought to him, a girl of twelve summers born on the edges of Rhovanion, one whose family had died of the new pox but who had herself inexplicably survived, untouched by the disease.

       “At first we all thought my parents had but contracted the same illness I myself had known a month before, the cow pox. But this was much worse.”

       “Cow pox? You worked with cattle?”

       “We had five milk cows, and provided milk for our village. I often milked our cows. A new heifer we bought from another village came to us with the pox--it didn’t show itself until she’d been with us a week, and I caught it from her.”

       “And when the new pox struck your parents, you did not contract it?”

       “No, my lord.”

       “Did any others within your village contract the pox that killed your parents?”

       “A few. I lost also my brother and sister; and there was one other family in which the disease was seen. All died save two--the father, who suffered the pox but recovered in the end, covered with great scars where the pustules had been; and his third son, who did not become ill with it.”

       “Had the son been ill with the cow pox?”

       “Yes--he caught it from the same heifer as I did. They were close friends and often visited us. He loved cattle, and when we brought the heifer home he went out to examine it. He became ill with the cow pox at the same time as did I.”

       Gandalf and Galadriel exchanged glances. “Have you any family remaining you can go to?”

       “No, my lord. My grandfather is all that yet lives, as far as I know, and he is in failing health himself due to age. There are no others.”

       “Will you go north with me, to tell the northern lords of this?”

       She shrugged, her face filled with grief. “What else might I do? My own village will not have me back, for since all my family has died they believe I will bring bad luck to all of them. And although this is a beautiful place past telling, it is no place for one such as I. If the folk of the north will accept me, it would be better than to remain homeless and friendless there in my own land.”

       So it was that when he left Lórien it was with a girl on his saddlebow. The trip took somewhat longer, for he must provide for her as well as for himself, but they still arrived in Rivendell not that long after the arrival of Arwen’s own party.

       Elrond listened to the tale of the girl, and at last sent her with Meliangiloreth to be examined in the healer’s wing, remaining in the small parlor where his interview with her had gone forward, thoughtfully tapping his cheek with his finger as he considered what she’d told them. “The disease apparently came to them from a Man passing through the village headed north toward the upper valley of the Anduin. Her family offered him hospitality for the night, and the other affected family joined them for the day meal. The next morning when they awoke the stranger was too ill to continue on; within three days he was dead, and a few days later first her mother, then her brother, younger sister, and at last their father all showed the symptoms--small, itching, weeping pustules, and fever. And they all died, but she, who’d had the cow pox, didn’t become ill again.”

       He rose and began to pace the room. “It appears that the policies of containment set into place during the black plague are still being followed, and Tarondar’s advice to his kinsmen in Rhovanion is still working to the good. This was what protected the rest of the village, as she tells me only the two households were affected, both of whom had been exposed to the stranger before the symptoms showed themselves in him. Only one of eight infected with the disease survived, and the one other survivor from those households is another who had also been ill at one time with the cow pox and then did not contract the greater pox.”

       “Apparently,” Gandalf said. “Although not all villages are likely to be as careful in dealing with this new plague, I fear.”

       “Word must be sent south immediately,” Elrond said. “But the idea that one might avoid becoming ill with a disease as virulent as this new pox is by exposing oneself to a fairly minor one such as cow pox is one that had never occurred to me before. Think of it--Gandalf--being armed against the greater pox by having had a lesser one?”

*******

       Arveleg accepted the warning from Elrond with great surprise. “Here we are, insisting all cattle found to be suffering from the cow pox must remain isolated until all symptoms are gone that our people not contract it; and now we learn that we ought perhaps to expose our folk to it anyway that they not become ill from a more deadly form? How does my Lord Elrond think I will convince our people to willingly let themselves and their children become ill with cow pox?”

       Elladan, who’d accompanied Gandalf to Fornost where the King was currently residing, suggested, “If you’d rather see them die rapidly of the fever that comes with the greater pox, you may do so. In the meantime, it would be best to place quarantines on all newcomers to the villages until it is proven they do not bear this disease with them, and have them served only by those who have already had the cow pox.”

       Arveleg nodded before turning to other concerns. “Araval has told me of the assault on Lady Arwen’s escort as she came over the Dimrill Stair. Once again the number of orcs in the Misty Mountains begins to grow. We’ve seen threefold increases in assaults on our folk by them in the last two years, and even more in the last few months. And sightings of troops of them moving from place to place have also increased. Ever we drive them back, only to have them return again and again. The threat of this new plague I am certain will come sweeping our way could not come at a worse time, for we have such need of increased forces to guard our own lands and those others under our protection. They have told you about the infestation of the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad with evil wights?”

       “Yes, and your son was giving thanks for the protection he knows from being of the lineage of Eärendil.”

       “Then tell me the news of the south. How does the Enemy now threaten Gondor--beyond this new plague, that is?”

       Arveleg listened closely, his head nodding as he heard the details of the death of Tarondor, and the plans to deal with the threat posed by Umbar. As he heard how gold apparently intended to fund the building of more warships by Umbar had come through Rhûn and had apparently been arranged by Dol Guldur his expression hardened. “Always Dol Guldur is involved somehow, isn’t it? The Uruks who attacked the Lady Arwen’s escort had gear identified as being from Dol Guldur, didn’t you say?” At Araval and Gandalf’s indications of agreement he sighed. “And again the new plague of pox has apparently come from Dol Guldur as well?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “According to the records, ever since its building has Dol Guldur been behind the woes sent to strike at the health and safety of the Free Peoples. You say that the Nazgûl are tied to the place as well?”

       “Yes--they appear to go back and forth between Dol Guldur and Mordor with frequency, although word from Círdan to Imladris received just ere I came there indicates that at least one of the Nazgûl besides the Witch-king himself has entered and left Angmar recently.”

       Elladan continued, “Indeed such was the word brought by Endoril when he arrived a fortnight past to speak with my father. A ship with what appears to have been Umbari sails was seen far out beyond the entrance to the Lhûn, heading north. It passed a fishing vessel of your people who live near the shore, although those aboard gave the small boat no heed. Of the crew of four, three were badly struck by the Black Breath. Nine days later the same ship sailed with great speed southward, and was followed for some leagues by some of those sailors who plan to crew the next ship to Aman. Two insist that there had to be a Nazgûl aboard. They state the feel is identical to what they knew when they faced the Ringwraiths before and within Mordor.”

       The King and his son searched the faces of the Wizard and the Elf. “Nazgûl other than Angmar? And what does this mean? A messenger, perhaps?”

       “That is our thought on the subject,” Elladan agreed. “Glorfindel and Lindir have gone north to examine the border between Eriador and Angmar, and they plan to ride then the coastline to see what might be found regarding where the ship might have made landfall.”

       Arveleg sighed as he shared looks with his son. “And we now deal with Angmar’s poison there at the Barrow-downs. What else does he have in store for us?”

       Gandalf looked from Elladan to the two Men. “There is one other thing to think of--when the great plagues were loosed on Gondor and Arnor before, ships from Umbar and Harad were employed to bring diseased animals to the shores of Eriador. If this one carried individuals ill with this pox intended to infect folk from Angmar’s lands who would then be sent over the border into Eriador, it could be devastating, as could happen if infected victims are set down on the western shores.”

       Araval’s jaw set. “I see. Those on our northern borders were least diminished the last time, for we had learned how to deal with the illnesses before they could come so far. The Enemy may indeed seek to infect our people from there first this time. Then it is to the borders we need to send cattle infected with the cow pox first.”

       “You would willingly see our folk infected with cow pox, my son?” asked Arveleg.

       After a glance at Elladan, the younger man nodded. “I would, Adar. Better some sick for a time with the cow pox and then recovered than to see our northern troops coming down with the greater pox with its dread fevers.”

       “Have any survived this greater pox?” Arveleg asked of Elladan.

       “From what was told to Gandalf and the message my father received from my daernaneth the night before we left Imladris there have now been reported more recoveries, but most are left with skin that is terribly scarred, and recovery is a lengthy affair in most cases.”

       The two Men again exchanged glances. “I see,” Arveleg sighed. “Well, my son, I fear I must leave it in your hands to see those along the northern border protected as swiftly as possible.”

*******

       Finding sufficient cattle infected with the cow pox to possibly help protect the northern forces was difficult, but at last one farm somewhat north of Bree was found that had a large herd where many of the cattle were found so diseased. When the King’s officers came to the farm with several drafted from other farms and purchased the entire herd and drove them off northwards, the farmer was left scratching his head, particularly as he realized other cattle were being added to his herd. “But my cattle have been ill!” he objected. “Why would the King’s husbandmen mix healthy cattle with mine? Won’t all become ill? They don’t intend to slaughter them and feed them to the troops, do they? But they are dairy cattle, not cattle intended for the butchers.”

       As no answers were given him, he shrugged and returned to his byres. The King’s engineers were there, and had indicated they would help to see his farm cleansed of the disease and see barns and byres rebuilt so that future cattle brought onto the property would not be likely to contract the condition. He had been paid a goodly price for cattle he’d thought must be slaughtered out of hand, and he did not understand; but in the end he decided it would be best to accept the largess he’d received and get on with it.

       The herd was pressed northward as fast as it could go, and within a couple weeks was near the borders of Angmar. New cattle had been added to the herd as it went, allowing for there to be new infections regularly. All along the way Arveleg’s soldiers, scouts, and others encountered were called to meet with the herders, the situation hastily explained, and they were requested to handle those cows known to have the disease. Soon cases of cow pox could be seen all along the borders as the herders divided the herd and took them in all directions. Within two months most of those stationed along the border had recovered from the cow pox, many of them not fully certain as to why they’d been asked to allow themselves to become sick with the malady. Those cattle that recovered from the pox were taken to some of the lands held by the crown and allowed to remain there for some months before they were taken and given to families that needed milk cows; the others were taken from hamlet to hamlet so the folk of Eriador could get some protection against the expected plague.

       Many parents were incensed that the King would ask them to allow their children to be infected with the pox--but then the first reports came of illness creeping northward, of travelers who accepted the hospitality of settlers in the southern reaches of Arnor, and who left behind them households where most or all died of a form of pox that brought with it terrible fevers. Suddenly many who had questioned the King’s wisdom found themselves accepting the idea that it was better to suffer briefly from this known form of the pox and know one would most likely recover quickly than to contract the new form approaching from the south and most likely all die.

*******

       Within a few weeks after the diseased cattle passed the position of the troop set closest to the place where the main route to Angmar crossed the border into that land several people, mostly farmers and craftspeople and their families, were forcefully ejected from the northern lands, sent south with little more than they could carry on their backs. They were immediately taken into custody by the King’s Men and brought to houses prepared on the orders of the King where they were given provisions and the caring of competent healers who had already recovered from the cow pox. Within days almost all the refugees became violently ill (although the healers remained well), and soon after most of them died. A few, however, were nursed through the disease, and when they were fully recovered they were taken to Fornost where they were questioned by the King himself. All had been taken from their homes by night and brought to one of the fortresses of the land where they and their families had been forced to inhabit a room in which one or more individuals lay dying of a form of pox; and after two days in that room they had been brought to the borders and sent over, and told to go as far south as they could get.

       In the case of the three individuals who did not become ill, it was learned all had, at some time in their lives, suffered cow pox.

*******

       While Araval dealt with the expected plague, Gandalf and the King, accompanied by Elladan, approached the Barrow-downs, where they were joined by Glorfindel. It took several days to evaluate the situation and decide what was to be done; at last a strategy was decided upon. Starting at the western boundary of the ancient cemetery the four began a circuit of the mounds, Gandalf drawing a line as they walked with the butt of his staff. When they reached the center of the northern borders Elladan stayed as the other three walked on; Arveleg stopped at the eastern side, and Glorfindel opposite Elrond’s son. Gandalf continued on until he at last reached the place where his line began, and he closed the encircling boundary. Now all turned inward, and Gandalf, drawing on both staff and hidden ring, began an invocation and incantation; tapping the butt of his staff down at the place where he’d begun and ended the boundary he spoke a Word of Power, and blue-white flames rose along the line. Many of the wights, suddenly aware they were being bound fully within the burial ground, threw themselves against the boundary, but were driven back by the flames, crying out in shrill and deathly voices.

       With his own will augmented by that of King, Peredhel, and Elf lord, Gandalf sealed the boundary to hold the wights already introduced within the bounds of the cemetery itself, and extended it to contain any further wights that might come there in the future. At last he raised his staff, and the work was finished.

       He stepped back, exhausted, and was soon joined by the other three. Glorfindel examined him closely. “That was an exceptionally fine piece of work,” he said quietly. “None of them will be able to go out of the Tyrn Gorthad, save perhaps to the center of the stone circle, and even there cannot come fully. I believe you have saved the life and sanity of many by your actions.”

       “I certainly hope so,” Gandalf answered. “What did you learn from your survey of the shore?” The four of them retreated back to Bree, leaving the burial grounds imprisoning spirits that had hoped to merely gather there before wandering freely among the lands of the living.

*******

       Telumehtar examined the message delivered to his Steward an hour earlier by an Elf. He looked up into the eyes of this, his closest advisor, and asked, “Do you think it is authentic?”

       “You can speak to this Haldir, the Elf who brought it, my Lord. He waits in the lesser audience chamber. He came in company with two Men of Rhovanion who can attest to what he says.”

       A few minutes later the King swept into the room where the Elf and two northerners waited his coming. He paused--he’d seen few Elves in his life, and those few far to the south at the Elven shipyard that lay just outside the walls of Númenor vi Ennorath. Most of those had had dark hair and grey eyes; this one had golden hair and eyes of a clear blue, his expression unfathomable. The Rhovanions, on the other hand he recognized; one was personal healer to the King of Rhovanion and the other the King’s brother, Lancomaë. “I greet you, Master Vilcoma, Lord Lancomaë. How is it I can serve the two of you?”

       “It is we who are come to warn you, my Lord Telumehtar. A few months back reports began to reach the King of illness to the east, near the borders of Dol Guldur....”

       Telumehtar listened for a few minutes, then interrupted them and sent for his son Narmacil, who had some skill in healing and who had even spent some three years in service in the Houses of Healing; his personal healer; and the Warden of the Houses of Healing, distracting his guests in the meantime with an offer of refreshment. As soon as those he’d just called for arrived, he had Lancomaë begin again.

       Narmacil and the Warden listened closely, and together scanned the letter sent from Celeborn of Laurelindórenan. Master Orómil questioned Vilcoma about the onset of symptoms, what was known of how the disease was transmitted, how quickly victims developed the pox marks and the fevers, how swiftly they fell into death, how victims were kept apart to keep them from infecting others. When he’d apparently exhausted himself Narmacil took up the questioning.

       “How many have you found who have not contracted this pox? Is it true that those who do not become ill with it, even though they have been exposed as much as any others, have all had the cow pox?” This was followed by questions about the cow pox, how to tell if a cow had it, how long it appeared to take for one who milked or otherwise handled an infected animal might be expected to develop the earliest symptoms, what kind of handling was known to cause the Man to develop the condition.

       Narmacil again examined the letter. “How it is that this information has come so swiftly to our hands I do not know, adar, but there is no question that reports of this condition have come from near Cair Andros and Osgiliath. We have isolated those known to suffer from the disease and given them such succor as we could; but without understanding how it was spread there was little we could do for them. And in spite of the isolation we yet have begun to see more cases as the plague spreads. But if reports both from Arnor and Rhovanion indicate that it may be avoided by allowing our folk to undergo cow pox--it seems a small price to pay.”

       Telumehtar took the letter back into his own hands and read it closely. “And the idea that this disease will most likely affect us on our eastern borders and in our port towns.... Arveleg reports that infected individuals were sent over his northern borders, there where his enemies are most likely to strike.” He shook his head. “The idea of fighting illness by inflicting a lesser illness seems to go against logic.”

       Vilcoma and Orómil looked at one another. But it was Lancomaë who answered him, “Well, my lord Telumehtar, those who seek to fight grass or forest fires have found that sometimes the best way to keep such fires from burning the farms, villages, and homes of those who live in their paths is to burn those woods or grasslands closest to the endangered places in a controlled manner before the wildfire can approach closely enough to destroy all. If we can fight fire with fire, perhaps the idea of fighting a deadly infirmity with a lesser one is easier to understand.”

       Telumehtar turned to the Elf. “You have been very patient, my Lord Haldir. I wish to thank you for bringing this warning. Do you know how it was forwarded to Lord Celeborn?”

       The Elf gave a most graceful shrug. “I am no lord amongst my people--indeed, I serve as border warden for our land,” he said in a very slow, accented form of Sindarin. “Yet our Lords Amroth and Celeborn and Lady Galadriel have many ways of learning information from afar. However, in this case it appears that the Great Eagles have helped in the sharing of information, and that they and more common messenger birds have borne missives back and forth. Certainly Mithrandir met with them on his way northward, and they agreed that in this case it would be necessary to send such warnings as they could here to Gondor as well as to Rhovanion, as all the Free Peoples are equally threatened in this.”

       “And where were the first signs of the disease seen?” asked Narmacil.

       “Near Dol Guldur, my Lord Prince.”

       The King’s jaw tightened. “Dol Guldur again,” he said through gritted teeth.

       The expression of his son was similar as he said, “Indeed. Now, to learn how we might obtain cattle infected with this cow pox....”

*******

       The Breelands had several cases of the greater pox, all of which were isolated and reported immediately to the King’s officers, and the disease was swiftly contained there. There were two cases reported from the Shire; but it appeared the Periannath were more naturally resistant to the condition than were Men--or perhaps more had just been exposed to the cow pox than was true throughout the rest of Eriador; but there were no widespread deaths. And again the disease spread more rapidly in Dunland, southern Rhudaur amongst those who’d come north from Dunland and the wilderlands surrounding it, north into Angmar, and south into Umbar and eastward into Rhûn than throughout Gondor and Arnor. There had been a good deal of loss of life in Rhovanion, but less than might have been expected. But within a year and a half there were no more reported cases, and Gondor found itself with more time to build up its navy while Arnor had considerably less difficulty from Angmar than they’d expected.

*******

       Gandalf and Saruman met in the Anduin valley, not far from Radagast’s home of Rhosgobel. “You have not yet met with Radagast, then?” asked the White Wizard.

       “Not yet,” admitted Gandalf. “There was much to do in Eriador before I came again over the mountains.”

       “The messages regarding the spread of the pox and how it might be contained were well received,” Saruman noted.

       “I am glad. How goes the building of Gondor’s navy?”

       “Very well. Telumehtar and Narmacil are both canny tacticians, it appears, and Narmacil shows eagerness to advance against his enemy’s forces, once they show themselves.”

       “And did you hear tell of the two younger dragons who assaulted other Dwarven enclaves?”

       “No! Tell me.”

       Once the details were shared, Saruman sighed. “When dragons again grow restless....” He did not finish. “And the folk of Arnor have armed themselves against the greater pox?”

       “Indeed. The number of cases seen have been very few, and most of those in the southern reaches of the lands. Far more died among those who have entered into Rhudaur from the south than did within Eriador proper.”

       “Perhaps we have no need to meet now with Radagast,” the White Wizard suggested.

       “And after he sent word regarding the assaults by dragons on the Dwarves of the Misty Mountains?” demanded the Grey. “That would be poor return for what news he’s sent to us.” His mood lightened somewhat. “Or are you reluctant to visit his home shaped of living trees?” Gandalf asked.

       “It is most unnatural,” Saruman grumbled.

       “When it is most naturally derived?” his companion returned, a twinkle in his eye. “Oh--you can bear it for a night or two. Come!”

       Reluctantly, Saruman followed his fellow toward the home of their fellow.

Wainriders

             Gandalf sighed as he heard Saruman’s report.  “And these come from the far east, beyond Rhûn, do they?”

            “Yes--riding in wains, and fighting from them and chariots.  They have swept through Rhûn, fighting those along the eastern borders, although most of those who populated central Rhûn merely gave way before them, going north or south, allowing them free passage westward.”

            “And did you suggest to Narmacil that he build up the forces in Ithilien as was suggested?”

            “With what Men?  His father put all his energies into rebuilding Gondor’s navy to such effect he retook Umbar for Gondor----”

            “For the moment, at least,” grunted the Grey Wizard.  “I very much fear that Umbar won’t be held more than a few lifetimes of Men.”

            Saruman lifted one brow expressively.  “So it has proven in the past.”

            “What has Arciryas been doing while his brother and nephew have focused on the navies and the governing of Umbar and the warding of the borders with Dunland?  Has he been given no part in the protection of his land?  As I remember he was an excellent hunter.  He could have done much in the deployment of the nation’s Rangers throughout Ithilien and about the Black Gate.”

            “Arciryas has spent most of his time rebuilding ties between the crown and the southern provinces.  He married a maiden from Dor-en-ernil some years ago, the daughter of the lord of the province, and spends much time in her father’s court and in rebuilding the defenses in the Ringlo Vale and near Erech.”

            “But the greatest threat to Gondor has ever been to the east, and not the southwest,” Gandalf pointed out.  “We spoke of this during Telumehtar’s early reign.  If these Wainriders reach the wasted lands before the Black Gates they could sweep through and both north into Rhovanion and south into Ithilien, causing much in the way of death and destruction along the way.  The King must protect the land.”

            Narmacil greeted the two Wizards to his court, although he’d seen little enough of either since his own accession.  “We have given thanks for the intelligence regarding the folk of the Brown Lands,” he said to the Grey Wizard.  “We have sought to treat with them, but they will not agree to help guard our borders in return for recognition and grants of land.  I have had to sent Calimehtar there to Calenardhon to keep the peace, and I am loth to call him back as he alone appears to strike--well, if not fear at least caution into their hearts.  But this news from the east causes me great distress.  Tell me of these Wainriders.”

            But what Saruman was able to share was not enough for Narmacil to appreciate just how he might best face this new foe.  “We can easily hold the river with our ships,” he said.

            “These do not fight from ships,” the White Wizard pointed out.  “They travel with great wains, and fight from them and upon the flats.”

            “It has been Arciryas who has the better knowledge of the lands of Ithilien and before the Black Gate,” Gandalf said, his attention on the maps.  “He and those closest to him could do the most to use the terrain to their advantage.  That area is not wholly flat and could be a death trap to those who come in horse-drawn wagons and chariots if ambushes are properly set.  If the Wainriders manage to invade and hold Rhovanion it could endanger the integrity of the rule of Gondor.”

            Narmacil was plainly frustrated.  “And how long have the two of you warned my ancestors not to ignore the concerns of those in the southern provinces?” he demanded.  “Was it not due to that failing that Castimir was able to find support for his revolts?”

            “That was over four hundred years since,” Gandalf noted.

            “But with my father’s focus ever on the building of a navy sufficient to deter the threat of Umbar and to retake that land for Gondor, those of the southwest had begun to question whether or not we of the capital continued to hold any interest in their concerns.  So I set my brother Arciryas to see to it their worries are recognized and dealt with.”

            After a pause, the Grey Wizard said quietly, “I apologize for underestimating your appreciation for the humors of the nation, Lord Narmacil.  However, that leaves you undermanned here and now, when you particularly need forces to meet the current threat.  That the folk of Rhûn have, after a brief defense of their eastern borders, merely moved their populations far enough north and south to allow these to move through their lands, funneling them toward Gondor and Rhovanion, is especially troubling, and speaks of the probability that the Wainriders have been encouraged to do as they do now.”

            Continuing to consider the maps with the indications given by the few Ranger scouts to bring word of the movement of the trains of invaders, Gandalf tapped his finger thoughtfully against his nose.  “At the moment Araval knows a degree of stability there in Arnor.  You might think to send to him for assistance.”

            “Does he have transport for troops to send so far, think you?” Narmacil asked.  “There has never been much in the way of threat along their coastlines as is true here in Gondor, for few of those from Umbar, Harad, or beyond would think to go so far north.  Nay, not since the coming of Elendil’s own ships there have the folk of the northern kingdom put much thought into the building of a navy, for such has not been needed by them, as their worst threats are from the south and north, and from the creatures of the Enemy who have ever sheltered in the dark places in the Mountains of Mist.  To build transports to bring aid that far would take more time than we can spare, I fear.”

            The King straightened, turning his attention to Saruman.  “Tell me, Curunír, how it is that the Wainriders use these chariots of which you speak?  How fast do such things move, and how are they best met in battle?”

 *******

            What forces could be spared were placed east of Osgiliath in an arc along the borders of Rhûn; but having the starkness of the Morannon and the treacherous ground of the Marshes behind them did not serve the defenders well.   Ever since the days of Telemnar there had continued to occur outbreaks of the chills and fevers from time to time; now did Narmacil give thanks for those long-ago explorers who’d brought the quinine plant from that far-away continent, for now it became almost a staple in the supplies sent with the armies of defense.

            After three years of holding the Wainriders east of the Morannon the defenders found the morale of their troops in the field was suddenly plummeting.  Dark presences began being noticed, and the more isolated scouts would either return precipitously, almost overwhelmed by the Black Breath, or would disappear completely, their gear often found abandoned along the path of their expected routes with little if any sign to indicate what might have happened to the Men who’d carried it.  Then came word that the Wainriders now had allies in the form of Rhûnim and battalions of orcs....

            Narmacil sighed as he and Gandalf listened to the reports of message riders sent west of the river by his commanders in the field.  “I will need to go myself if the Men are not to lose heart,” he said.  “At least we have knowledge of how to deal with orcs, and they do not usually fight during the daylight hours.”

            “But with the Wainriders to fight under the light of the Sun and the orcs to harry your own troops at night your Men will know little rest.  I like this not at all, Narmacil, for it shows clearly that Dol Guldur indeed is allied against you alongside the eastern folk, and according to the reports you just heard even some of Rhûn’s own warriors now fight alongside the Wainriders.  At least Arciryas has been able to send more battalions from Dor-en-ernil, while Calimehtar has been able to release some of his own Men to your needs here near the capital.”

            “I can ride forth and leave Minas Anor properly defended,” Narmacil said thoughtfully.

            He would not be swayed.  Three weeks later he set out eastward with what cavalry he could command.  It was not a great number, for the greatest force of mounted knights had ever been fielded by Númenor vi Ennorath; and the southwestern coastline was being harried by ships from Harad augmented by those of the Corsairs who’d fled before Telumehtar’s navy.  With the beginnings of unrest making itself known in Umbar the situation was growing dangerous across the realm.

            Mithrandir watched him go, aware that the King would not return.  When the word came a few months later that the King had fallen before the Morannon and that the forces of the Wainriders were sweeping northwards into southern Rhovanion and southwards into Ithilien while the remnants of Gondor’s main army fled westward over the bridges of Osgiliath he stood by the side of Calimehtar, newly returned from a victory at Calenhardon, and grieved as the refugees managed to carry the body of Narmacil back to the White City for proper burial.

            Calimehtar’s cousin Calimmacil wept as he presented his uncle’s remains and that of others of the fallen before the new King.  “We could not hold them longer, my Lord Cousin,” he proclaimed.  “The greater part of our armies were set upon by orcs in the hours before dawn, and when Anor rose into the sky we found a great wave of the Wainriders falling upon us--greater numbers than we’d seen yet.  Your father and twelve others were cut off from the rest of us.  Only two survived of that number when we fought our way through the press.  We brought back their bodies.  But so many were lost I had not choice but to order a retreat.”

            Arciryas had arrived in Minas Anor three days earlier with his son’s wife and children, and attending on Calimmacil’s wife was her younger sister Thalien, newly come from her father’s estate in Belfalas to be presented at court.  Calimehtar found his attention caught by the young noblewoman; and somehow Gandalf was not surprised to find that within a matter of a few months the two were betrothed.

*******

            After five years in Gondor Mithrandir took his leave to creep into Rhovanion.  It was with assistance from border wardens of Laurelindórenan he was able to locate some of the royal house of the land in hiding a few leagues north of the hidden Elven enclave.  There they were being aided by their distant kinsmen among the horsemen of the Éothéod.

            “We have regular word from our own people,” he was told.  “Most are unhappy with the coming of these folk from afar, for their ways are strange to us, and they are often cruel.  But it appears that they are poorly adapted to life in our lands, for our plants are strange to them and many have difficulty digesting them, and they often appear to become seriously ill of those diseases that we consider to be mere nuisances.  The way in which they treat women and children makes them many enemies.  They will not agree for the most part to learn our language, and when they seek to occupy our homes they have no idea how to do the most basic of tasks.

            “We ought to have heeded the warnings sent by Narmacil; but how could we believe the might of Gondor would fail as it did?  However, we now wait and build our strength, and in time we will return and take back our own land once more.”

            Thranduil’s people reported more activity from Dol Guldur, but most of its production of troops was being sent southward toward Rhovanion and Gondor.  Rhosgobel was empty, Radagast having gone up onto the eastern flanks of the Misty Mountains to encourage renewal of forests in the wake of a series of wildfires that appeared to have been started by the actions of orcs and dragons.

            There was no question in his heart that the number of Dwarves in the world could be no more than two-thirds what he’d found when first he came to Middle Earth--so many of the smaller kingdoms were no more; and as he approached the gates of what had been one of the more active mining communities east of the mountains he found it sheltered a number of mountain trolls.  As he crossed at the pass above Imladris he found the number of mountain giants had also increased alarmingly, and they appeared to be bent on filling the pass with boulders.  More than once he was required to use words of Power to clear his path, and twice he found himself putting spells on some of the creatures to send them into the deep sleep that was their most normal state of being.  Their most usual activity when awake was constant battles amongst themselves; to find their attentions fixed on himself as he traveled through the pass indicated to the Grey Wizard that there was mischief from orcs and other sources causing them to give their attention to those who walked closer to the ground.

            On his way down the westward slopes he came upon a large party of Dwarves battling orcs, and he joined the fray almost with relief.  He’d been carrying one of his fireworks he’d prepared in hopes of entertaining any of the Hobbit folk he might come upon, although he’d located none of their smials as he’d gone through the valley of the Anduin; this he now set off, aiming it at the orcs themselves, sending the survivors scurrying for cover.  It took little for the Dwarves now to subdue their foes, and no more than three or four could have escaped, the Wizard decided as he and his new companions began examining themselves and one another for wounds.

            “Our thanks to you, Master,” said the one of the Dwarves who appeared to be their leader.  “Nori Glóin’s son am I.  We had been east to seek word of our kin in Borodelf, but found none remaining.  We took our vengeance on those goblins who’d taken our halls for their own, but these have harried us all along our return road.  I think that from here we will continue unmolested.”

            “Such is my hope, also.  I’ve seen few enough orcs on this sweep along the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains, but three more of your folk’s holdings are now empty of Mahal’s children from what I could tell.”

            Nori’s expression had hardened.  “So we have found as well.  We begin to dwindle, Dúrin’s people.  If things continue on as they do now I fear that in the end we must fail--and failing due to the actions of the Shadow’s spawn is not the fate any of us wish to know.”  Nori gave him a sidelong examination.  “You are the Wizard Tharkûn?” he asked.  “We’ve heard of you, of course, but none I’ve known have seen aught of you for well over half a century.”

            “I visited the halls of Dúrin under Malin’s rule not that long ago; but he appears to think that as long as Khazad-dûm itself still stands there is insufficient reason to cooperate with the other Free Peoples against the darkness stretching out now from Dol Guldur.”

            “Shortsighted of him,” grunted Nori.  “We have heard the tales of how once there were villages of the Hobbit folks about Borodelf with whom our folk traded for foodstuffs; now there remain none throughout the lands that we are aware of.”

            “Oh, Hobbits are not gone totally from Middle Earth,” Gandalf assured him as he turned to resume his journey westward.  “I suspect a few still remain in the valley of the Anduin--mostly of Stoor blood, though, not the Harfoots your people dealt with the most.  Most, however, have removed far to the west, this side of the Blue Mountains where the Kings of Arthedain granted them land to call their own.”

            “Are they still canny farmers?” Nori asked, keeping up easily with the pace set by the Wizard, the remainder of his folk following behind.

            “That they are--as sensitive to the song of cultivated earth as are your people to the resonance of earth and stone or the Elves to the calls of trees and wilderlands.”

            “My grandsire would tell me tales of them when I was yet a child,” Nori said reminiscently.  “He went westward eventually, but spoke often of those he’d once known, there when he was himself a child.  I’d hoped to hear word of my mother’s brother in Borodelf, although all of us had kin of one kind or another there, from whom we’ve heard nothing for at least twenty years.”  He went silent for a time. 

            At last they came to a more open area where they might stop for a time and eat.  Now the rest of his company--a party of seventeen, presented and introduced themselves to the Wizard.  One of the younger Dwarves started a small fire, and Gandalf made his own generous contributions to the swiftly prepared meal and accepted his share with a show of graciousness that won the approval of the group in general.  As they set themselves to enjoying the repast Nori continued.  “It is good to know that there remain yet Hobbits in Middle Earth, for I’d thought them now but the stuff of legends.  Perhaps there is hope for my own people as well.”

            “Indeed,” Gandalf agreed.  “A much poorer world it would be if we were to see the loss of such folk as you and Hobbits.”

            “But now it is Men who breed the fastest,” Nori continued.  “We trade easily enough with the Men of Arthedain and the Elves of Imladris, but we are treated with distrust by most others; and the hillmen of the Brown Lands treat us with rank contempt.”

            Gandalf sighed as he took his tin plate to wash it at a nearby freshet.  “I fear that this tends to be their attitude toward all--certainly it is not true only of their treatment of Dwarves.  Calimehtar of Gondor spent decades trying to deal with them, offering them treaties, even land, if they would agree to become allies instead of sending ever raiders into the lands his people hold north of the Ered Nimrais, but they wouldn’t agree.  No, they, who can barely rule themselves, would be seen as rulers--or rather, exploiters--of all rather than allies.”

            “What has become of the other Wizard?” Nori asked.

            “Radagast from the valley of the Anduin?”

            “No--not the brown one--the white one, the one who has his own attitude.  Tales of him have been also handed down to us from those who have attended councils involving him in the past.  The brown one we hear tell of from time to time from those of our own who come through the passes.  We came upon him not far from the doors of Borodelf, encouraging a stand of pine to grow once more.  He seems busy enough about his business.  But my grandsire was told by his grandsire that it is best to keep an eye upon the Wizard in white, for he has little respect for Dwarves--or most others, or so it is said.”

            Gandalf was surprised to find himself unsurprised by this assessment of Saruman.  “Yet he seeks to meet the purpose for which we were sent,” he said in excuse.

            Nori merely shrugged; and a short time later, their fire extinguished and all signs of it carefully hidden, they headed west once more.

            He found Araval and his son Araphant both guests of Elrond on his arrival in Rivendell, having taken his leave of Nori’s party a half-day’sjourney northwards, where the Dwarves now found their hidden ways back to their own caverns.

            “No, no communication have we had from Gondor,” Araval told him.  “Angmar remains quiet for the most part--at least for the moment.  So badly did the plague of the pox hit those lands that it has taken a good long time for them to build up a sufficient population to trouble us again, although in the past five years we have again begun to know some incursions.  The sealing of their border failed, and we have been able to follow a few of their raiding parties back northward, and have driven most of their troops well over a day’s ride north of our lands.  We hold our own--at least for now.  I fear, however, that Araphant will know far more trouble from them than I do.”

            “And what of those from southern Rhudaur and Dunland?”

            “We have sufficient troops stationed to the south to keep them under control.  Nay, it has ever been the orcs and great wolves of the mountains that have plagued us in my time, more than Angmar and Rhudaur.”

            “And there have been no more sweeps of sickness through your lands?”

            “Again, not since the great pox.  Once Dol Guldur becomes aware of other diseases that might diminish us, however, I suspect he will seek to visit them upon us once more.  He has done so with so many plagues so far.”

            Nor did Elrond have aught to report regarding further attempts to decimate the northern Dúnedain via plagues and illnesses.  Both listened to the tales of the assaults by the Wainriders with interest.  “And where is Saruman now?” Elrond asked.

            “He went southward to examine the situation within Umbar.  Namarcil had lost the lands taken by his father before he went eastwards--battalions from Harad invaded Umbar, assisted by a small but effective fleet of Corsairs as well as some of their own ships.  I hope Saruman will return soon with word as to what the folk of Harad and Khand intend next.  If they were to ally themselves with the Wainriders it could allow two gateways into Gondor’s lands, and it is possible that the south kingdom could then fail.”

            “But what has become of Gondor’s great navy as built by Telumehtar?” asked young Araphant.  “How is it they failed to hold Umbar against the Corsairs and Haradrim?”

            “Narmacil failed to replace ships on a timely basis, and focused instead on building relationships with the southwestern provinces and protecting the northwestern borders.  Perhaps the folk of Dunland and the lawless ones of southern Rhudaur might now seek once again for a greater foothold this way, as Calimehtar has driven them further away from his own borders when they refused to treat with Gondor.”

            “We thank you for the warning,” Araval sighed, “I think.”

            But it was obvious that sending reinforcements to assist Calimehtar would be difficult, if not impossible.  “Narmacil was right in saying it would not be possible for us to build a large enough fleet of transports in a timely manner; and our allies along the Lhûn do not have so many ships they might lend to such purpose.  Certainly we do not have enough in the way of cavalry we might send.  It appears our own horsemen outnumber those of Calimehtar; but it is with those we have held the raiders from Angmar at bay for the last three centuries.  As for going south and past Orthanc--we would have to pass the forces of Dunland and the lawless ones who have settled within southern Rhudaur.  Not only would they most likely attack our armies as we passed, but they would realize those remaining to guard our own lands would be depleted.  As soon as our troops were too far to recall we would find ourselves once more under vicious siege.”

            Three days later Gandalf accepted a horse from Elrond to ride west in company with the King and his son and Glorfindel.  Many villages had again begun to grow in the lands firmly under Araval’s protection, and he saw great fields of wheat and barley, and herds of cattle and flocks of sheep and goats, rich farmlands properly cultivated.  “Do you trade much with the Pheriannath of the Shire?” he asked.

            “Some.  They brew fine ales and beer, and their produce is finer than those grown by Men.  All praise their woolens and linens--we have some shepherds who sell bales of wool to those within the Shire who will spin and weave it into far finer cloth than most of our folk have the ability to craft, although their rolls of cloth tend to be not as wide as those woven by our people.  However, their dyes are superb, and the quality of the cloth and threads they produce has no equal in all of our lands.”

            Gandalf found himself wondering how the folk of the Shire would do if they were to be presented with bales of cotton from southern Gondor or Harad.  Lamedon and portions of Dor-en-ernil were known to produce excellent quality cotton.  If the spinners and weavers of the Shire did so well with woolens and linens, what they might do with other fibers might bring even more trade to them.

            Annúminas appeared to have closed in on itself from what he remembered from his last visit; and he saw that the fortifications of Fornost had been well reinforced.  Nowhere did he see signs that the relative peace of the last fifty years or so had led to carelessness.  Indeed, although the King and his son were hailed freely by those they passed, yet folk gave the Wizard and Elf a more wary eye, and children were hastily called out of their path as they approached.

            Gandalf took leave of Araval a half-day’s ride south of Fornost, and with Glorfindel they rode on to the Breelands and at last across the Brandywine Bridge and into the Shire.  There was no question that the Hobbits of the Shire had indeed prospered.  Villages had sprung up, and there were now inns along the Road to offer refreshment to those who traveled there, many of them built to accommodate the King’s Men who passed on the King’s business.  Even here, however, he saw signs that caution was being taken.  Most Hobbits they saw on their own carried bows and quivers appropriate to their size, while the Hobbitesses and children they saw were almost never abroad alone.

            Where Hobbits excavated their holes or built their low houses they still surrounded them with flowers and shrubs for the most part, less now to hide their doorways and windows than to delight the senses, however.  Everywhere they looked they saw abundance and order and beauty.  “Each time I must pass through this land now,” Glorfindel said quietly as they rode, “I rejoice the more.  So long since the rule of Cardolan began to fail the land itself knew grief; now it is alive and fulfilled and rejoices.  Worthier stewards for this place Argeleb could not have found.”

            “Indeed,” the Wizard smiled.  “And I foresee that those who dwell here will serve as few yet understand.  Yes, worthy stewards they prove, and even more so will they prove in time to come.”

            They stopped and purchased a meal at an inn where two ways met, listening to the talk from their seat in the corner.  This inn was rough, perhaps, but scrupulously clean, the food plain but well prepared and delightfully seasoned, the ale served them excellent, even to the Elf’s palate.  As they completed their meal talk nearer the bar grew louder, and it proved one of the Hobbits there was being begged to sing.

            “Come on, Forodo,” called a patron, “You know all the older songs.  Sing us something!”

            A taller Hobbit with hair of an unusual ashen color finally rose up, and one of his companions reached down and lifted up a lute and handed to the taller one.  Forodo checked the tuning of his instrument, then began to play, allowing his fingers to wander over the strings for a few minutes before he settled to a particular rhythm and tune, then began to sing.  Elf and Wizard listened in wonder, for neither would have believed such a voice could come from one so small.  His voice was a pleasant and remarkably rich tenor, and as he sang Gandalf found himself transported back across the Misty Mountains to the valley of the Anduin, there where the folk of the Éothéod followed their horse herds and sang their chants beneath the clear light of distant stars.  An ancient song; perhaps one, Gandalf judged, once sung by the Stoors, learned from the Men alongside whom they lived.  The name of Bema was repeated often, but many of the other words no longer held meaning and were sung not now to tell a story but merely to stir the feelings the tune had been written to evoke.

            At last the song was over, and all sat, still bespelled by it even as the strings of the lute went silent.  Gandalf looked into the eyes of the singer and found them reminiscent of the eyes of Bilbiolo of the village of Baggers, but also reminiscent of Bilbiolo’s nephew Merlin he’d known then.  There was also something about the chin that reminded him of Modoc, while the clever fingers reminded him of Blanco of the Tooks.  A descendant of all of them, perhaps?

            One of those who’d listened at last lifted his mug and drank from it, then set it down on the rough table with a distinct thunk.  That appeared to set the rest blinking, taking their own sips, and resuming their talk and laughter, and one of the others called out, “Well done, Baggers.  Now--a song all can join in!”

            “Yes, Forodo,” called another, “a drinking song!”

            Forodo smiled, a smile that seemed to light the room.  “If you will,” he said.  He tightened a string and tried a chord, then began:

“Raise the cup and sing out gladly,

glad the work of the day is done.

Even if all the rest went badly

now’s our time of joy begun!

            A cup!  A cup!

            All drink up!”

            The song went on, becoming increasingly rollicking as it progressed, more and more voices joining with every verse.  Something of this Forodo’s gift appeared to be shared with those who joined him in the singing, as the voices were truer than one might expect from so many and the hearts of all were lifted as the song progressed.

            When at last the song was done Gandalf murmured, “Now, that one has inherited the fullness of Fallohide charm if anyone has,” to which Glorfindel smiled in answer.

            All laughed when the song was over, and another round was served out to all.  Yet none appeared to drink too deeply or become maudlin or too raucous.  This Forodo set the tone for the evening, and none exceeded his lead.  Gandalf found himself fascinated.

            Ten days later he and Glorfindel rode again past the small inn, having consulted with Círdan and Galdor.  Gandalf  was tempted to stop and perhaps see this Forodo again, but his duty led him onward.  With a sigh and a second glance back he led the way, back toward the Brandywine Bridge and Bree, where he took leave of his companion and turned back southward, going as swiftly as he could as he returned to Gondor to carry word to Calimehtar that, unfortunately, he could count on little aid from other realms in this fight.

 *******

            Much of the next few decades Mithrandir spent by the side of Calimehtar, who found his counsel sound.  Many times the Wizard would slip through to consult with the rulers of Rhovanion in their exile and with the leadership of those who’d remained behind who worked to confound their new lords, then return to Gondor to help coordinate plans.

            Some aid came to them from elsewhere.  Six individuals came to them cloaked in grey, their cloaks held closed with great brooches in the shape of silver stars.  They were clearly of Dúnedain blood with their tall stature and eyes of clear grey and command of Sindarin and even Quenya.  Calimehtar accepted their service and the names they gave, although he and his uncle and cousin privately agreed that it was likely their true names were other than those given, particularly the leader of the six, whose star brooch was slightly different from those of the others.  Yet none of these asked for or accepted greater honor than any other who fought for the security of Gondor, and they followed all orders given them, even when they went counter to their own counsel.

            Seven years did they serve before somehow word came to them, and the leader and two of the others at last asked for an audience with the King.

            Calimehtar, the Winged Crown on his head, met them in a lesser audience chamber, seated on a highly carved chair, the Grey Wizard standing by him, his right hand on the back of the King’s seat.  “You asked for this audience?” he said.

            “A message has reached us,” began the leader, whom they’d addressed for the past seven years as Gilorhael.  “I must return to my own people, and these two would return with me.  The other three of our fellows, however, have requested permission to remain here until this fight is won, and it has been granted to them.”

            “Your father fails, then?” asked Calimehtar.  “And what reward can I offer you for what you have done for this people not your own?”

            Grey Dúnedain eyes met his own.  “And who says that your people are not mine also?  Are we not all of the blood of Númenor?  Was this nation not ruled equally by Elendil and both of his sons?  Nay, I ask no reward beyond what has been given me already--a soldier’s pay for a soldier’s labor.  But the Shadow’s creatures threaten all equally, and there are other battlefields on which they must be fought as well as those here in Gondor.  I am called now to continue the fight where I am now needed.”

            “And my thanks go with you, both for what you yourself have done and for the loan of these your Men.  And perhaps one day Gondor may return the favor.”

            The one who’d been called Gilorhael gave his smile--one that would start as a grim one, but which would then lighten his soldier’s face and lift the hearts of all who stood in his presence.  “We will look forward to that happening, then, Lord King Calimehtar.”

            “So may it be, my Lord Prince,” Calimehtar returned, rising and stepping forward to clasp the departing captain’s wrist in the warrior’s grip.  “And may the Valar smile upon your sword.”

            “May we both be able to know peace one day during our time,” Gilorhael said simply, “although I doubt either of us will fully know that blessing, not while the Enemy remains in Middle Earth.  Fight well, brother.”  So saying he withdrew his grasp, stepped back, and bowed deeply before turning to leave the presence of the King of Gondor, pausing to reach down to the King’s young cousin Siriondil where he stood by his father Calimmicil, laying his hand briefly on the youth’s head.  Siriondil looked up into the eyes of the departing captain, his own eyes bright with hero worship. 

            Then, just before he reached the door he found himself confronted by Calimehtar’s son Ondoher, standing tall and defiant.  “You must leave us?” the young Man asked.

            “Too long have I absented myself from my primary responsibilities, although to fight the armies of the Enemy is our duty no matter where we find them.”

            “So may we all do,” the youth responded.

            “So may we all do,” agreed the foreign captain.  “The Valar be gracious to you and all your family.”

            “Gondor will miss you.”

            “As I will miss Gondor.  But I may no longer linger.”

            “Perhaps we may meet again.”

            “Mayhap.  Until that day might come, young Lord Prince.”  He again bowed, and Ondoher bowed in return, as deeply as he himself did.  He again turned away, and was gone from Minas Anor within the hour, never to return.

            But a bond had been forged from that day.  Only one felt relief at the leaving of the captain from the north--the King’s Steward Beren of the House of Húrin, who feared to see the rule of Gondor perhaps leave the House of Anárion.

*******

            The day came when the leadership of Rhovanion sent word that all was in readiness--that the secret arming of the people of Rhovanion was complete and they were now ready to throw the hated Wainriders out of their long-held supremacy.  Carefully Calimehtar prepared his own troops, including the cavalry he’d been patiently building over the past forty years.  To coordinate the attacks was important.  Forces were moved into western Osgiliath, and Rangers slipped across to target the Wainrider’s sentries.  Small boats carried more soldiers across the river in the dark of the night to take up positions where they might keep reinforcements away from reaching the buildings in which the commanders of the Wainrider’s forces had made their headquarters.  Engineers were also ferried across the river at several sites to arrange for the digging of strategic pits and the camouflaging of them, with carefully placed black and white stones to indicate the safe routes for the King’s cavalry. 

            When all was in readiness they waited the final signs.  At last one dawn three pigeons landed at their cote on the edge of western Osgiliath; once the word was given the King the troops began to move in earnest.  With his son leading the forces to approach from the south in which the three Northerners would fight and his nephews those from the north, Calimehtar prepared to lead those from the center of Osgiliath.

            The fighting lasted for six days, but by the end of the first it was obvious that Gondor once more was in possession of the east bank of the Anduin.  Another month’s fighting cleared Ithilien of the remaining Wainriders who’d moved into it; but no horses would now agree to go more than a few leagues eastward of the statue of Atanatar enthroned that stood at the Crossroads; and those scouts who braved the road to the bridge told that the statues of Anárion and Isildur that had guarded it had been cast down, and that the abandoned city of Minas Ithil no longer shown pure and white, but with a sickly glow that caused their hackles to rise.

            Isildur’s once proud city was now in the hands of the Ringwraiths; and with them guarding the western entrance to Mordor, how long might it be before their fell Master followed after them?

Royal Marriage

            “I don’t understand why you are so insistent on such an alliance between Arnor and Gondor!” argued Saruman.

            “Because neither is strong enough of itself to completely stand on its own,” Gandalf explained patiently one more time.  “Each has need of the other.  When Araphant came south to serve in Gondor’s forces it strengthened both kingdoms.  Calimehtar and his son and nephew realized that those in Arnor do care and will aid as they can; and Araphant learned first-hand just what threats the Enemy will throw at Gondor.”

            “Well, I don’t understand where this Malbeth the Seer has come from!  The Man is uncanny!”

            Gandalf paused in their progress up through the levels of the White City to the White Tower and Citadel at the top built by Calimehtar and gave his fellow an intensive examination, his lips parted slightly in surprise and amusement.  “Considering what we are and our origins,” he said in quiet Quenya, “you would think to find a mere Man with I’ll admit extraordinarily strong Dúnedain foresight uncanny?  I am surprised at you, Curumo!”

            Saruman stopped also, and found himself shivering at the again almost-forgotten name to which he’d once answered.  He shrugged to shake off the feeling of unease.  The Grey Wizard turned away to resume the journey to the top of the city.  What had possessed Anárion to build his city here on the steep slopes of a mountain root? Saruman wondered once more as he hurried to follow, then hated himself for appearing to allow Gandalf to take precedence.  He resumed his place at his fellow’s side and matched his pace.

            Years previous Araphant had managed to marry a princess from Númenor vi Ennorath, a suit that had taken all by surprise, particularly as it had been engineered so quietly that Calimehtar and Ondoher weren’t aware it had been finalized until the young woman was on her way northward on a ship said to belong to the Northern Dúnedain.  The bride was one Captain Gilorhael had first met when she was yet little more than a child and whom he’d watched mature into a beautiful and capable young woman.  The marriage was brokered by one of the northern mercenaries who’d remained behind when his captain returned northwards.  Calimehtar had sent messages to Annúminas reminding the King of Arnor that it was his duty as King of Gondor to ratify matches involving the high lords and ladies of his realm, although the protest was more for formality’s sake than because he felt it a bad one.  In truth the only ones who opposed the match proved to be the Lord Steward Beren and his son Pelendur, who was yet a youth; all others felt it could only serve to increase ties between the two realms to the benefit of all, and this was as true of Calimehtar and his son and cousin as it was of the Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath and the officials of the Northern Kingdom.

            Ondoher had married the daughter of the lord of Pelargir, one of almost pure Dúnedain blood herself and whose mother had also come from Númenor vi Ennorath; together they’d had three children--sons merely a year apart in age, and a daughter some five years younger.  Artamir and Faramir were as close in spirit and brotherly love as they were in age.  Fíriel displayed both the beauty and the intelligence of her lineage, and already in her early twenties many lords of the realm clustered about her, hoping to ally themselves with the King’s house.  But so far she’d shown no response to any, which spoke to the good for Gandalf’s cause.

            “And this Malbeth has indicated the two kingdoms should ally through marriage?” Saruman continued.

            “So he spake:  In division have the issue of Elendil done ill; let their progeny know reconciliation if they will.  The lineage of the Kings falters unless all the houses of the Mariner willingly wed in faithfulness.  He was present as one of the witnesses at the birth of the son of Araphant and gave the infant the name he bears--Arvedui, declaring he will indeed be the last king Arthedain and Arnor shall know until the realm of Elendil is renewed under a single lord--and either Arvedui himself will once again rule both the north and south kingdoms in the fullness of time when the rule of Gondor shall fall into contention, or until Gondor in humility shall accept the heir of Isildur as the rightful bearer of both the Wingèd Crown as well as the Sceptre of Annúminas to the downfall of the Shadow.”

            “All of the houses of the Mariner....  An odd phrasing.”

            “Indeed.”

            “And now we, who you have ever declared should stand aloof of the marriage market, seek to broker a further alliance between Arnor and Gondor to see that this odd prophecy might be fulfilled?”

            “In a word, yes.”

            “And you are certain that Arvedui is willing to accept the daughter of Ondoher to wife, sight unseen?”

            “Not precisely unseen.  Even now does Arvedui sail southward on one of the trading vessels of Arnor to meet with Ondoher himself and bring his father’s wishes for reconciliation between the lines of Valandil and Meneldil, and offering what support Arnor can provide to Gondor’s needs in the fight both realms know against the Shadow that reaches westward both to the south and north from Dol Guldur.  Araphant and Ondoher have both seen that it is from Dol Guldur and its alliance with the dark forces again growing within the walls of Mordor and further eastward that both realms and Rhovanion are all threatened.  Again do the Kings of the West, the descendants of Elros, call for all to come together to recognize that the Necromancer orchestrates the assaults on all--on the lands and peoples of Men, Elves, and Dwarves and on all others who are considered the Children of Ilúvatar.”

            “So, they would summon the White Council to meet yet once again?”

            “Only if all the Free Peoples unite in common cause will all stand a chance of defeating the Shadow once and for all.”

            “And would you bring to this Council not only representatives from Mithlond, Lindor, Laurelindórenan, Imladris, and Amroth’s havens west of the Mouths of the Sea, Men of Gondor and Rhovanion, and Dwarves from Khazad-dûm and the other Dwarf halls, but also Ents from the depths of Fangorn, Iarwain, the horse lords of the Éothéod, and the Halflings of the northlands as well?”

            “Are not all equally threatened, Saruman?  Do not all need to do their part in the defense of all the West?”

            “And what defense can the farmers of the Periannath or the shepherds of the trees of the Onodrim or Iarwain offer any other peoples?  Would you command even Manwë’s Eagles to cooperate in fighting the abominations descended from the spawn of Morgoth?”

            “Once they knew all others were united in common cause, do you think that the great Eagles would stand aloof?  It has ever been that when all together fight the Shadow of Evil that Súlimohas given them leave to join in the fray as they see fit.  And remember--not only are sentient beings threatened by a victory by the Shadow, but also trees and plants and beasts and the earth itself.  Those who nurture growth have as much to offer in the defense of all and the protection and renewal of balance as those who wield the weapons of war.”

            Saruman was not so certain of that as his fellow, but for now he gave over the argument as they started up the ramp to the level of the Citadel of Minas Tirith.

 *******

            Those who dwelt within Minas Tirith and upon the Pelennor followed the coming of the ship from the north kingdom with great interest.  All watched as it arrived at the Harlond, driven up the river by a great wind blowing from the Mouths of the Sea.  From the main mast hung a great banner, silver with seven great stars set in a circle with a representation of the Sceptre of Annúminas in the center.  On the deck stood a tall figure cloaked in grey, his face proud and clear, the Ring of Barahir upon his right hand, a silver circlet upon his brow, a great sword at his hip, fully a descendant of the Sea Kings of old.  By him stood his companions, some as young as he himself; a few much older, all of them clearly as much of Dúnedain descent as the northern Prince himself--all save two, two who in spite of the similarity of dark hair and sea-grey eyes and the build of warriors born and bred it was plain were not Men of Arnor--not Men at all, in fact, considering the warrior’s braids caught behind pointed ears and the light of the Eldar in their eyes.

            Saruman, as one of those who attended upon Ondoher, almost did not recognize the sons of Elrond, so long had it been since he’d last seen them.  Gandalf, on the other hand, clearly not only recognized them but appeared surprised and somewhat pleased to see them arrive upon the ship with their mortal kinsman.

            The eyes of the ladies present were caught by the tall Men and the two Peredhil upon the deck of the ship, and the eyes of many became fixed on the one who stood at the center of all.  But one pair of eyes watched with particular fascination, and it was not lost upon Beren and Pelendur that the breath of Ondoher’s daughter Fíriel caught at the sight of the Prince of Arnor, and that she first paled and then flushed at the look of him.

            For Pelendur of the House of Húrin, heir to the Steward of Gondor, was one of those many lords whose hope it had become to take Fíriel, daughter of the King, to wife; and it had long been his venerable father Beren’s ambition to see these two ancient lines blended once more.  To see the Princess’s heart at last stirred by a stranger from the north raised Pelendur’s envy and Beren’s suspicions on the intent of this one he saw as rival to Artamir as well as his son.

            The feast hall built alongside the new Citadel by Calimehtar rang to the sound of laughter and music as the Princes of Gondor and their cousin Eärnil son of Siriondil rejoiced to find in this Prince of Arnor a merry and noble spirit the equal of their own, and as Ondoher and his cousin Siriondil recognized in the young Man seated at board with them much they had seen and honored in the Captain Gilorhael who had once served Calimehtar in the fight against the Wainriders.  Within days all felt as if Arvedui was one they’d known and loved since his childhood; within a month it was plain that he and the Lady Fíriel had come to love one another with a deep and abiding adoration and respect.  Before he left Minas Tirith and the south kingdom at the end of two months the Prince of Arnor was betrothed to the Princess of Gondor, with the promise he would come for his bride in eight months’ time.

            None could fault the articles of alliance forged between Arnor and Gondor, in which Artamir and Eärnil had labored alongside Arvedui, Ondoher, Siriondil, and Gondor’s Steward and his son as well as the older advisers accompanying Arnor’s Prince and the Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath.  To all this Elladan and Elrohir Elrondionnath stood witness alongside the White and Grey Wizards, and much discussion took place between all parties regarding the nature of the evil that maneuvered so many threads of malice against all of the West. 

            Saruman and Gandalf stood one day at sunset behind the guest house in which they were housed within the Sixth Circle, watching the glory reflected above them.  “Well, Gandalf, it appears our purpose here has been met.”

            “Yes--north and south are at last bound in a full alliance such as has not been seen between them since the death of Isildur, and soon the royal families of both shall be joined in the marriage of Arvedui and Fíriel.  However, the Shadow won’t be pleased, and will do its best to destroy the alliance however it can.”

            “Ondoher’s Steward does not appear best pleased.”

            “Nor is he, for Beren desired Ondoher’s daughter for his own son.  However, considering the power of the alliance that has been forged and that will be guaranteed once the marriage is made he will do all he can to see it a success.”

            “But you have said that the crown of Gondor shall fall into contention, at which time Arvedui may seek to claim it?”

            “So foresees Malbeth.”

            “But you have no idea as to what the circumstances might be?”

            “Correct--we have no idea.”

 *******

            Eight months later two ships came up the Anduin to the Harlond, one of them equipped to carry horses.  A great company came off of them of Men and women of the Dúnedain of Arnor, and a smaller company of Elves, including Elrond and his wife and one of his sons, Glorfindel, Galdor of the Havens of Mithlond, Gildor Inglorion and his son Glorinlas, and a few from the trains of each.

            But for the people of Gondor gathered to the White City and the Pelennor the greatest curiosity lay in seeing with their own eyes the family of the bridegroom as they calmed their mounts brought out of the hold of the second ship and at last mounted them.  He who had been known to them as Captain Gilorhael rode a great piebald stallion; his wife, sister to the Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath, rode a fine roan mare; their daughter rode a chestnut gelding; and the bridegroom a stallion the same color as his sister’s mount.  And beside King Araphant rode two others many recognized as having been among those who’d come to Gondor with “Captain” Gilorhael who also had served their nation.  As for the Elves with their gaily caparisoned steeds of as remarkable grace as the Elves themselves--all watched them with curiosity and a degree of awe, for save for the folk of Númenor vi Ennorath few of those in Gondor had ever had the chance to see Elves of any sort.

            It was a marvelous company that rode up the way across the Pelennor from the quays of the Harlond to the great gates of the city in company with Ondoher and his sons and the Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath, come with his son and grandchildren to greet his sister and her family.

 *******

            “Mithrandir, I would have you and your fellow both witness the ratification of the treaty we have arranged with Arnor, as well as Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel at the least,” Ondoher said to Gandalf during the dancing that followed the feast of welcome for the guests come for the marriage.

            “You would have Curunír and myself as witnesses?  Why is this?”

            Ondoher shrugged as if the answer were most obvious.  “Neither of you as Istari are Men, no matter how you resemble us,” he pointed out, “unless you have been of a lineage of individuals who all appear exactly alike and have managed to pass your knowledge intact across the generations.  The records of the city and the realm are full of your names and words of counsel.  That you appear to know the same sort of immortality as do the Elves is--shall I say, obvious?  Therefore you, as is true of Lord Elrond, can stand witness over time to the fact of the treaty and its terms, in case one of my successors should question it in the future.”

            “I, at least, am honored and humbled by your trust in me as a witness,” the Wizard answered him.  “I do ask, however, my Lord, whether or not you are pleased and satisfied with this match?”

            The King sighed.  “How can I be truly happy when my daughter must go so far away, and the chances are I shall not see her again in this life?  But I have seen her eyes come alive for Arvedui as they have not for any other Man, and have seen how the Man softens for her as for no other.  I have seen how very happy Alassielis, after having been married all these years to Araphant, and how much love and pleasure there is between them as husband and wife; with such an example, how can Arvedui fail but to do as well by my daughter as has his father by his mother? 

            “My grandchildren will, I hope, rule both kingdoms and will have that tie to hopefully bring Gondor and Arnor back in the end under joint rule.  We cannot go on as we have, each isolated, for together we can achieve far more than we can separately.  And certainly it was never intended to be thus, for Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion ruled the two lands jointly, and thus Isildur proposed to do with Meneldil.  Had Valandil not been as young as he was, perhaps Meneldil would have continued that situation instead of allowing himself to be persuaded to break away from the interests of Arnor.

            “I have a memory of a talk between Gilorhael and my troop of recruits shortly after I began my military training.  The question was raised as to why all troops on the borders of the realm included officers and some Men from the capital--why some members of the army here were sent to Númenor vi Ennorath, the fortresses at the crossings of the Poros, Pelargir, even to the uplands of the Morthond valley near Erech.  He said that he would answer the question the next day, and that each of us should bring with us a stick the thickness of our little fingers and of about a span in length.

            “We did so, and he placed them before himself, and while we examined the history of the assaults by the Wainriders he took the sticks and bound them together into one bundle.  We saw he had already three bundles there of other sticks, more slender than the sticks we had gathered that he had set by him.  When the day’s lessons were completed he handed the bundle of sticks to the one of us closest to himself and asked him to break the bundle.  Of course, he could not; he was instructed to hand the bundle to the next, and so it went throughout the room, until each of us in turn had tried and failed to break the bundle.  Siriondil laughed and said that if we were to take the bundle apart it ought to be possible to break each stick easily by itself, and Gilorhael nodded his agreement.

            “‘Yes,’ he told us, ‘singly the sticks can be easily broken; together they support one another, and the bundle in the end survives the stresses intended to destroy.  To destroy all one must first destroy that which binds them together that the bundle might fall apart, then fall on each stick separately or in numbers of little more than two or three.’ 

            “Then he held up the three bundles he had already, and asked, ‘If I were to seek to destroy these bound together into a single mass, how easy do you think it would be to break it?’  Of course we agreed that a single mass of them would be impossible to destroy.  He continued, ‘Then let me tell you the story of the north kingdom.  Once, although its resources were fewer than those in Gondor, yet it had more people; and as long as they remained united Arnor maintained its integrity.

            “‘Eärendur, however, fell victim to the idea that his great kingdom had grown to the extent that it should be able to withstand the forces of the Enemy even if it should be divided further.  He loved each of his three sons equally and saw the strengths of each, but not the weaknesses of each; and he would not see any of them having to bow to the will of one of the others.  So he created of the realm of Arnor three smaller kingdoms and gave one portion to each of his sons to rule; but as I stated each had weaknesses.  Together they might have accomplished great things-- separate, the Shadow had but one strand to destroy to break the binding of each bundle, and then it was a matter of merely falling on each twig as it fell loose.’  At that point Gilorhael twisted a single twig on the edge of one of the bundles, and the thread binding it together snapped, allowing the twigs it contained to scatter over the table before him; then he did likewise to the second.  ‘Thus fell Cardolan and Rhudaur, and thus might Arthedain have fallen also, save most of those who survived the fall of the lesser kingdoms joined themselves to Arthedain to its strengthening.’

            “Then he told us, ‘The bindings are the formalities that make the kingdom what it is.  That involves the laws, customs, traditions, and most important of all, its leadership.  Here in Gondor the bindings have been greater, and this has in part been because, since the deposition of Castamir, among the leadership of all its forces are those who have trained in Minas Tirith itself, who know the same generals, who have spoken with the King and his Steward and who have listened to his counselors and who have seen the same battlefields and the same enemies and heard the same reports.  When such people are within all your forces it becomes easier for understanding to be reached between different troops.

            “In the north kingdom the Dúnedain have been driven further and further north and eastward, and so its forces tend to train together and coordinate together easily--now; but it was not so during the time of the three kingdoms when the Enemy found it simple to send false counselors to the three courts to spread dissension and distrust between them, and to lead Rhudaur and Cardolan to fight over control of the Weather Hills and the Palantír of Amon Sûl.  And so in the end those two kingdoms were weakened and fell easy prey to Angmar.  Only now does the land of Arnor finally begin to prosper once again; but if Angmar should again send his armies south, particularly if they are again preceded by plague and contagion, the results could be devastating.’

            “It was a most sobering talk, Mithrandir.”

            Gandalf was most impressed by this understanding by Ondoher of the situation.  He only prayed that this new alliance between the north and the south should not have come too late, for those with the gift of foresight, from Galadriel to Elrond to Malbeth to Araphant himself, had all foreseen renewal of enemy assaults being released, probably soon.  If only Tarondor or even Telumehtar had worked toward the renewed joint rule of Gondor and Arnor perhaps both kingdoms would have more easily withstood the assaults on their lands of the past few centuries.

 *******

            The wedding was marked by an elegant simplicity that was most intimate in its nature, and was followed by six days of merry making throughout the realm.  There were many gifts made the new husband and wife that were now readied for shipment to the north, and others that were given into the keeping of Prince Faramir that he might see to their upkeep until decisions could be made as to how to deal with them properly.  Three more horses had been presented to Fíriel, two of which she didn’t truly wish to take with her; various properties were given into their possession by certain lords; a small sailing vessel was presented to bride and groom by the lord of Belfalas.

            All too soon, or so Ondoher admitted to Mithrandir, the bridal party was preparing to leave the city for the Harlond for the return journey to Arnor.  Ondoher had already sent small warships ahead to see to it that no vessels from Umbar, Harad, or other possible enemies might be lingering in such a manner to offer a threat to the northern ships as they emerged from the Mouths of the Sea, and another ship was to run escort to them as they traveled down the river.  “We ourselves have two ships waiting for us to serve as escorts as we go northward,” Galdor of Mithlond explained to Ondoher.  “At no time do we intend to leave your daughter unprotected as she journeys to her new home.”

            “You will pardon me as a father if I, too, seek to offer what protection as I can to my daughter?” the Man returned.

            Galdor bowed his head gracefully and respectfully.  “Of course, Lord Ondoher.  Then our sailors will rejoice to know your added protections.”

            The day came when the King of Gondor and the King of Arnor, together with their witnesses, signed the new treaty, embraced one another in fellowship, and began the long walk down the high wayof the city, the folk of the city joining with visitors to offer all concerned blossoms and sprays of greenery; and the people of Minas Tirith gave their beloved Princess and her new Lord Husband their farewells.

            As he himself joined them for the return journey to the north, Gandalf saw no regrets of any sort in the eyes of Fíriel--only joy to stand by the side of the one she’d joined in marriage.  As the ship pulled away from the quays of the Harlond she stood at the rail, her husband beside her with his arm protectively about her shoulders, the eyes of both alight with delight and anticipation as they looked forward to their coming future.  Only after the ship was well down the river upon the current did Gandalf see any sign of sadness, and then only when she no longer could look back and see her father and brothers.  Quietly she stood there twisting the ring upon her finger--not the ring she’d accepted as her marriage token, but the lady’s signet she’d accepted that morning from her father that she wore upon her other hand.  Then as her new husband’s hand squeezed her shoulder in comfort she smiled up at him.  “Your father gave you that?” Arvedui asked.

            She nodded.  “It is the symbol of my dower lands,” she explained.

            He laughed.  “We will have little enough access to the account that receives your rents, I fear; but it is good to know that they will accrue to the needs of our children and our children’s children.”

            She smiled more fully.  “Yes,” she murmured, “there is that to think on.  Now, my beloved husband, let you tell me how our house is to be ordered, and what the reactions of those who will serve us are likely to be.”

Gondor Loses her King

            “We have reached an agreement with the folk of Khand and with those of Harad as well.  Those of Khand will allow our wains to cross their lands and will fall in behind us.  Those of Harad will draw as near the crossings of the Poros as they can come undetected, and will join us there on the morning of the day after the new moon.  They will send several troops forward to test the defenses of the city-dwellers, and then will send a solid attack from the southwest.  We will come out of the southeast while they are so engaged and will sweep them away.

            “At the same time we will send assaults across the Waste before the Black Gate.  Khamûl has promised that battalions of orcs will be ready to come out of the hills and mountains of the north walls of what were the lands belonging to the Shadowed Lord--we will catch the city-dwellers between us and cut off their King and his sons.”

            “But how,” asked the Shkatha of Rhûn of the war leader for the Wainriders, “are you to be certain that the King of Gondor will be in a position to be cut off?”

            “We have allies they do not recognize within Gondor,” admitted the war leader.  “One of the Council for the city-dweller’s King had hoped to marry the King’s daughter, and has never forgotten his fury that the King would not grant his request.  To see the royal daughter sent off to the barbaric north as a wife to the one now calling himself King of Arnor caused him great rage.  Never has he allowed the King to realize that he holds that slight to himself; the Lord Khamûl has kept the anger alive through constant reminders given by one of his own within the lord’s household.  He knows how to lead the King by the reins of his pride, and will give me the sign when Ondoher and his sons are where I wish them to be.” 

            The Shkatha shuddered at the name of the Nazgûl.  “You would treat with that accursed one?” he asked in low tones.

            “My father and my father’s brother were slain by Calimehtar, assisted by his son Ondoher,” admitted the Wainrider.  “I would see both of them avenged, and I will treat with any in a position to aid me to that goal.”  Then in a lower tone still he murmured, “Do you not also acknowledge the Shadowed Lord?  Does he not give you favor in return for the aid your people give ours?”

            The Rhûni gave the one from further east a wary look.  “We have ever been allied with the Shadowed Lord, but that does not require us to look in favor at his creatures.  Khamûl’s--appetites--have proven to be--unpleasant.”

            The Wainrider’s lip lifted on one side, showing a dog tooth that in his case was definitely in keeping with its designation.  “I suspect, friend, that you would also find some of my own appetites--unpleasant.”  He gave a most suggestive smile.  After a moment he cast his eyes around the tent, only to have his attention caught by the white-clad figure reclining on a low divan in the corner.  “You would host that one?” he hissed.  “Is he not a spy for the city dwellers?”

            The Shkatha gave Saruman a wary glance, then drew the Wainrider further away from the Wizard.  “Ever has he been welcome in our tents, and he keeps his own council.  When he is treated with respect he can be--helpful--most helpful indeed.”

            “In what ways?”

            “He has helped us to find, store, and transport water.  He has helped us find ways to better irrigate fields and to dig wells and clear springs.  He has helped us find new sources of fuel.  He has taught us better ways of smelting metals that our tools and weapons are more useful and enduring.  He has taught us means of keeping records and to use writing to communicate over distances.  The White One has ever been a friend to our people.”

            “He must not bear word to those in Gondor as to what we propose.”

            “Never has he done so before.”

            “You cannot know that for certain.”  Then in even lower tones he added, “He must not leave before the assault.  You must keep him here--there must be no chance of him telling the folk of Gondor what is planned.”

            Reluctantly, the Shkatha agreed.

 *******

            Saruman watched the conversation taking place on the opposite side of the tent with a degree of wariness.  Although he was welcome amongst the Rhûnim, he’d never developed a comfortable relationship with the peoples of the cold desert lands of the northeast from which the Wainrider’s ancestors came.  He found too many of them totally incapable of appreciating different  points of view, and most so devoted to saving face that they could not endure opposition in any form, whether in conversation or on the field of battle.  It was not unusual for a clan leader to send younger Men likely to seek to unseat at him at some future time on impossible missions, trusting that they would not return.

            He knew he was the focus of the unheard conversation, and was reasonably certain he wouldn’t like clearer knowledge of its import.  He suspected that should he indicate he intended to leave shortly the Wainrider would become attentive and increasingly suspicious, and should he indicate he wished to travel westward toward Gondor they’d probably try to kill him out of hand--not that he was completely certain what the result of such an attempt might be.  He set himself, therefore, to be as courteous and pleasant as he could be for the evening, and watched to see how things played out.

            As he sat down with his host and his fellow guest for the evening meal he was asked by the Wainrider, “And you have spent much time in the tents of the Shkatha, have you, Lord Curunír?”

            The white Wizard gave an elegant shrug.  “I have been east and south, examining the peoples and creatures of Inya.  I found it endlessly fascinating.”

            “And before that?”

            “I went to Inya from Harad and Khand.  However, I did not spend much time in either land.  The monuments and temples of Harad are of great beauty and majesty, and I enjoy visiting them and seeing what mere Men are able to do.  As for Khand--there has never been much to draw one’s attention there, I fear.  The people are suspicious and do not allow outsiders to seek out their ancient sites or visit their greatest cities.  Here in Rhûn I have ever been better accepted, and what I am able to share with them to their benefit they have ever welcomed.”

            “So, not always do others accept what you are willing to share?”

            “Have I not just said so?”

            When the meal was over, Saruman leaned down to pick up his staff from where it lay behind the cushions on which he sat at the low table.  But the war-leader stayed his hand, reaching down and picking up the black rod familiarly, as if he had full right to do as he pleased.  “And what is this?” he asked, examining it.

            “It is the sign of my office,” the Wizard said stiffly.  “I ask that you give it into my keeping and not touch it again.”

            The Shkatha looked from one to the other and back uncertainly, sensing the threat oozing from his white-clad guest and the total lack of concern from the one from the north and east, and worrying lest his tents might end up bursting into flames about him.  Stories about earlier visits from the Wizard had been told him by his father and grandfather; he had a distinct impression raising the ire of this one was not a desirable objective.  “I would suggest—” he began.

            The Wainrider appeared to ignore their joint host completely.  “And what is it that is your office?” he asked, looking at Saruman through his inscrutable, almond-shaped eyes.

            “To learn what I can of this world and share what wisdom as those who live here within Middle Earth are willing to accept,” Saruman answered with great dignity.  “And to warn people not to listen too greedily to those who would incite war and vengeance, as what they promise does not always come to pass.  Also to warn people of standing too strongly on their own pride, as pride all too often leads to falling far further than one might believe one has risen.”  He kept the easterling’s eyes caught by his own.

            The warrior did not blanch--Saruman would grant him that; but he did go still, and a stirring of indecision could be seen behind his eyes.  He held out the ebony staff with its ivory sphere to the Wizard’s hand.  As Saruman took it he said with studied casualness, “One other rod such as this have I seen in my years--long ago when I was young.  Oh, it was not black as this one is, but of wood that appeared silver with age.  He who bore it was well muscled and quite bald, and appeared to be perhaps related to our people, although he resembled more closely those of Catai, just south and west of our homeland.  He had advised the rulers of Catai for many, many scores of years, or so it appeared--certainly many lives of Men; but in the end his wisdom failed the rulers there, so he sought to approach us as we rode into their lands to take them for our own.  My grandfather’s guards took him in the end, and my grandfather took the rod for his own.  Many tales had been told of the rod of this one, how it held great power.  My grandfather, however, found no such power within the thing, so in the end he broke it over his knee and threw the pieces into his fire; and afterwards they found the bonds with which they’d restrained the one who’d borne the thing empty and limp, and that one was not seen again.”

            Saruman pulled the rod to him, sensing the implied threat in the Man’s words; and as he held his staff to him he saw clearly what would become of this one and his ambitions.  He felt a smile curve his lips.  “I see, my lord.  Ghantsi you would be as your grandsire was before you, save it is a cousin who holds that title now.  I remember one of your predecessors who took the title by force from his brother.  Shall I tell you how he died?  One of his sisters, whom he took by force into his bed, ground glass one day and mixed it into his meal.  He died in great agony, or so I recall the tale as it was told to me with triumph.

            “Oh, and did anyone ever tell you what Ghantsi means in Far Harad?  There Ghantsi is believed to be the consort of Seti.  She is the patron goddess of murder and unwilling sacrifice.”  His smile at the warrior was filled with carefully controlled malice.  “To be known by a title that is the name of a pagan goddess would be belittling to a Man of your stature, I’m certain.”  He saw the barb hit home, and looks of consideration in the eyes of some of the Wainrider’s fellows as they crouched on their heels nearby.  The title of their leader would, he knew with certainty, change very soon.  No Man among their people would willingly bear a title associated with anything feminine, no matter how closely aligned to their own personality.

            A day later he left his host’s tents, headed not west but eastward to see what the wainriders had left in their wake as they’d rolled toward the setting sun.  He was followed by a mixed riding of wainriders and Rhûnim, about five all told, he realized.  He noted them, then put them from his mind.  He would not seek to warn the war-leader of the folly of his actions with word how he would die if he indeed rode toward Gondor.

 *******

            When Gandalf rode again to Minas Tirith he was greeted with joy by Ondoher and his family.  “Mithrandir!  It has been long--too long--since you left us!  What news do you bring us from our Fíriel?”

            The Wizard smiled broadly.  “Oh, I bring letters with me for all.”

            The smiles given him by the father and brothers of the daughter-in-law of Araphant were full enough, but as he watched each read the letters sent by Fíriel and her husband to their kindred in Gondor he could see that the last four years had not been easy ones.  Ondoher looked up to catch the eyes of the Wizard.  “Then I now have two grandsons?”

            “Indeed so, my Lord King.  Aranarth was born eleven months after the marriage, and his brother Beleg was born just ere I left the King’s family in Fornost.”

            “All is peaceful there for them?”

            “For the moment; but the fact they dwell now in Fornost rather than in Annúminas tells its own tale, I suppose.  Angmar continues to send numerous small invasive forces over the borders into Arnor--never enough to offer a serious threat to the defenders; but enough to keep Araphant’s commanders busy on many fronts.  Another attempt to send serious illness across Arnor failed when four groups of individuals were turned back on the borders.  These were not allowed to return to Angmar; within five days all were seriously ill, and within a few more all but four were dead.”

            “And so there are attempts again to weaken the defenses of the north through illness?”

            “Indeed.  And how does your cousin Eärnil?”

            “Very well.  He has been in the southlands seeing to the defenses at Poros and raising levies within the western provinces.  Artamir here has only this month returned from Calenhardon where he has left Orthanc and the fortress of Isengard in as fine of an array as is possible.  Faramir has come from our borders with Rhovanion by way of Cair Andros and Osgiliath.  Artamir’s wife is to give birth within the next few weeks, and so far all appears to proceed properly.  It is her third pregnancy, and we pray all will go well with her this time--neither time before did she carry her child beyond the fourth month.”

            “And how go things with you and your wife, my beloved Prince Faramir?” Gandalf inquired.

            “Things go well enough,” Ondoher’s younger son replied, although his face was saddened.

            Gandalf sensed something was wrong, but not until he sat with them at dinner did he realize just what.  Faramir’s wife was from Rhovanion, although she had strong Dúnedain lineage, as was evidenced by her dark hair and grey eyes.  The two had married not long before Fíriel and Arvedui, and there had been strong anticipation that the two would soon produce children to stand beside those expected to be born to Artamir and his own bride.  Looking now into the face of Faramir’s wife it could be seen that she was not well, and when all rose for the Standing Silence before the meal was served Gandalf saw that the lady knew an evil growth in her abdomen that would undoubtedly take her far too soon as well as ending any hope she would ever bear a child.

            Artamir’s wife, on the other hand, glowed with joy and anticipation, clearly ready to give birth at almost any time.  All should go well with her....

            Pelendur, whose father had died in the past year, sat near his own wife of two years, the daughter of one of the Faithful who had been forced to flee from Umbar some years since.  Her hair was sleeker and more coarse than was that usually seen in those of pure Dúnedain descent, and her eyes dark brown rather than the more common grey.  With her almond-shaped eyes and darkly tanned skin she appeared more Haradri than was ordinarily seen in Gondor.  Yet her accent was that common to lower Lebennin and Anfalas; and her humor was definitely that of Gondor, Gandalf determined.

            “And how do you find life in Minas Tirith, Lady Hasturien?” he asked her.

            She shrugged, managing to make the gesture appear alluring, he thought.  “It is a beautiful city in its way,” she admitted, “but I find I miss the southern lands, and the groves of olive and orange trees to which I was accustomed from my childhood.  There is a scent to such trees I have ever found comforting.”

            “I can well imagine,” he returned.

            “Yet in the past few months since the birth of our son Vorondil, I have found I have missed my childhood home less, perhaps because I now look out at the world through his eyes.  It is my hope that once Prince Artamir’s child is born the two will become close friends and grow up together.”

            “That would certainly be to the benefit of Gondor, or so I would think, my lady.”

            “What news of the Wainriders?” Gandalf asked Pelendur as the two left the dining chamber together after the meal, Pelendur’s wife having remained behind to speak with Artamir’ lady about the pending birth.

            “There are rumors that they have reentered Rhûn, but our attempts to confirm this have not yet borne fruit.  Our scouts along the border lands are found out as often as not, and at least three appear to have been taken, while six have been slain outright.”

            “Is there a spy amongst your commanders, then?”

            “It is possible.  However, so far we have been unable to identify who the spy might be.”

            “Who has been present when discussions occur regarding scout assignments?”

            “Our Lord King, his sons, myself, Lord Eärnil, our field commanders.  No longer does Lord Ondoher discuss these even with his Council, for none seems able to discern which might be the traitor.”

            “And none discusses such matters even before wives or children?  The Enemy will not be ashamed to approach such or their ladies in waiting or nursemaids, or so we have found in the past.” 

            Pelendur started to shake his head automatically, then paused as if in thought before saying, “None would willingly betray us.”  But Gandalf could see that a consideration now bothered him in the wake of the question.

            None had seen Curunír since Mithrandir’s last visit, at which time he’d announced he went southward to learn what he could in Harad.  Had he then gone eastward again as he seemed wont to do?  For some reason that bothered Gandalf.

            Counsel was taken between King, sons, and Steward.  Afterwards each member of the Council and each field commander was told a different date and destination for the next set of scouts to be deployed, and each commander was given a pair of those destinations to watch each on a different day, warned only that intelligence had been received that the enemy was likely to send troops to lay ambushes for any who went that way.  Gandalf then set himself to watching the lady wives of each of the nobles as he could.

            A week went by--nine days, and as yet there were no movements of the enemy’s forces in those areas that would possibly speak to treachery within Gondor itself.  And then the wife of Prince Artamir entered her confinement....

 *******

            The midwife looked at the one who summoned her to the Citadel.  “And you would have me use this lotion ere I examine the mother?” she asked.

            “She finds the scent of roses in it soothing.”

            “It is best to come to a birth with clean hands and arms,” the elderly woman objected.

            “But it is equally best if the mother is soothed and eased--is it not true?”

            “Indeed.  If it will indeed ease the mother....”

 *******

            The child was born easily enough and appeared healthy, but by nightfall was crying constantly; by morning the child had died in great pain, and the mother was also desperately ill, and one of her maids in waiting had disappeared from the Citadel.  That night the King attended the midwife, who’d been brought to the Houses of Healing by her elderly sister with whom she’d lived these past twelve years.  “She’s been feeling increasingly ill all day, and I insisted she come here this afternoon,” the woman explained, her eyes filled with grave concern for her sister.

            “Who summoned her to the birth?” asked the King.

            A particular noble was named, the father of the girl who’d disappeared from the Citadel.

            The midwife murmured, “The ointment--the rose ointment.  He told me--told me to wear it--soothe the mother.”

            Her rooms were searched and the jar of ointment was found.  Gandalf held over it his hand, and his face paled.  “The ointment is tainted--let none touch it.”

            The King was barely able to assist in easing the midwife through the infection; he was nowhere as successful with his son’s wife.  She died late that night, having suffered excruciating pain.  When word came in the morning hours that an ambush of orcs had been set about the particular place where that noble had been told scouts were to be deployed to, none was surprised.  The noble in question had ridden out of the White City while the Queen was in labor with his personal guard; a ride in the direction of his home found the guard but not the Man, who’d ordered his Men to ride on but who, accompanied by only one other had ridden northeasterly toward the small community that remained active in the southern reaches of what had been Osgiliath.  There he was found, having been impaled on a spear by his former companion, who’d left him for dead.

            “Did you summon the midwife when the Princess’s labor began?” Faramir demanded of the Man, who yet lived.

            “No--my daughter--came toward the Houses to summon the--the midwife, and my servant Daeronsaid he would--summon her.  He told my daughter to come to the house where we dwelt within the city.  There it proved that my own personal guard was not my own but strangers picked by him.  My own Men had been advised by Daeron that we must be off for our own lands within a few hours and so were in their own quarters preparing their goods, and none were aware those posing as my guard were strangers.  Daeron came to me--told me we must leave the City immediately, that word had come my wife was desperately ill.  I’d had word that morning, however, that all was well--I would not believe him and knew not the messenger--but the guard were not mine--I was forced....”

            The midwife by that time had also been able to name the noble’s servant Daeron as the one who’d come to her with the summons and the pot of ointment.

            The noble’s former house within the city was searched, and the body of the Man’s daughter was found in the stone-lined room in which meats and dairy foods were stored that they not spoil right away.  She’d been strangled.  Daeronwas not seen again.  The noble died in as much agony as had Artamir’s wife within a few hours.  And word came that Wainriders and their wagons were riding out of both Rhûn and Khand into the lands held by Gondor.  Eärnil was much beset near Poros and the crossings of the River.

            The second traitor, the one amongst Ondoher’s captains, was not found out at the time.  At one point he came to Prince Faramir, who’d been left in Minas Tirith to see to the rule of the realm while his father and Artamir went forth to fight, to tell him that he’d learned from a captive that the War Leader of the Wainriders fought under a different banner than had been seen before--that his true banner was one with three fishes upon it. 

            Faramir would not stay within the city; he rode north and crossed the river at Cair Andros to so advise his father and brother, camping with his personal guard amongst the folk of the Éothéod who’d come south from the upper reaches of the Anduin to Gondor’s aid, coming with their leaders to his father’s tents.  Ondoher and Artamir believed the news, and as they discussed what might be done the report came that the Enemy had launched the attack.  There was no time for Faramir to retreat to Minas Tirith; he returned to his own guard who’d waited amongst the northerners and gave the order they would fight after all.  When the banner was spotted toward the treacherous ground near the marshes they headed that way with their elite troops--and were cut off.  Long had orcs labored in secret to prepare more solid footing for the enemy’s wains to travel through the verges of the marshes, and over them came more of the enemy than they could have believed could come that way.  Ondoher and Artamir were killed outright, and Faramir was taken prisoner.  The Wainriders drove the remains of the northern army south into Ithilien, for great battalions of orcs had hidden within the ruins of eastern Osgiliath and now held the crossings of the river against them.

            Gandalf had ridden south to take words of the treachery that had robbed Gondor of Artamir’s heir to Eärnil, for the King had indicated he trusted no others to carry the word truly to his cousin.  So it was that the Grey Wizard was at Eärnil’s side when Wainriders and great battalions of chariots, riders, and soldiers from Khand and Near Harad attacked the defenses on the Poros.  Gondor’s troops were forced northward into southern Ithilien, but there regrouped.  Advised and assisted by Mithrandir, Eärnil was able to lead his forces to a great victory.  What precisely the Grey Wizard added to that battle none could say, but afterwards rumors were rife throughout Gondor’s army of great flashes of light that confused and terrified the horses pulling the great wains and the chariots of the forces of Khand and Harad and their cavalry.  Within three days those who remained of the enemy’s people had fled south and east, and came that way not again.  Having been advised by messengers from Ondoher’s commanders that a second attack had emerged from Rhûn, Eärnil directed his Men northwards, up the Harad Road toward the Black Gates.

 *******

            “Ondoher is dead?” Eärnil whispered from where he, Mithrandir, and one of Faramir’s Men lay on the top of a ridge that ran west from the Mountains of Shadow, looking down on the great mass of wains and horses and Men, both Wainriders and Rhûnim, below them.

            “Yes--he and Artamir died side by side, from what we could tell.  For a time we were able to drive the Wainriders back--or so we thought, and so we were able to retrieve their bodies.  My Lord Faramir, however....”  The pain and fury in the Man’s eyes could be seen clearly.  “He was cut off from us, from his own Men, and they took him.  I saw a club used to knock him senseless, and hands drew him off his horse and onto one of the wains.  The next morning the battlefield was empty--for a time.  A number of us were allowed to approach the Black Gates, and there we found it--his body nailed to the Gates themselves.  He was plainly alive and awake when nailed there, and he must have died in great agony.  Again we were permitted to retrieve the body, and then the enemy fell upon us, and drove us southwards.  It has taken days for these further troops to file out of Rhûn and to join with those who fought in the battle.  They apparently intend to cross the River Anduin tomorrow and to roll through the Pelennor to the White City itself, where without the King it is expected Pelendur will give over the rule of Gondor to them.

            “No!” Eärnil vowed.  He looked over his shoulder where another Man crawled up the ridge toward them.  “What is it?” he demanded in low tones.

            “A small ship has pulled into the shallows of the river below us, my Lord, and a troop of Men from Arnor has joined us.  They say that they were sent by Araphant himself in answer to a dream he knewand word from Malbeth the Seer who also saw us beset.  One of those who served under Gilorhael commands them--he is venerable now, but they tell us he remains a canny commander.  Having learned of the deaths of Ondoher and his sons, they place themselves at your disposal, and would assist in avenging their Princess’s father and brothers.  They are most grim, my Lord.”

            Gandalf could see the increased confidence this intelligence gave the one who’d been Ondoher’s beloved cousin and most canny general.  “With such allies, no matter how few in number, we are strengthened beyond the enemy’s ability to understand,” Eärnil hissed.  “I see.  Lord Mithrandir--your fires--have you any of your powders and balls that could be aimed...?”

            An hour later the remaining general of Gondor’s forces was back with his Men and his allies as they worked out their strategies for the battle to be fought the following morning.

 *******

            The first the enemy was aware they were under attack was when great balls of light, fire, and terrifying noise were let loose along the picket lines--lines it was learned had been cut.  The horses of the Wainriders and their Rhûnim allies were terrified and broke loose on all sides, fleeing wildly into the dark before the dawn.  Then out of the dark rose shining shapes that terrified those guarding the boundaries of the camp.  Gandalf had produced a powder that would glow for a time in the dark, and the cloaks of the first wave of troops were rubbed with it and then placed by fires where light and heat could be absorbed by it.  Totally unnerved by this unexpected sight, the guards cried out and drew back.  Then the shutters of numerous dark lanterns were released, and the light aimed at the camp, and archers dipped the oil-soaked rags bound to their arrow tips into the lanterns and aimed at the massed wagons below.  As wagon after wagon, tent after tent burst into flames, the warriors from the east realized they must fight; but three nights of premature feasting had left them befuddled.

            As dawn itself broke Eärnil gave the signal, and the three forces into which his gathered army had been divided attacked from out of the very paths over which the wains themselves had ridden a few days earlier, from a great slag heap south and east of the eastern army, and from Ithilien.  Shortly after noon those of the enemy who remained began retreating, but found they could not return eastward, so fierce were those who fought for Gondor there, including a group of Men cloaked not in the black and silver of Gondor but the grey and silver of Arnor.  Northwards they were pushed.

            Afoot, the Wainriders had no experience or strategies to assist them in successfully defending themselves.  More and more found the firm footing of the paths laid by the orcs, then found themselves taking another step northwards, and another--until they left those paths and found themselves stumbling through shallow water and the treacherous mud of the Marshes--and more and more began to be swallowed up by the quicksand itself.

            The war leader of the Wainriders found himself cut off from the others, and was driven southward back toward what had been their camp.  A tent that had escaped from the earlier fires now burst into flames as smoldering ashes fell on it from the continuing fires around it; its poles gave way and it fell sideways, wrapping the Man in its folds as it fell.

            The oil with which he’d anointed himself to appear more shining and terrifying before he joined the battle proved to be flammable.  All could hear his great screams of agony as he fell.

 *******

            Far to the east and south Saruman heard the echoes of those screams and his lip curled into a gratified smile.  That would teach the fool to utter threats!

A Crown in Question

            The warriors from Arnor did not remain within Gondor, save for one younger Man who admitted he was the son of King Araphant’s sister and desired to remain as envoy from Arnor.  The rest filed aboard their ship alongside Mithrandir as soon as the victory against the Wainriders was confirmed, and set sail down the Anduin to take word of the triumph and the loss of the King and his sons to their own capital in the north.  Before that ship could clear the Mouths of the Sea, however, Eärnil was once again leading troops southward toward Poros, and Gondor’s navy was barricading the ports of Umbar that neither Umbar nor Harad might seek to take advantage of the loss of King Ondoher and his heirs to assault the land.  Meanwhile within Gondor itself debates were taking place as to what must be done about this situation.  All agreed that Eärnil was the one remaining lord within Gondor with sufficiently unquestioned Dúnedain blood that might be expected to be accepted by the realm; but as it was needful he continue to direct the defense of the land, there was no way in which he might be prevailed upon immediately to accept the Kingship. 

            However, his wife’s brother commented quietly to a friend within the White City, who confided to his wife and her father, who passed on the word to others, that Lord Eärnil had expressed concern as to whether or not he should seek to take Crown and throne, as there was one who did have a stronger claim than did he.  Hearing that, the Lord Steward Pelendur’s face grew dark with fury.  There was no way he might be convinced to promote that claim, should it be tendered.

            Some six months after the death of Ondoher word came that Harad and Umbar both faced sufficient problems within their own borders due to the loss of trade eastward into Khand and Rhûn that further threats of assault from those lands were considered unlikely, and Eärnil intended to return to the capital within a few weeks.  At the same time three ships entered the Mouths of the Sea and were borne northward by unseasonable southern winds to the quays of the Harlond.

            The central ship, with its black standard of flowering White Tree, seven stars, seven stones, and Winged Crown over a silver pennon of seven eight-pointed stars in a circle about a White Rod, hove to at the stone quays, and its sailors and those who worked in the harbor tossed and caught ropes and cables as heavy mats of woven grasses joined great fenders of soft wood wrapped in their own mats to hang between ship and stone.  A procession came out of the White City and along the three-mile road to the city’s harbor.  At its head riding upon a grey gelding was the Lord Steward Pelendur.  Riding at his side on a great black stallion from the northlands was a shining youth with a great sword at his side, Eärnur son of Eärnil, sent with his mother from their home in Dor-en-Ernil to dwell in the relative safety of Minas Tirith until all of the Lords of Gondor could gather to make the decision as to who should serve as the next King of the realm.

            When all three ships were at rest in adjacent berths, at last gangplanks were run out and fastened into their places as sections of the rails were removed.  Now those who had come from the northern lands began to disembark, and for the second time in the past few years Elrond of Imladris set foot upon the land of Gondor, accompanying Arvedui of Arthedain in Eriador, Prince of Arnor, the Ring of Barahir on his finger, as he returned to set the claim of his wife and himself before the Council of Gondor.  But Elrond was not the only Elven lord to come in this deputation; Gildor Inglorion stepped from the second ship, alongside Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, Lindir of Imladris, with Elrohir Elrondilion at the side of the Prince.  From the third ship a tall, shining figure in robes of silver and blue disembarked, his white beard long, his eyes far-sighted:  Círdan of Mithlond himself had chosen to come to support the claim of Arvedui.

            As the procession from the city arrived, the Steward’s pennon on the White Tower was raised and lowered in signal, and those from the fields of the Pelennor who’d come to meet the three ships turned in consternation to see what this foretold.  A small yet shining company could be seen riding past Osgiliath, appearing to ride easily and yet traveling at a marvelous speed nonetheless.  By the time Pelendur’s company drew near enough for individual faces to be made out, the riding of those who’d come down the River was also approaching the harbor, easily discerned now as being the folk of Laurelindórenan led by their Lord Amroth, who was flanked by Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, accompanied by a party of the archers of the Galadhrim and a party also from Mirkwood, as Thranduil and his dark-haired son Tharen and their guard of Silvan Elves came also to witness what might be decided.

 *******

            As the party of Elves passed the ruins of Osgiliath a lone rider paused just short of the roadway, having just crossed the great Bridge of the city, newly returned to the lands of the descendants of Elendil from his journeys to the East.  Saruman watched the passing of Galadriel Artanis with a distinct shudder.  His years within the Mortal lands had done nothing to reduce his distrust of the Elven Lady.  Why was it so many of the Firstborn now gathered here in Gondor?

            He did not have to follow them to Minas Tirith--he could turn northward into Rhovanion and go through it further north, coming at last to the ranges of the Éothéodif he so desired, and crossing the Misty Mountains there westward into Eriador.  But Saruman was still possessed of curiosity, and although he hated to come too near the wife of Celeborn and mother to the Lady of Imladris, he turned southward to learn what was to happen here, within Gondor.  So it was that he approached the quays of the Harlond as Gandalf emerged from the ship flying the banner of Elendil, holding the hand of a child.  Arvedui had brought with him his older son, Aranarth.  He, too, it appeared, would bear witness to the decisions that chose the next ruler of the realm of Anárion and Isildur.

 *******

            Two days after the arrival of the ships from the north and the deputations of Elves, there arrived in haste a riding from the remnants of the land of Rhovanion, accompanied by three from the horselords of the Éothéod, who came with word of incursions into the northern Anduin Valley by folk from eastern Angmar, people who were attacking the remnants of the wandering tribes of Elves who yet stubbornly remained there and the herds and villages of their own folk closest to the borders of the Witch-king’s lands.  They came to request help from whomsoever might be moved to aid them, telling that again dragons had come out of the northern wastes to assault the kingdoms of the Dwarves, this time on the eastern side of the Mountains of Mist.  These had been young dragons once again, and one had been slain by an archer of the Galadhrim while the second, one it was said to be of reddish hue, had been driven off northwards once more.  But once more the losses known by the Children of Mahal were said to be terrible.

  *******

            Gandalf and Saruman stood again behind their guesthouse in the Sixth Circle, this time watching a sunrise over the wall of shadowed mountains that rose beyond Ithilien and the heights of Emyn Arnen, a sunrise that this morning seemed especially colorless, even ominous.  Word was that Eärnil was due to return to Minas Tirith on the morrow, and it was hoped by some that his return would serve to break the great deadlock into which the debates of those met within the city had fallen.

            “Pelendur has set his will, however,” the White Wizard murmured, voicing the thoughts of both, “and he will not be swayed.  Not even the wisdom of Círdan or Elrond will move him or those who have allowed their own will to be ruled by his.”

            “Yea, so it proves,” Gandalf sighed.  “I feared as much when his desire to take Fíriel to wife was dashed, although I admit I hoped that the thought of her possible return here to govern first Gondor and then both lands when that time comes at the side of her husband would thaw his resolve.  It appears, however, that even the daughter of Ondoher as co-ruler of Gondor is not enough to lessen his hatred of Arvedui.”

            They looked down at the fields before the great Gates, there where a number of pavilions had been raised--one for Arvedui and his son and those closest to them; one for the folk of Imladris; one for those of Laurelindórenan; one for Círdan and those of the wandering tribes, lesser tents for guards.  Many of those who’d come with Arvedui remained on the ships, still in their berths at the harbor.

            Arvedui sat before his tent, his son with him, Elrohir of Imladris sitting easily on the ground before them, entertaining the child with tales.  Glorfindel had said little as yet during the seemingly endless discussions that had filled the last week and a half.  Celeborn had sought to impress all with the seriousness of the situation, the need for Gondor and Arnor to work in concert with one another if the ill will originating from Dol Guldur was to be fought effectively.  Elrond had spoken of  the continued dangers faced by those in Eriador from Angmar to the north and southern Rhudaur and Dunland to the south, as well as orcs and growing packs of wargs breeding in the caverns and woodlands of the Misty Mountains, of growing incursions of trolls once more. 

            Círdan had limited himself to sharing with all the words of Malbeth the Seer:  Shadow again rises in the east until all together face the beast.  A single bearer of Rod and Crown, or under waves of enemies all may drown.  Then too long shall be the wait until all join before the Gate to see at last the Shadow laid low; Big and Small, all grief shall know.  Two paths ’neath darkness lead toward Light, one through Fire, one worse than Night.  Dead and undead shall contend; vows fulfilled ere the battle end.  One receives and one bestows; one remains while his brother goes.  Grief and joy then shall join hands ere peace is known by all the lands.  Ithil watches as Stars and Sun send champions to fight till all is won.  But long that day shall all await if envy of Isildur does not abate.  Then three Hopes given unto the west through daughter of stars.  Which is best?  Valorous lord, half-knowing, wisdom earned.  Sweet hope promised, hope held, hope lost but not spurned.  Elessar by Gondor shall be accepted; but grievous and blessed the sacrifice expected.  By Eagles borne, by Eagle guarded, endurance beyond hope shall be rewarded; but great and terrible shall be the cost, for life is granted only when all is deemed lost.

            It was a strange prophecy, and one that tugged at the imagination of Gandalf the Grey.  “If Pelendur will not give way, then in time the Shadow may yet be successfully opposed, apparently, but that is all I can yet appreciate of Malbeth’s warning.  But better yet, undoubtedly, to see the two kingdoms rejoined now, and all working as one again.”

            At the second hour Arvedui was joined by the Elven lords and lady and those who served as advisors and guards, and taking his son in his arms the Man who would be King of Gondor entered into the White City once again, passing one more time under the image of Elendil, who had served as High King of the West.  Those who had presented the bridegroom of their beloved Princess Fíriel with flowers and sprays of greenery now watched her husband and son in quiet, still uncertain what role he might play in the future of their land.  As they reached the Sixth Circle the two Wizards joined the party ascending to the level of the Citadel, and one more time they entered into the Hall of Kings, where Pelendur sat in the black chair of the Steward on the wide bottom-most step of the dais to the throne of Gondor, young Eärnur standing nearby in unrelieved black, his sword at his side.

            “No more formidable a dog ever guarded the approach to a chair,” growled one of the northern Dúnedain, but none laughed, for the jest was too close to the mark.

            Arvedui stopped short of the Steward’s seat, holding his son in his arms.  Pelendur looked coldly at father and son.  “You would bring a child with you this day?” he asked.

            “This is Aranarth, the grandson of Ondoher, nephew to Artamir and Faramir, kinsman to Eärnil and his son Eärnur there.  Heir he is to my father and myself, descended from Elendil through both his sons.  He and his brother both exhibit all the gifts known to be common to the line of Kings--foresight, healing, the ability to read the hearts of Men, swift to understand the patterns laid out before them, an aptitude to strategy.  He has remained in our tents until today, although I know that you saw him by my side when we arrived.

            “You know it was Ondoher’s intent that his grandsons should rule both of the lands of the Dúnedain, hopefully bringing north and south once again back under joint rule within a generation.  Certainly it is my intention to rule Arnor jointly with my wife Fíriel, who as Ondoher’s daughter has proved apt to administration.  Already she is one of my father’s most trusted counselors as well as my beloved helpmeet.  She may not wield a weapon, but she understands ruling and how it is best done.

            “You have heard the arguments of the masters of the law; you have heard the plans Fíriel and I have for joint rule of Gondor until the death of my father, at which time I will succeed to the Kingship of Arnor, but she will rule jointly with me there as I would rule jointly with her here.  You have heard the warnings of the Wise, that the Shadow again grows and would bring down the rule of both lands if it could so that it might more easily assert its rule and influence everywhere.  It has been made clear to you how the wife of Artamir and her newborn son were purposely assassinated on direction of Dol Guldur----”

            “And how do we know that Dol Guldur is to blame, and not the North seeking to gain control of the Winged Crown and throne of Gondor?” demanded one of the younger but more vocal lords on the Council of Gondor.  His strident objections to all having to do with the northern realm had been a constant theme in the debates over the past few weeks, and all could see Arvedui grit his teeth at this further interruption.

            The Northerner turned to look at the young Man.  “My Lord Mordion,” he said to the young lord of the Morthond Vale, “this has been made clear over the past weeks.  Daeron son of Berenthor, servant to Lord Palandor of Lebennin, has been shown to have been an agent of Dol Guldur and Umbar by several signs, including correspondence in Umbar’s form of Adûnaic found in his abandoned goods, along with gold from eastern lands to which we of the North have no access.  It is Gondor’s own spymasters who have established this, before we could arrive here.  The herbs used in the concocting of the tainted ointment grow only within Umbar and Khand--this has been shown.  It was the information given to Palandor that led to your commanders realizing that at least one of the spies giving intelligence on movements of scouts was within his household.”

            “And you learned this through your own communications with Dol Guldur!” shrilled young Lord Mordion.

            Elrond of Imladris had heard enough, and stepped forward, his face and voice grim.  “This has been learned through the reports given to your Council with us present,” he said, and the tone of voice of the Peredhel lord was enough to quiet even the young Man.  “Dol Guldur has been assaulting our lands as well as the lands east and south of the Misty Mountains, as you have been told.

            “This is what must be faced--that all are equally under attack, Elves, Dwarves, and Men.  We must stand together against the Enemy, or we will all fall singly.”

            Galadriel of Laurelindórenan, who had largely remained quiet when facing the Council of Gondor so far, now raised her own voice.  “The Dwarves of Khazad-dûm have been assaulted once more by combined forces of orcs and cave trolls working in concert.  The borders of the Golden Wood have been assaulted by orcs assisted by Men we have never seen before in the valley of the upper Anduin.  Dragons are again sent against the Dwarf communities of the northern Misty Mountains.  Lord Gildor has spoken of assaults against northern Lindon and the Dwarf settlements in the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains.  Wargs and great companies of orcs terrorize the villages and farmsteads of the Angle in what was upper Rhudaur and lower Arthedain, and have assaulted the fortresses in the Weather Hills.  Lord Círdan’s people have told you of ships sailing south from the coasts of Angmar and north once again from Umbar and Harad harrying the ships of Elves and Arnor and seeking the havens and the mouths of the Baranduin and other greater rivers.  Mithrandir and Arvedui have both told you of renewed attempts to send those infected with disease and plague over the northern and now southern borders of Arnor, and three Men so infected were found by Lord Elrond’s patrols attempting to cross into Eriador from the passes above his lands, and six have our folk and the Dwarves found on the Dimrill Stair.

            “All the lands of the Free Peoples are under assault, not just Gondor, Lord Mordion.”

            Arvedui turned back toward Pelendur.  “We of Arnor alone cannot hold off assaults from both north and south forever, any more than you within Gondor could expect to protect all your borders should the folk of southern Rhudaur and the Dunlands turn on you rather than to assault us at the same time you are assaulted by Khand, Umbar, Harad, and Rhûn.  If we combine our forces and resources we are doubly strong; if we continue as we do now, both Gondor and Arnor will most likely suffer major defeats within the next hundred years.  Angmar stirs once more--Fíriel remained in the North only because while I am here and my father leads our armies in defense of our realm she sees to the administration of our lands and peoples with the aid of my mother.

            “You of Gondor had no time to send word of the renewed assaults on your lands by the Wainriders--only my own gift of foresight and the word of Malbeth gave us to know that your people needed aid so we could send it in accordance to the treaty we signed when Fíriel accepted me as her husband, not that we could send anywhere as much aid as you required, considering the increased assaults our own borders know.  But it is the treachery within our realms that disturbs me most--we have also found traitors seeking to turn our lesser lords from their commitments to send levies to the aid of Arnor as a whole, and when my younger son was born an unknown midwife tried to force herself on my wife’s maidens.  Only my unlooked for return sent her packing, and she, too, left tainted medicaments behind her.  I, too, was intended to be widowed suddenly, you must realize, and to similar purpose, I am certain, to weaken my judgment with grief at a time I must be expected to lead troops to the defense of our lands.”

            Gandalf, however, had seen the closing of Pelendur’s expression when Arvedui first named his wife.  Nay, there was no way in which the Steward of Gondor intended to agree to allow Arvedui anywhere near the throne of Gondor.  And the vote that evening by the Council was overwhelmingly against the rejoining of the two realms.

            Arvedui, called an hour after sunset to the Hall of Kings to hear the Council’s final words, looked with disbelief at Pelendur.  “You would not wait but one day more for the return of Eärnil?” he asked.

            “Why should we?” returned Pelendur, his tone icy.  “Those who oppose your claim to the Winged Crown are clearly in the majority--his coming would change nothing.”

            “Then,” Arvedui responded finally, his own voice stiff with more emotions than he could fully name at the moment, “there is no point in our remaining.  Our own lands are once more under assault, as the message birds received today show.  Rhudaur and Dunland are again stirring in the south, and my father needs my return.”

            He remained, however, searching Pelendur’s face for some moments, one apparently carved from stone.  At last he said, “I know that once you and your father hoped you yourself would marry Fíriel, and I know that the fact that she did not see you as one she could possibly love disappointed her father as well.  But you have a lady wife who is your equal and who loves you dearly.  She has given you a son to be proud of, and has wit and beauty to please any Man.  That you yet begrudge Fíriel and me our happiness is a matter unworthy of you, and I fear it weakens Gondor unduly.

            “I cannot say how much longer I have--had the Council accepted our claim on the Crown and throne then Fíriel and I should have ruled both lands for many, many years, perhaps another century yet, and with you as our primary adviser.  Instead, you have doomed both lands to diminishment you have not foreseen.  I fear that within a hundred years neither Gondor nor Arnor will know the proper rule of a beneficent King, even should your Council choose one from among the descendants of Telumehtar to wear the Winged Crown.

            “I leave now--tonight.  The longer I delay at this point, the sooner my own land shall fail, and the more grief I know by not being by the side of the woman I love.”

            So saying, Arvedui turned and left the Hall of Kings.  The three ships had been refitting themselves over the past week; within an hour of his return to the encampment outside the walls the pavilions were struck, and all who’d come with him, save for Gandalf and the one adviser who’d stayed after the defeat of the Wainriders, had entered into their ships, and lines were cast loose.  Each ship nosed out into the current, and by dawn all were far down the river.  And at the dawning the envoys from Mirkwood, the Golden Wood, Rhovanion, and the upper Anduin valley were also gone.

 *******

            Eärnil arrived to find circles of flattened grass where the encampment had been.  He heard Pelendur’s report, then sought out Gandalf.  “Let you tell me, Mithrandir, what has been wrought by the Steward while I was on my way here to meet with Arvedui.  I would have gladly accepted him as King of Gondor, and served as one of his generals.”

            Gandalf told him.

            “And you think it goes back to the fact my young cousin Fíriel did not favor him?”

            “Every time her name was mentioned, Pelendur’s face closed the further.”

            Eärnil’s expression hardened.  “What he has wrought he cannot appreciate, I deem.  Envy is so beneath him, but I fear he has never been one to accept being bested easily.  He allowed Ondoher and his sons to gainsay him only because he has known them as the King and his heirs all his adult years.  If I put forth a claim he would accept it, and he would accept my martial leadership of the realm for again this has been my primary role for the entirety of his life.  But he would grant me little enough responsibility for the administration of the land.”

            He looked more intently at the Wizard.  “I will say this--I strongly suspect that had the Council overruled him, Pelendur would have found assisting Arvedui and Fíriel as co-rulers of the realm more than he could bear.  The thought of allowing a woman--any woman--to give orders to the running of the realm would have been more than he could have borne.  No matter what he has convinced himself of how he would have honored and cherished her, the fact remains that Pelendur of the House of Húrin believes firmly that the husband is the head of the house, and his wife and children must remain submissive to him.  The very fact that Arvedui admits his wife assists in the administration of Arnor’s rule would be repugnant to him.”

            Gandalf nodded his understanding.  Eärnil, he realized, was far more perceptive than he’d imagined.

The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

            Araphant sat upon the high seat within Fornost and listened to what Gandalf had to say--Pelendur, Steward of Gondor, had agreed with the rest of the Council of the southern realm to accept the claim of Eärnil for the Winged Crown, and now that former general sat upon the throne of Gondor where he ruled wisely enough, if not brilliantly.  He remained a more than canny commander of armies, but he’d quickly become jaded by the political maneuvering of the lords of Gondor.  “However,” Gandalf noted, “he has shown himself to be the lord of his own Council, and has sent this with the reluctant agreement of them all.”

            He surrendered the document he carried to Arvedui, who sat today in the Steward’s seat on the lower step of the dais.  Araphant’s son accepted it readily enough, examining the seal and lifting it handily, swiftly scanning the text it contained before passing it on to his father.  At last the King of Arnor lifted his eyes to the face of Gandalf.  “He intends to continue to honor the treaty.  I pray that this will be enough to protect both lands from the losses we have foreseen.”

            “And what have you foreseen, my lord?” Gandalf asked.

            Araphant looked first at his son and then back to the Wizard.  “Both my son and I have seen visions of major assaults on both lands, north and south, and a vast army filling much of Eriador, with our troops fleeing westward.  I have seen orcs overrunning the city of Annúminas, and he has seen the Witch-king himself entering the gates of Fornost here, flames and smoke filling the sky.”

            Arvedui rose and stepped down off the low dais, pacing past the Wizard toward a window embrasure where he stopped, his hands upon the sill as he looked out across the great keep.  At last he spoke.  “I do not see myself serving as King for very long once I come to that office, Gandalf.  Our spies tell us that within Angmar the Witch-king is building up now a number of smaller armies and sending them south from east of the Mountains of Mist into the lands holding the headwaters of the Anduin, testing them against the foresters and wandering Elven tribes of those lands, with some going so far south as to enter the ranges of the Éothéod.  We have sent two battalions across the passes above Imladris to their aid, but they have not yet returned to us.

            “Lately he has begun to do the same on this side of the mountains.  When he believes he has strong enough forces he will mass them all against us, and probably have them enter Arthedain across the breadth of our northern borders.  The brown lands cannot bring much to bear against us for another twenty-five years or so, but only because the last plague destroyed so many of their people, for with both those of Rhudaur and us turning back all at the borders that is where the disease burned itself out this time.  Those of lower Rhudaur are now roiling, but will send only small warbands across the borders there to harass our closer settlements and villages for the present.  Perhaps twenty more years will we know relative peace, for not yet has Angmar’s army reached its full strength.  At least there, too, Dol Guldur’s last plague rebounded to its own detriment.  But once the Dunlendings and the folk of Angmar are able to once more field armies to match those of Rhudaur they will come, and in force.”

            Fíriel, who’d remained in her chair beside that of her husband on the lowest step of the dais, watched after Arvedui with a thoughtful expression and sighed.  “We have had the last two years to build up our own forces, beloved.”  She looked over her shoulder at her husband’s father.  “I have given over my anger at Pelendur’s refusal to accept Arvedui and my own claim, but am glad he has agreed to honor that of Eärnil at least.  My cousin Eärnil is an honorable Man.  He will do well by Gondor, I am certain, and will do his best to meet the terms of the treaty.”

            Araphant looked from his son to his son’s wife, nodded his agreement.  “All we can do is to prepare as best we can for the coming storm.  The Witch-king is waxing again in power, and his people would do anything demanded by him in terror for what would befall if they fail to obey.  How it is that the Nazgûl continue after the loss of Sauron’s great Ring I do not know; but it is plain that they do so.  Have any of those who have studied the making of the great Rings been able to explain how this has happened?”

            Gandalf shrugged--this had become a sore subject between himself and Saruman, for Saruman was jealous of what information he’d garnered on the making of the Rings of Power.  “All that I can imagine is that since the Ring is lost but not unmade, the other rings continue in full potency.”

            “And what if the Ring is found again?”

            Gandalf took a deep breath and held it for a moment.  “Then,” he finally said, “I must suppose that all of us will be lost, if it is found and returns to the Enemy’s hand.”

            “I know that Saruman refuses to consider the lord of Dol Guldur to be Sauron,” Arvedui said, examining the Wizard’s visage closely.  “What think you?”

            Gandalf shrugged, plainly frustrated.  “I have long felt that this Enemy might well be Sauron in but another guise.  As to how we test such a thing--I cannot say.  Certainly none who has ever gone into Dol Guldur from among those who have ever fought the Shadow has ever come out again.”

            “Khamûl is said to be the Necromancer’s lieutenant, and Angmar freely entertains those who served ever as Sauron’s allies and worshippers,” Araphant pointed out.  “Certainly Angmar’s actions and those of the brown lands and Rhudaur ever appear to suit the whims of Dol Guldur, and usually appear to work to complement one another.  If the Necromancer is not Sauron, then who else might he be?  Why does the White Wizard ever fight against the idea that he is our ancient Enemy, biding his time?”

            “Saruman has ever been subtle and secret in his thinking, and takes any questioning of his thought ill.”

            After another short time of silence, Fíriel asked, “How can we be certain that the Ring does not fall into the hands of the Enemy, whether he is indeed Sauron or another come to take his place?  Where was it the Ring was lost?”

            “In the great river,” her husband’s father answered.  “So it is written in our annals.  Isildur had a locket wrought in which to carry It, and wore that locket on a chain about his neck.  As he traveled northwards back to Arnor to reunite with his wife and youngest son, his company was beset by orcs.  When it became obvious that this band of orcs was subject to a madness of killing and were too numerous to be defeated easily, Isildur’s oldest son Elendur commanded his father to put on the Ring and allow himself to become invisible, and to flee the assault to find safety, that the High King not be lost.  Elendur and his two next brothers sacrificed themselves for their father, knowing that their youngest brother Valandil remained in safety in Imladris and that he would not be heirless.

            “No one knows why this band of orcs was so vicious and persistent, particularly as Sauron himself had been so defeated.  Perhaps it was merely the will of the Ring Itself, desiring to be found by those who could be moved to carry It where It might be restored to Its Master’s hand.  Apparently they had trackers among them who followed Isildur’s scent all of the way to the river.  There he dove into the water, hoping to lose the trackers.  However, the Ring betrayed him, changing Its size and slipping from his finger, leaving him a target for orc archers.  It was his esquire who managed to return the Shards of Narsil and what other items there were to return; but the original Elendilmir was lost with him, as well as the locket in which he’d carried the Ring.  His body and the Ring were lost to the river.”

            “Then It could lie there still,” she pointed out, “merely waiting to be found by one of the Enemy’s creatures and so restored to him.”

            “Saruman thinks not,” Gandalf said.  “He believes It was taken by the river’s current and rolled out to the Sea.”

            “A golden ring filled with so much malice?” Fíriel scoffed.  “And one made for Sauron’s hand?  Weighted with hatred It would be.  Would It not sink to the bottom and lie on the sand or bury Itself in mud, if the water moved slowly enough to allow for such?  Perhaps It could not move on Its own; but if It could change Its size at will, would It not do all It could do to remain where It might one day be recovered?  Nay, I cannot think such a thing would allow Itself to be taken by the current.  Even plain gold rings, if they are solid, tend to sink to the bottom and remain there.  So it was with the ring my mother lost in the river--eight years later my brother swam in the same area and found it again, probably not three yards downstream of where she dropped it.”

            Gandalf considered her, for what she said made a good deal of sense.

            “Where is it that Isildur died along the river?” she continued.

            “Near the Gladden Fields,” her husband told her.  “I’ve not been to that area.”

            “I was once, very long ago,” Araphant said.  “There is a marshy area where once there was a large lake along the course of the river, a lake that has gradually grown shallower as it has filled with silt.  Even if the Ring were there still, It could be buried now under many feet of boggy earth.  Finding It would be difficult, while retrieving It could be nigh impossible.”

            “Better so lost, perhaps,” Arvedui responded, “than that it go back to him.”

            “But in such marshy areas river beds change frequently, and even sunken lands may rise once more,” Gandalf noted, his voice very troubled.  “There is the ancient story of the wedding token flung into the river that was found in the stomach of a fish brought in to be served for dinner.  Although I grieve for any creature sufficiently foolish as to swallow that.”

            They exchanged looks with one another.  What if It were to be found once again?  Fíriel shuddered visibly, and those with her could not blame her.

 *******

            A few days later Gandalf was met at the crossing of the Bruinen by Elrond’s sons.  “Eärnil is now King of Gondor, then?” asked Elladan.

            “Yes.”

            Elrohir glanced northward.  “Angmar makes ready his next offensive.  He is not yet ready, but he prepares thoroughly for when he is so.”

            “And how do Araphant and Arvedui take the news?” Elladan asked.

            “Well enough,” the Wizard admitted.  “At least Pelendur has allowed this; but how much evil his envy will have wrought in the long run who can yet say?”  He moved his horse into the water of the ford, and immediately the two younger Peredhil turned to follow him.  As they splashed out the other side, Gandalf’s mount shook a hind hoof decidedly as if shaking off the cold of the water.

            As they rode along the last of the track into the vale of Imladris itself Elladan added, “And there is one further note.  Malbeth made still another prophecy, this time regarding the Paths of the Dead and the Heir to Isildur.  He has become ill, and lies in the home of a kinsman here in the Angle.  Adar does not believe he will live a great time longer at this point.”

            “The creeping sickness?” Gandalf asked.

            Both the young Peredhil nodded.  Elrohir said, “A growth even now attacks his lungs.  He is in a great deal of pain.”

            “Tell me the words of the prophecy,” asked the Istar.  Elrohir spoke it, and Gandalf nodded thoughtfully.  “Need will drive him, he says?  Indeed, only one who is driven by need will follow such a path, for it is dark and fell indeed.  Although some of those of Calenhardon will climb to the shelf of the shadowed hallow, none will go so far as the clefts that lead to the door last passed by the Oathbreakers.  I am told the curse uttered by Isildur was very potent, and those who cannot now pass from the Bounds of Arda remain filled with fury that they are so bound.  Their rage against the living who come near what they see as their place is enough to cause the death of those who seek to trespass.”

            They rode on and soon entered Elrond’s great house, and they were greeted by Arwen.  “Ada is in council, and will be glad to have you join them.  There has come another report of dragons abroad.”

            A number of northern Dwarves sat with Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor, and others of Elrond’s household.  “It was the red dragon again,” one was saying as Gandalf and Elrond’s sons entered and took empty seats about the porch where they were met.  “He is larger than he was the last time when he assaulted our delvings of northern Kheled-marûz.  We have come to call him Smaug.  He sought this time to enter one of our settlements in the northern Blue Mountains, only we have kept watchers there.  The ravens of the Blue Mountains are in league with us, and brought us word of his coming, and we had archers on hand who were able to drive him off.  One arrow apparently pierced his wing, and a second his tail; neither was enough to cripple him, however.  He flew northward once more.”

            Another more venerable Dwarf rasped, “A few of our remaining kinsmen from north of the border of Angmar were able to find their way across the borders southward.  This red Smaug two centuries ago took an ancient dwelling of our people there, and has amassed a great deal of treasure.  But it appears that the Witch-king has been persuading him that there are riches in vast quantities suitable for a dragon hoard for those of his kind who will seek to enter our lands south of Angmar.

            “Between the archers of the Elves east of Khazad-dûm and the valiant nature of those of Kheled-marûz he was driven off the first time, and he has found the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains well prepared for his coming this time.  But if he becomes sufficiently determined there will come the day when he will find one of our settlements with too few guards to keep him out and all will be lost.  And the longer he lives the more vicious he will be, and the bigger and the more devastating his fire will become.  We Dwarves have dealt with firedrakes before, after all.”

            But the question of how the Dwarves might protect themselves better against such dangerous beasts was not answered--only in vigilance and forewarning and keeping a force of archers ever ready might they be able to fend off further incursions.

            It was after the Dwarves had been shown to rooms where they might be housed during their stay that Elrond invited Gandalf to the library for a more private discussion.

            “There is more that you have not had the chance to hear and that was very pointedly not mentioned in today’s council,” Elrond said quietly.  “One of the lesser lords of Khazad-dûm made a point of meeting Celebrían’s party when she came out of Laurelindórenan the last time and having a quiet word with her.  In the last assault on the eastern slopes of the mountains a new settlement was attacked.  There had been no time for those who had begun the new settlement to garner riches or craft great works.  He who led those who entered the mountains there to found this new realm was the heir to one of those Dwarf lords of old who had been given one of the Seven.  All were slain save three who were able to escape, but the blue dragon, apparently a female, was fatally wounded in the defense.”

            “No one had told us that one of the settlements had been emptied,” Gandalf said, his concern growing even greater.  “And he was heir to one of the remaining Rings of Power, you say?  Did he die?”

            “Swallowed up by the dragon just within the gates,” Elrond confirmed.

            The two considered one another.  At last Gandalf straightened, very troubled.  “There is but one reason why this news was not shared then--there remains but one Dwarven Ring.”

            “Yes--apparently the Ring of Dúrin himself.”

            The Wizard nodded thoughtfully.  “The Enemy will begin focusing his attacks there on Khazad-dûm itself, and will ring it about with orcs and trolls and--whatever other creatures might be at his command.”

            “And it is to be noted that the archers of Lórien involved themselves in the defense in that assault.  My wife’s naneth is often quiet about what she sees or has seen due to her foresight.  If she foresaw a reach for one of the Rings, she would have seen to it such defenses were readied, and yet might well have failed to speak of it to the rest of the Council, particularly as when we met last Saruman was one of those present.  Nor would she be likely to speak before such as Pelendur.”

            “What of this blue dragon?”

            “From what was said before, it is definite that she died as a result of the wounds she suffered.  Those they told of who came over the border from Angmar have not seen her since came south before the last assault before we came to Gondor, although the red one, this Smaug, has been seen several times.”

            “From what I have been able to learn there have been few enough dragons left within Middle Earth in this past age.  If there are but one or two remaining, that means that much less of a threat to the rest of the Free Peoples.”

            Elrond nodded thoughtfully.  “So it would be indeed.  We should be grateful that the wounds suffered by the blue dragon were fatal, particularly if it was indeed a female.  We certainly don’t need them breeding and adding that much more to our worries.  Now, tell me what news my fosterlings have sent.”

            *******

            Accompanied by Elrohir, Gandalf left Imladris with many concerns on his mind.  The village of Bree and the lands about it, he noted, were apparently prosperous, and he spent two days in the new inn there.  The old one had been of rough timber; this was beam and post construction with combinations of chalk and plaster set between the great beams of wood that were used to define the shape of the building.  A dike had been dug, and combinations of palisades of wood and hedges served as rudimentary defenses to the village itself.  Staddle, on the eastern side of the great Bree Hill, was also surrounded by a dike and a wooden wall; the smaller villages of Archet and Combe had no dikes, but rudimentary walls about them.  Hobbits continued to live within Bree, most digging into the sides of Bree Hill where it rose up more steeply behind the houses and shops of the Big Folk of the village.

            “And how might I be of further service to ye, Masters?” asked the innkeeper, a rather slender one for this land where there was little enough difference between Hobbit and Men beyond height and feet.  “Ye found yer room comfortable enough, I hope?”

            “Indeed we did, Master Butterbur,” the Wizard hastened to assure him.  “A most pleasant thing, to sleep so well in so soft a bed.”

            Butterbur’s face lit with satisfaction.  “We do aim to please,” he assured his guests.  “And we hope as ye’ll send more our way--we are pleased to host as many as wish to visit with us.  But if there’s aught else as would please ye ere ye go?”

            Gandalf wracked his brains, as he didn’t really need anything further.  At last he suggested, “Perhaps if you have a bottle of wine we might take with us--that would be pleasant.”

            So it was that he and Elrohir found themselves headed west carrying with them a stoneware flask of wine, the cork sealed with beeswax.  “What do you plan to do with that?” the Peredhel asked.

            “Perhaps share it with whatever Hobbits we might fall in with,” Gandalf suggested.  “They continue to be wonderful hosts, once you manage to find one who isn’t fearful of us as Big Folk.”

            Together they rode steadily westward, pausing once to eat and stretch in a glade opposite the Barrow-downs.  “Gildor’s folk keep this glade open,” Elrohir noted, “that as they pass east and west they might keep an eye upon the activities of the wights opposite.  Little enough terrors do they hold for us; but if they were to break free of the boundaries set upon them by you and our adar, much terror and destruction could they loose upon the Breelands and the Shire.  The tale is that they have become deeply bitter since they were so bound, and that when folk come among them they are vicious indeed.  Perhaps two Men have escaped them in the past hundred sun-rounds, one of those remaining witless for the remainder of his life.”

            The Wizard cast a thoughtful glance at the nearest tumulus as he ate one of the apples Elrond’s son had brought from Imladris.  He opened himself as he could for whatever knowledge might be shared with him regarding the tombs of Cardolan, but no wisdom was vouschafed him--or was it?

            He saw a vision of one bearing the Light of Stars within him crossing with purpose into the Barrow-downs, the wights rising to threaten him.  Then he saw that one again, older, wiser, bearing a familiar brooch set with a green stone upon his breast, approaching the same place anew, the Star of Elendil flaming upon his brow, a familiar form at his side, another with the glow of the Sun about him also advancing with equal purpose....

            The one he’d seen had brought to mind others he’d known long ago----

            A wounded form, one arm ending at a heavily scarred stump, the memories of pain, terror, and great grief finally easing away as he and she who’d accepted his love knew at last a time of peace within Arda before they accepted the Gift....

            One covered with the dust of opals and pearls, glistening as he paused in the act of leaving an abamdoned city, the brooch the one of his vision had worn shining upon his breast; the last Silmaril carried in his hand adding to the unearthly luster with which he’d glowed....

            One standing on the prow of his ship, then leaping into the Sea, offering himself to Ulmo’s cleansing ere he step foot upon the Land of Gift....

            A proven warrior counseling his father to flee to safety, knowing he and the two brothers with him as well as their Men were perhaps sacrificing themselves in vain....

            But the Ring had robbed that sacrifice of its hoped-for fruit.  It had called for the assault by the orcs; It had goaded them to keep following Isildur’s scent as he followed the orders given to him by his son Elendur and raced toward the River, hoping to elude them; It had changed Its size in Its fear the King might escape Its wrath, abandoning and betraying him to his death, also.

            And in doing so, the Ring had inadvertently betrayed Itself.  It could not move Itself from place to place; and having been born in Fire It required some degree of warmth in order to remain sufficiently aware to call to It the creatures Its fell master and his predecessor had loosed upon Middle Earth.  Lost in the river and kept cool by its water, perhaps as Saruman insisted carried unto the Sea itself, It was helpless, for in quantity Water held quenching power over Fire.

            Gandalf glanced aside at the son of Elrond and Celebrían.  The one who now wore that brooch was Elrohir’s own mother, and the one who’d been at the side of the King who wore it in his vision had been....  He took a deep breath and held it momentarily.  Would Arwen Undómiel truly find her heart stirred at long last by a descendant of her adar’s brother--the heir to Isildur, Valandil, Araphant and Arvedui?  And Fíriel, he thought once again--heir to Anárion as well as to Isildur.  And the children they might produce would carry the full legacy of the Children of Eärendil and Elwing.  Gandalf took another deep breath.

            He thought again to the prophecy of Malbeth the Seer he had recounted to Saruman as well as that Círdan had shared with Pelendur’s council.  Was that the meaning--that the progeny of both sons of Eärendil must one day wed to reunite his lineage?  How would Elrond, much less his wife and this one and his twin brother, react to the idea of losing Arwen to a marriage with a mortal, even if he were indeed one of Elros’s issue?

            He shivered, realizing this was one vision he had no intention of sharing with Elrond Eärendilion at any time within the foreseeable future.

 *******

            They approached the King’s Bridge at sunset and crossed over it.  There was now a notable village here, one to which traders from among Hobbits, Dwarves, Men, and even on odd occasions Elves would come, as they did also within Bree, at regular times throughout the year, forming a markedly diverse and unique marketplace.  Elf and Wizard were greeted by the quiet stares of the residents of this land.  No longer, Gandalf realize, would he be able easily to pass unnoticed through the land of the Shire, not with such villages as this along its ways.

            “They do well here in the lands Argeleb gave them,” Elrohir noted quietly, looking on the rich fields and lush woodlands they passed.  Gandalf had to agree.

            It was decided they would turn somewhat southwards to explore the lands west of the Baranduin.  This was a rich bottomland region, and even under the darkening light they could they see it was filled with growing fields, interspersed here and there with farmhouses and barns and byres.  As they continued on their way on small farm lanes and down bridle paths the twilight deepened into a sparkling night.  At one point Elrohir halted his horse and sat, listening to the rhythms of the land, wind, and the creatures round about.  A vole scurried across the lane before them, followed by a fox that appeared more intent on enjoying a run through the night rather than actually capturing a meal.  A small owl looked down on them from the poplar that grew to their right, giving a small hoot of question.  They could smell the tang of woodsmoke flavored with rich cooking smells from a nearby mound----

            “That’s no hillock,” Gandalf murmured quietly to his companion.  “A Hobbit house, and how well disguised to blend right into the countryside!”

            Elrohir’s smile of approval could be seen in the light given by stars and a waning moon.  “A proper people for the land,” he said approvingly.  “Argeleb did well in granting this to the Periannath.”

            “’Twasn’t Periannath what the King give the Shire to,” corrected a voice from nearby.  “’Twere Marcho and Blanco of the Tooks, it was.  Me granfer tol’ me that, comin’ as he did from the Tooklands in the Green Hills country.”

            Neither Elf nor Wizard had noticed the Hobbit who leaned upon the nearby gatepost.  Even now he was hard to discern from his surroundings until his eyes caught the light of the Moon.  Elrohir straightened, examining what could be seen of the fellow.  “I meant no disrespect to your folk or to the King.  ‘Periannath’ is merely our name for your people, you must understand.”

            “Oh, well, if’n that’s what that means then.  Don’t think as I’ve heard that word afore.”  The Hobbit straightened.  “And what’re Big Ones such as you doin’ here in the Marish?” he asked, although without much in the way of suspicion to his voice.  “We don’t see many o’ yours strayin’ far from the Road, y’see.”

            “I doubt you’d see many of my people at any time,” Elrohir replied.  “We also tend to go unnoted at most times.  Nay, we thought only to examine the lands roundabout and see what your people have done with them.  You’ve made of the Shire a rich and pleasant country, one that you have reason to treasure.  It has been many sun-rounds since I last passed through what had been Cardolan, and to see it again filled with burgeoning fields and husbanded greenwoods is a delight.”

            “Then you wasn’t sent by the King?” the Hobbit asked them.

            “No,” Gandalf answered him, “although I was with him and his son and his son’s wife but a month or more back.  He spoke well of your folk’s stewardship of the bridge and roads, and of your courtesy toward the messengers he must at times send westward.”

            The voice of the Hobbit was warmer yet when he answered, “That’s right good to hear, it is.  Have you had your supper as yet?  We’d be well pleased to invite the two o’ ye to join us, m’ wife’n’ me, if’n ye hadn’t.”

            So it was that Gandalf found himself leading Elrohir into the hole.  “Ouch!  Oh, and my friend, mind the beams--they’re rather low, I find.”

            The Peredhel smiled as he was led into the main room of the place.  It was a large room with higher ceilings than the entrance passage.  At one side were comfortable seats about a great hearth; at the other was a second fireplace with cooking hearth, table, benches, and workspaces.  From the ceiling hung hams and root vegetables in netting and bags of herbs.

            “M’dear one--here’s two as is friends o’ the King hisself.  Hope as ye don’t mind, sweetling, but I’ve invited them to join us for supper.”

            And so it was that Gandalf and Elrohir became guests of Terko and Beryl of the Marish.  Beryl was a bright-eyed Hobbitess obviously well-advanced in pregnancy.  “Don’t know for certain as to when the bairn is due,” she admitted.  “Very soon, I’d think, though it’s not dropped in the womb as yet.”

            The food was excellent and the company even better.  “I’ve been a’lookin’ ’cross the river, I have,” Terko sighed.  “But then that’s been true o’ me whole family, I think.  Certainly me granfer says ’twas true of our great-father Modoc as he wished as he could dig his smial there in the ridge east o’ the Barandiwine.”

            “That was Modoc’s wish, was it?” Gandalf asked, smiling in memory of meeting Modoc in the wilderness south of Tharbad.

            “Indeed yes.  Me granfer come back here to the Marish and took farmland and begun raisin’ his family; but we all still end up when there’s time fer it, there by the river’s bank, lookin’ at the fair land there we’d like to make our own.  Can ye tell me of it?”

            “I can tell you some,” admitted Elrohir, “for I saw Cardolan rise and fall again.”

            They bedded down before the fireplace, and woke early and together split wood in payment for their night’s lodging before taking their leave of their genial hosts and continuing onwards.

            Near the center of the Shire they overtook a fair-faced Hobbit who was plainly of Fallohide descent leading a donkey toward the Green Hills country.  “Greetings to you, friend,” Gandalf called.  “And how does the day treat you?”  With unspoken agreement he and the Peredhel dropped to the ground, prepared to lead their horses for a time.

            The Hobbit eyed Wizard and Elf with delighted interest, sweeping into a deep bow.  “Greetings to you as well,” he said, smiling broadly as he fixed his interest on Elrohir.  “Another Elf!  You are the second I’ve seen, sir, although I admit saw the other but briefly, for he did not travel openly as do you.  But his hair was fair where yours is dark.  I am Drogo Bagger, at your service.”

            “Gandalf the Wizard at that of you and your family, and this is Elrohir of the Peredhil who accompanies me westward.”

            “Do you go to the great delvings they do in the White Downs?” asked Drogo.  “They say it is good land for sheep, and I’d thought to go there for a time, mayhaps.”

            “And for what reason do they delve there?” asked Elrohir as they resumed the walk westward.

            “There was thought of perhaps starting a great smial there, but the hills of the Downs for the most part are too low for good windows, and the soil not right for boring of proper ventilation shafts.  But they have found it a good source of material for the maintenance of the roads, and there’s talk of using the burrows for storage of foods for lean years.  Few vermin appear to like to dig their holes there to any depth.”

            “Is that where you go today?” Gandalf asked.

            “Nay--today I must go to my kin amongst the Tooks--my father is selling the Took this one, and I must deliver her.  Belle here is a good donkey, and I shall miss her, I will; but they’ve more need for her amongst the Tooks than we do where we dwell over the Hill.”

            “Will you stay in the Tooks’ lands then the night?”

            “Two days, mayhaps; but I must be home again after that.  We’re to meet with the Sackinses from Sackville in four days’ time to discuss what we’ll do from here.  We’re all kin, you see--the Sackinses and the Baggerses.  Some of the Sackinses wish to join again with the Baggerses, but some don’t, so I suspect at there’ll be a right row in the end, for those of the Sackinses as don’t wish to rejoin the family tend to be right stubborn, they do.”

            It was a cheerful walk, for it appeared that Drogo Baggers had been made for singing, and he was soon singing a variety of songs for them, some traditional songs of the Shire, he told them, and some of them songs he admitted were of his own composition.  At last he turned from them, headed toward the homes of his Took kin in the Green Hills country, and they continued onward.  All appeared peaceful, and there were signs of plenty--rich fields, orchards where the fruit swelled on the trees, good flocks of sheep on the hillsides.  They were watched with curiosity and nowhere the suspicion such as they might have sparked in the past, although no others hailed them.

 *******

            Their return journey was not as pleasant for them, however, for Círdan was serious in his mien and spoke of strange ships challenging the ships of both Men and Elves.  These came mostly from the south, although a few apparently came from Angmar as well.  What it was they carried none could say, but it was obvious that Arvedui and his father would do well to tighten the watch again upon the borders for signs of more plagues to be loosed.

            As they crossed the Water going eastward they saw a fair number of Hobbits upon the road, among them Drogo Bagger and what appeared to be his father facing a rather beefy Hobbit somewhat shorter than they who was dragging on the wrist of a very pretty young Hobbitess.  “And I’m saying, Bagger, as I’m not allowin’ my Platina to marry your son.  He’s give to odd dreamin’s, he is, what with his song-makin’ and talk o’ Elves and Wizards and all.”

            “I’ll remind you, Orthino, that we’ve changed our name from Bagger to Baggins as most of the Sackinses have chosen to rejoin the family.  And if my Drogo says he’s seen Elves and Wizards, I’d say he has.  He’s not given to lying, I’ll have you know.”

            “And when have Elves ever let themselves be seen here in the Shire?” sneered Orthino.

            Elrohir exchanged glances with Gandalf, gave an amused smile, and stepped forward almost into the midst of the gathered Hobbits before he was noted.  “Would you say, Master,” he asked, “that I hide myself away--I or my companion, Gandalf the Grey?”  He indicated where the Istar stood at the back of the crowd, and all turned, faces surprised to look at two so tall figures.  “We met young Drogo here some days past when we traveled westward.  And ever have we of the Firstborn honored those who sing and compose songs.”

            The one called Orthino merely stood, his eyes goggling.  At least in his shock his grip on the Hobbitess loosened, and she was able to pull away from him.  Gandalf could see that the place where he’d gripped her arm was red and likely to bruise in time.  “I told ye, A’da,” she said, shaking herself and straightening, “that I’d not be part of those as choose to call themselves Sackvilles, and I’ll not stop in Sackville no more.  It’s long and long enough as I’ve loved Drogo, and I’ll not be held from him no longer, neither.  I’m no wee lass for ye to be a’tellin’ me as to how I’m t’come and t’go throughout the day; I’m healer-trained--and again against yer will, that; I can certainly make my own way in the world even if Drogo failed to care for me proper.

            “But he’s not that way, and ye know it well enough.  He’s a fine Hobbit, and one t’be proud of, and as industrious a one as I’ve ever seen.  Those as have had him aid in the buildin’ of homes and diggin’ of smials have never regretted it, and he’s certainly one as can provide fer us and any family as we might produce.  Now, it seems t’me as ye have but two choices--come t’our weddin’ and wish us well, or don’t and don’t bother us no more, but in the doin’ of such lose all chance to know the love of whatever grandchildren as we might of give ye.”

            Orthino went white, then red with rage; but several others of those about stepped forward to come between him and Platina, their arms crossed.  One was shaking his head.  “As family head for those of us as decided t’call ourselves Sackvilles, I’ve agreed t’much as ye’ve demanded of young Drogo here, Orthino; and so far he’s managed to meet every obstacle as ye’ve set in his way.  It’s time fer it t’stop, here and now.  He may be a dreamer, this Drogo Baggins as he’s t’be known from here on, but he’s no idle one--never has been.  His dad’n’ him run a good farm, and he’s as good a one with his hands as I’ve ever seen.  He’s loved yer lass for some years, has been constant in that love, and has no reputation as one as is loose with any other lasses.  That you don’t care fer him counts not two pins with yer Platina here--as she says, if’n ye had no wish to see the two of them and their children when they come, that’s yer loss’n’ not so much theirs.

            “Now, Drogo Baggers--Baggins, I mean t’say--Drogo’n’ me’ll most like not be particular close, but that’s ’cause we’ve not much in common, not fer any lack in him nor me.  But for all as we’ll never be friends o’ any kind, I have to respect him as one as has integrity, steadiness, and the ability to see what I simply can’t see ’cause I haven’t the imagination.  Now, are ye a’goin’ to dance at yer daughter’s weddin’ or not?”

            A muscle in Orthino’s cheek twitched ominously.  At last he said, his voice stiff with anger, “Then mebbe it’s not a Sackville as I’d wish t’be known, neither, if’n ye’ll stand atween a Hobbit’n’ his daughter, Bardo.  Dance at their weddin’ when she’s defyin’ her a’da’n’ her family to tie herself to this’un?  I think not!  Na, I’m back off t’Hardbottle t’tell her mother as she’s no longer t’worry about the wilfulness of this’un as is no longer a daughter of us.”

            As he started to turn away, Bardo demanded, “Ye’ll not even admit t’bein’ a Sackville, then, will ye?  Than what family name d’ye take t’yerself and the rest of yer children?”

            Orthino turned and looked at Bardo for some time, the muscle in his cheek continuing to show its tic.  Finally he said, “From me own a’da I’ve learned t’girdle the trees as need t’be cut down.  Ye can know me for a Bracegirdle, then.”  So saying, he turned away once more, calling over his shoulder, “Meristo, ye a’comin’ with me, or are ye a’throwin’ in yer lot with yer sister there?”

            A rather thin young Hobbit paused and looked about him for a moment, then shrugged and turned to follow after the older one, casting a last look filled with grief and confusion back at Platina where she’d put herself at Drogo’s side as he went.

            Once the two of them were well out of sight, Platina’s tears finally began to fall, and Drogo pulled her into his arms.  “Shush, sweetling, my heart,” he murmured as he rubbed at her shoulder.  “Na, na--softly now.  Ah, dearest of dearlings, I’ll not see any other as I’ll love as I do you.  We’ve both known as it was likely as this would happen before the end.  But I’m still so sorry, so sorry for you and your mother and brothers.”  He lifted her face to his and kissed her gently, and then fished inside his sleeve for a plain kerchief to offer her to use in drying her eyes and blowing her nose, then looked up to meet the eyes of Peredhel and Wizard.  “And as you’ve proven I’ve not lied, we’d be honored if you would attend our wedding.  If Bardo and my father agree, then, we’ll be married in three days’ time.”

            So it was that Gandalf and Elrohir found themselves again guests of Hobbits, staying on the Baggins farm beyond the Hill, as they named the highest prominence in the region.  They found that this wedding had actually been long planned for, and that Drogo’s mother Diamente already had much prepared against this day.  “So,” she sighed as she saw Platina coming on Drogo’s arm but without her family behind her, “he refused to accept what couldn’t be stopped, did he?  And not even Meristo will attend?  I’m so grieved for you, Platina, my soon-to-be-daughter.  Then we’ll have you stay the night with our Boffin kin so your father can’t claim any impropriety before the wedding itself.”

            She turned to greet her other guests as her husband presented them.  “You’re a wizard?  And an Elf?  How wonderful!  There’s stories in the family of a Wizard being the friends of a few of our ancestors.  Was your dad known to Bilbiolo of the Baggers or Modoc the Hunter?  It’s said as he was the first of our family to enter the Shire--so my grandfather what removed to the Marish to farm told me.”

            “Then are you related to Terko of the Marish?”

            “My cousin, he is.  Have you seen him?  Is he well?  It’s long enough since I saw him last--he was but a child, and I wasn’t that much better.”

            “Yes, he does very well, and he and his wife expect their first child now.”

            “He’s married?  Little Terko?  Ah, but I suppose that’s but to be expected as I’m soon to become mother to a daughter in love.  Ah, well.  Does his farm do well?”

            Elrohir found Gandalf out in a shed, mixing materials and filling tubes made of stiffened paper.  “And what is it you do?”

            “Mixing some fireworks--Hobbits love fireworks, I found during the days I’d visit them within the valley of the Anduin.  And as it’s a wedding, after all....”

            Shaking his head, Elrond’s son left him to it, hearing Gandalf singing softly under his breath as he worked.

 *******

            A few days later they reached the Marish, and paused their journey once more to visit on Terko’s farm.  Beryl stood in the yard, draping the hedge with yards and yards of white fabric.  She looked up at them, her eyes shining with recognition.  “Lairds Gandalf and Elrohir?  Ah, but it’s grand to see ye again!  Terko’ll be that glad to see ye, he will.  Oh, but come’n’ see--the bairn, it’s come, and a right easy time of it I had with the wee thing.  Me mum--she made it sound as if’n ’twas naught but agony, you see--had me all riled for nothin’.  Not but there wasn’t a good deal o’ pain; but this was little enough.”  She opened the gate to admit them and led them into the low house, where the front door lay open.

            In a low basket out of the way of any draft lay a tiny Hobbit child, sound asleep.  She lifted him up in her arms, her eyes shining with pride.  “See,” she breathed softly, “here’s m’bairn, me wee little Bucca.”  Then she held him out to the Wizard.

            This baby was so small he fit easily in the palm of one of Gandalf’s clever hands.  When the child opened his eyes they were unafraid, and he looked up with that rather pleasant confusion with which infants of all sorts tend to view the world.  Gandalf was certain that there was the trace of a Light of Being to him.  Gently he passed the tiny being to Elrohir, whose own eyes had gone soft.

            “Sa, sa,” the Peredhel said in a soft, sing-song voice.  “Gently now, small Bucca.  Ah, but how very little!”  And then his eyes went distant and he went very still, and Gandalf realized that Elrohir was seeing a vision of this one’s future.  When he spoke, his voice held a different softness.  “A brave one he will be, known to the King and those who come after.  But never shall he see himself as others see him--for him it will be enough to be and remain Bucca of the Marish.”  So saying, he returned the child to the arms of his mother.

 *******

            There was a new lord amongst the Dunlendings, one almost given to logic and honest persuasion.  “There is little enough to be gained by allying yourself with the lordless ones there in Rhudaur,” Gandalf explained.  “They hold themselves apart from all, and have lived for centuries in hatred of the Dúnedain of the north, part of whose lands they now occupy.  And they have allied themselves with the Witch-king of Angmar, who sends them fell magics that fail all too soon and pumps up their conceits about how they somehow deserve what they envy, although they do not do well by the lands they rule now.  You saw the company of those I returned to you of your own folk, taken unlawfully by the people of Rhudaur and enslaved.  Can you not see that this is what they desire for all of you--that you all fall subject to their rule and power?”

            “But they have ever been our allies....”

            “But what kind of true ally allows his own to steal men, women, and children and enslave them from those with whom he is supposedly allied?”  But when he left the lord’s presence, Gandalf wasn’t certain that the Man might not be as easily (or more so) convinced by the next group of envoys from Rhudaur.

 *******

            After remaining within Arnor for some years, one more trip he made south into Gondor to speak with Eärnil.  “Again the Witch-king threatens the realm of Arnor,” he advised him.

            “While those of Umbar have been constantly assaulting our ships,” Eärnil answered.  “We’ve lost eighteen ships in but the past two years alone, and three more are unaccounted for.  My son is now with his mother’s folk in Dor-en-Ernil where he might learn more of the needs of those who must live alongside the might of Ossë.  I fear, however, that his first love is in the couched spear and the blade of the sword.  He does not appear to send anywhere as much news to me of the building of ships or the protection of harbors as I’d hoped to see; instead he speaks constantly of tourneys and protections against slavers, who’ve ever rowed small boats ashore near unprotected farmsteads and villages to take the unwary.  To come to the need of Arnor we will need ships--many ships.  And meanwhile dark creatures and evil Men gather in the Montains of Shadow, and there are tales of distress from Erech and the banks of the Morthond.  Those held by Isildur’s curse are troubled, and their horns are heard in the dark of nights by those who must live nearby--horns and the clash of weapons and the cries of the dying who cannot leave the boundaries of Arda.”

            That report brought back to mind the report of the final prophecy spoken by Malbeth the Seer, which Gandalf now shared with the King of Gondor.  Eärnil sat forward in his seat, obviously intrigued.  “Who shall call them?  The heir to him to whom the oath they swore.”  He straightened.  “The King of Arnor shall call the army of the dead forth?”

            “Apparently.”

            “And when will this be?”

            “We do not know.  Nor do we know under what circumstances it will happen.”

            The King of Gondor rose and walked to the side table standing against the wall where a wine ewer of colored glass sat waiting.  He picked it up and flicked the silver lid up, then allowed it to drop back down to close it once more before setting it back down on the table and placing both hands on the table’s edge, leaning forward to support his torso on his arms.  “We are endangered now, Mithrandir,” he said at last to the mirror hanging over the table.  “Several of the Nazgûl have gathered to Mordor, sending out their evil creatures to fall upon our soldiers and the people who dwell in Ithilien.  More and more appear to gather in the mountain passes to Minas Ithil, blocking off passage into what remains of our garrison there.”

            “How do you get supplies to them?” Gandalf asked him.

            He could see Eärnil shrugging.  “Only with the greatest difficulty.  As I said, orcs are growing in number in the Ephel Dúath, and our lands in Ithilien are under attack now on a near-constant basis.  Several of our villages that lay closer to the Crossroads have been abandoned by those who have survived the attentions of our enemies.  We can no longer keep efficient watch upon the roads into Rhûn, and once again Easterlings come freely to the Black Gate, which opens to receive them.  The lands before the Gate are dying once more, and the marshes north of the Dagorlad grow increasingly treacherous and encroach further southwards.”

            He sighed, straightened, and turned to look at the Wizard.  “How long will we be able to hold out should attacks be sent out by both Mordor and Dol Guldur if those of Khand and Harad attack at the same time?”

            Gandalf sat thoughtfully for some moments before he said, “Arnor has ever faced this, my lord.  Those of Rhudaur and the Brown Lands to the south have constantly timed their assaults to coincide with aggression from Angmar; and at such times there are almost always battalions of orcs from the depths below the Misty Mountains and trolls from the Ettenmoors who add to the chaos with attacks on the fastnesses of Elves and Dwarves as well as Arnor.  Add in the reports of the sightings of the red dragon from Angmar and one has even more reason for worry.  He sought again to attack the gates to the Dwarven settlement of Kheled-marûz in the Blue Mountains five years past, but was driven off by Elven archers from among the wandering tribes of Eriador.  More and more of the Dwarf kingdoms have been abandoned.

            “Face it, Lord Eärnil--all of the Free Peoples are equally under attack, and as has been true for the past how many centuries, these assaults are directed from Dol Guldur.”

            The Man took a deep breath, then nodded his head in understanding, sighing.  “Aye, so it is.”  He turned at last.  He looked much older than he had when he’d arrived in Minas Tirith the day after Arvedui’s departure.  There was a definite crease between his brows, his hair was streaked with silver, and the frown lines about his mouth were much deeper.  “Ever the Enemy seeks to rise again; ever he desires to bring down the descendants of Númenor as well as the representatives of the other Free Peoples of Middle Earth,” he said.  “We shall do our best to honor the treaty should Angmar’s final assault be loosed before those forces gathering about Mordor be ready to be fall upon us.  I will give orders that the shipyards begin the building of a fleet, and will recall my son.  I will send one of my own folk to the havens in Pelargir and along the shores of Anfalas and Belfalas.  If you will speak to those who hold the Elven haven?  They do not welcome Men at this time, we find.”

            “Yes, at your request I will,” Gandalf responded.

The Siege of Fornost

            “You trust the word given you?” Gandalf asked Arvedui.

            The King of Arnor sighed as he solemnly indicated he did.  “These messages were sent by some who originally considered themselves Men of Arnor who found themselves on the north side of the new border as a result of the attacks ten years ago.  Because they were husbandmen rather than warriors they were allowed to live.  Angmar is more interested in how much food he can gather for his forces than whether or not his slaves are all willing ones.  He does not appear to have paid attention to the fact two of these were plainly once warriors no longer able to fight effectively due to disability.  That their allegiance is to me and that they might find ways of sending word to me of what they’ve observed appears to have escaped him.”

            He stood straighter.  “The blow is being readied even as we speak, Gandalf--perhaps at most a year there may be before he looses the horde he has gathered; and it appears his armies will not be limited to Men, for Forgil has seen battalions of orcs gathering in the shadows of the Misty Mountains and the dark forests north of the Trollshaws; and the rumors of wargriders amongst them demoralize my Men.  And if he should draw down upon us a firedrake....”  He left the rest unsaid.

            “And should he include trolls amidst his army, that could be devastating.  They are far from intelligent, but their strength and brutality could wreak great damage upon your folk,” the Wizard noted.  Gandalf considered for a time.  “One good thing,” he commented, “is that by that last attack the border between Arnor and Angmar has been at last fully freed of the spell that kept those from these lands from crossing northward.”

            Arvedui’s expression grew grim indeed.  “But at what cost, Gandalf?  My cousin spent the lives of himself and eighteen good Men, some of our greatest warriors, seeking to defend us against that attack; if he’d not realized that he was dying and the rest either had gone before him past the Bounds of Arda or would likely follow him closely and used his own blood and death to overwhelm the blood magic Angmar had used to erect his barrier, then we would have remained with no hope of possibly flanking their army.”

            The Istar nodded thoughtfully.  At last he said, “You must use what time you have to gather levies and see them trained, and remember that both the Breelands and the Shire as well as Tharbad owe you support.  Do not hesitate to call upon them to honor their commitments to the integrity of Arnor.  I will hurry southwards to carry news to Eärnil of the plight of these lands.  He has sworn to uphold the treaties forged between your father and Ondoher.”

            “If,” Arvedui responded past a clenched jaw, “his council and Pelendur do not again work against us.  Any delay in aid may ensure our defeat.”  He shifted to gaze more directly into the Wizard’s eyes.  “You must bring aid if we are to survive, Mithrandir.  Don’t allow them to say us nay!”

            Gandalf nodded.  “I will go.  Speak with the Dwarves both west and east about sending aid, or at least helping guard the ways from north of the Trollshaws to the East-West road, and send your sons west into the remains of Lindon and to Mithlond.  Círdan will help you now to the best of his ability, as will Elrond.  But the wandering companies--only if they are aware that Angmar has sworn to destroy their peoples as well as the Havens and Rivendell will they be moved to fight also, or so I suspect.  Some I’ve encountered are convinced that this is merely a dispute between mortals.”

            Arvedui’s brows rose.  “A dispute between mortals?  And how long has it been, think you, that any of the Enemy’s greatest slaves and servants been able to be identified as truly mortal?  Not for all of this age and a good half of the last one by my reckoning.”

            Gandalf had to agree. 

            Arvedui gave him two swift horses so he could switch off between them and ride the more swiftly, and at nightfall the Wizard left Fornost on his errand to fetch reinforcements from the southern realm.  The King of Arnor, his arm about Fíriel’s waist, watched after him from the wall over the gate to the fortress, praying that the Valar speed the Grey Pilgrim’s errand.

 *******

            “What is it?” his wife asked as Bucca of the Marish swept back inside their low farmhouse after his return from the King’s Bridge over the Brandywine.

            “It’s a summons,” he said.  He was a bit surprised he could even speak.  “There’s a need for all folks o’ Arnor to send aid to the King.”

            “And how are Hobbits o’ the Shire to aid the Big Folk?” she demanded.  “We’ve no swordsmen, you know!”

            “No, but we do have fine archers,” he said.  “I’ll have to send word on to the central Shire, and call for a Shire-moot near Hobbiton, I suppose.”

            “But why us Hobbits?  We have no fights with the enemies of the King!”

            “You think not?” he asked looking at her closely.  “Do you really think as the King’s enemies won’t think to squash us if’n aught happens with the King?  Nay, my sweetest one--if’n his army fails, they’ll sweep through here, too.  What the Dwarves’ve told us o’ what they’ve done where they’ve swept through Eriador, they’ve left little’r nothin’ behind ’em.  The Brandywine won’t stop ’em, ye can count on that.  And us Hobbits--they’d think nothin’ o’ tramplin’ right over us--see us as helpless as aphids on flower stems, most like.”

            “But we owe the King nothin’----” she began before he cut her off.

            “We owe him everything!” Bucca insisted.  “We wouldn’t have the Shire, ’tweren’t fer him.  He give it to us, and we promised to support him as we could--keep up the roads and the bridge ’n’ help his messengers along the way--and send what aid as we can send when he needs it.  Can’t send that much, mayhaps, but we can send some.”

            “But you could die!” she said, her terror clear.

            “So could the King hisself,” he pointed out.  “If’n he’s willin’ to spend hisself protectin’ us, don’t you think as we owe him the same courtesy?”

            “But what are we t’do if’n they cross the river?” she asked.  “Without the menfolk to protect us----”

            “We won’t send all the menfolk--just a couple score is all he asks o’ the whole Shire.”

            That gave her pause.  “Only a couple score?  That’s not too many.  And when does he ask ’em to come?”

            “The muster’s to meet in Bree in three week’s time.”

            “Then you don’t have t’be one of ’em as goes, then.”

            “You want me to send others and not hazard meself?  What kind o’ Hobbit would I be--to ask others t’go t’protect us all, but not go meself?”

            “I don’ want t’be a-losin’ ye, dearling,” she whispered.

            “Nor do I want t’be lost, my heart.  I promise you, if’n it’s at all possible, I’ll be a’comin’ back t’you and the Shire.”

 *******

            Three weeks later the King’s captain stood, frustrated, in the public square of Bree, looking at those sent to the muster.  Of the hundred requested from the Breelands, so far eighteen had shown up today, and their usefulness to the needs or Arnor was questionable at best.  Most were young boys from the farms about the four villages, plus three old Men who so far had expressed more idealism than sense, and a pair of brothers from Bree itself who appeared to have attached themselves to the muster more to escape the frustration of having to live with their parents than to fight for Arnor.  And then there were the three Periannath who’d just joined the Men--what good would such folk be, he wondered?

            It was then that he heard laughter from the west gate area, and turned to see two score more Periannath approaching, armed, from what he could tell, with bows appropriate to their stature--bows and slings and hand-held catapults.  He was surprised at the determination he saw in their eyes.

            “Lookit  ’em,” he heard one of the Breelanders watching from the sidelines comment.  “Does them think as ’em’s fighters er sommat?”

            He saw the ears of several of the Periannath in the company twitch, and saw more of them color.  “You heard ’em, Bucca,” one of the small folk commented to the leader of the group, drawing him and the group to a halt just within earshot.  “They’re not goin’ t’take us serious.  We shouldn’t of come.”

            “I tell ye, Marco, as we’re goin’ t’do our best.  Wouldn’t have the Shire for our own if’n ’twasn’t for the King givin’ it us.  An’ if’n he’s bein’ attacked, then stands t’ reason as we’d be next--as you said, most Big Folks won’t take us serious, and what I’ve heard the enemy’s not given to thinkin’ much about whether what they’re told is right.  If’n we don’t help fight, then what’s t’keep them from runnin’ right through the Shire?”

            Another of the Periannath was examining the marketplace, a crease of concern between his brows.  “I just wish to know who it is we’re to report to,” he said.  “I don’t see enough gathered here to make an army.”

            “Dunno, Baggins,” said still another.  “But then I’m not certain as what makes an army an army.”

            There were a few scattered, nervous laughs from the rest, and the leader looked about again.  At that point the King’s captain stepped forward.  “You are here for the muster?” he asked.

            The leader of the group gave a reserved nod.  “Yes--us in the Shire was asked to send two score to the King’s needs.  Well, here we are.  Most of us can use bows, and all of us are good with thrown stones and slings, and those four are experts with their catapults.  You got uses for us?”

            The captain’s mouth twitched.  “We’ll be setting up butts outside the village near where we’ll be camping for the next fortnight, and we’ll see how well you do.  But we always have need for bowmen, as long as they’re good.”

            The one who had the longest bow over his shoulder appeared insulted.  “We’re Hobbits--of course we’re good with a bow or sling.”

            One of the Bree Hobbits who’d been trying to convince the Mannish captain of his own worth nodded.  “It’s what I’ve been a-tellin’ ye as well, sir.  Us Hobbits--we’re as useful in our ways as any other.  And us don’t wish to have the northerners take over any more’n any others, see?”

            The Perian who’d been addressed as Baggins asked, “Are you the one we’re supposed to meet with?  Are you from the King?”

            “Yes,” the Man answered.  “Captain Belegorn of Fornost.  I wasn’t advised that those who would come from the Shire would be Periannath.”

            “Perry-whats?” one of the Shirelings asked another.

            Baggins explained, “That’s the name of some of the outsiders for us--that and Halflings.”

            “Half o’ what?” muttered Marco.

            Bucca shot Marco a look, then turned to Belegorn.  “Don’t see as what else you’d of expected from the Shire, Captain, as the King gave it to us Hobbits as our own land ’most five hundert years back.”

            Belegorn found his face growing warm.  He cleared his throat.  “I see,” he said.  “I suppose I’d not thought on that.”  He examined the group of Hobbits; recognizing that the strategies that had been developed were going to need revising--again--to accommodate these. 

 *******

            At sunset he led those who’d come to the muster out of Bree toward the camp that had been established a good half mile east of the South Gate.  Those set to guard the perimeter saluted him, then watched after as he went before the newcomers.  In all he led twenty-seven Men and forty-eight Hobbits, and from what he could tell the Hobbits were, for the most part, likely to be far more competent in the field than the majority of the Men.  The Breelands had provided barely a third of those asked of it, while the Shire had sent out a full complement of what had been begged of it.  They’d not been certain that either would give what was required of it, actually; but to learn the Hobbits of the Shire had been faithful to their charter while the Breelands had apparently done nothing to see to the choosing of folk to help protect the land gave him a new respect for the integrity of Hobbits while underlining the fact the more independent villages continued to think of themselves as separate from Arnor.

            Belegorn found himself wondering if King Eärnil in Gondor faced such challenges as did Arnor in fulfilling his levies.

            By the end of the first week those in the regular troops of Arnor had developed a healthy respect for the Hobbits amongst the new recruits, particularly once the commander of archers tried a few of their bows.  “They have almost as much pull to them as does my own bow,” he commented afterwards.  “These are not bows for children.  They don’t have quite the range that most bows for Men would have, but only because they are by necessity smaller.  And the Periannath are definitely excellent shots.  And have you noticed how quietly they can move within brushy areas, and how hard they can be to detect, even in fields of grass?”

            Nor was he the only one to develop appreciation for their Hobbit recruits.  Princes Aranarth and Beleg came to inspect the camp, returning from their missions to the Elves west of the Shire.  They now had forty-eight Men and fifty-two Hobbits, the Hobbits of the Breelands having separated themselves from their Big neighbors and attaching themselves to those who’d followed Bucca of the Marish and his brother Marco to the King’s needs.

            “So few Men?” asked Aranarth, dismayed.

            “So many of the Periannath?” asked Beleg.  “They will be a total surprise for the Enemy--don’t you see, my brother?  Angmar does not fully appreciate such constancy of purpose--it is too long, I suspect, since he was a true Man and understood the motivations of mortals.  But if we can face him with such as these....”  He considered the Hobbit archers at their practice.  “He will not be able to predict their actions, and it is even difficult to see them, I’ve noted, if they choose to go still and quiet.  Perhaps we could use them to spy on the enemy.”

            Twelve more Men and one more Hobbit chose to join the army while the two princes visited the town square in Bree.

            Captain Belegorn examined the Hobbit, frowning slightly.  “And have you a bow?” he asked.

            “No, but I’d bet as I’d be yer best forager as ye’d find.  I know how to find an’ recognize plants as is edible.”

            “And how did you come by this skill?”

            “My folks--they had ten childern, them did, and I was the third.  We had a small farm’n’ garden, but ’twasn’t enough fer all of us, yer see.  I’m also a right hand with a cookin’ pot--can cook ’bout ennythin’ an’ make’t palatable.”

            “And your name?”

            “Holmwise--Holmwise Goodchild.  From Staddle.”

            “And you have no skill with weapons?”

            “Never used any, but I’m a right hand with a stone in m’hands--have had plenty o’ practice fetchin’ rabbits ’n’ squirrels ’n’ birds fer the pot, I have, an’ chasin’ ’em out of the garden ’n’ fields.”  Then, as he saw the second thoughts reflected on the Man’s face he added hastily, “An’ I c’n tickle fish--as many as ye’d want fer a meal.”

            “Why do you wish to join the army, if you have no skill with weapons?”

            Holmwise took a deep breath, then finally let it out.  “As I said, I’m third o’ ten, an’ me folks c’n barely support us all.  Won’t inherit no land--me older brothers--they’ll get the farm and share’t atween ’em.  I’m in me tweens, an’ able to do most ennythin’ as needs doin’, if’n ye take my meanin’.  I c’n mend harness and dig a snug hole, dig a well or build a sound barn, an’ can even twist fine rope an’ all.  Me dad’s a good ’un with the farm, but I got me amë’s love o’ flowers’n’ trees.  I want some land of me own, you see, where I c’n take care o’ me own, but have room fer me flowers as I love.  ’Tis said as yer folk’ll help those as go with the army get land o’ their own when it’s all over--that’s what I want, see?”

            Belegorn examined the Hobbit.  His hair was somewhat fairer than most of the Hobbits he’d yet seen, save for the one called Baggins and two of those they called Tooks.  He was rather more muscular than most of the Hobbits in the camp, and his face was very earnest.  He was younger than the others in the camp, and his clothes, though well worn, were, he noted, pristinely clean and in good repair.  “Can you read or write?” he suddenly asked.

            His face clouding, the Hobbit shook his head.  “No--never learnt it, although I’m willin’ t’learn if’n there’s any as’d be willin’ t’teach me.”

            Prince Beleg examined the face of this Hobbit from Staddle, and said, “He looks a quick learner.  Set him to work with the quartermaster--we always need those who can help forage for food and supplies.  And if he can learn enough to help keep records that’s always to the good.”

            Captain Belegorn nodded, still somewhat reluctantly.  “As you say, my lord.  Well, Master Goodchild, let us see you back to the camp.”

 *******

            “You say you need someone to teach this one to read and write?” asked the Baggins Hobbit after their return.  “I could do that, if I could have something on which he might practice writing.  And I have a book with me.”

            Belegorn was surprised.  “You have a book with you?” he asked.  “You brought a book to war?”

            It proved to be a collection of words of advice the Baggins’s father had written out for him.  “When cutting boards or cloth, measure twice that you need cut but once,” read one entry.  “Those whose hands are soiled with honest work need not be ashamed,” went another.  Holmwise Goodchild took to both reading and the wisdom readily, and was soon quoting the book to all within the company.  He developed a clear, unaffected hand, and within three weeks was proving indispensible to the quartermaster, although his spelling could be best described, perhaps, as imaginative.

            At the end of the second week they marched away from the Breelands to join the army of the western section of Arnor.  For a time they did little but practice with their weapons and discuss tactics.  The Hobbits learned the type of information to look for when examining the enemy’s camps and emplacements, and were shown pictures of the types of weapons that were likely to be used against them.

            Bucca, Ladro Baggins, Delgo Watercress from Bree, and Holmwise Goodchild, who’d attached himself to Baggins’s service in return for the lessons, assumed leadership amongst the Hobbits and were often called upon to consult with Captain Belegorn and Prince Beleg.  The Tooks and Baggins were the best educated from what the Men could tell; but all were highly competent foragers as well as decent cooks.  Those who served in their battalion were quick to surrender cooking duties to the Hobbits, and soon were being looked at with envy by their fellows under other commands.

 *******

            Two months after they joined the main army, Ladro Baggins came into the tent where most of the other Hobbit archers were lounging.  “It’s come at last,” he said to all--or perhaps just to himself.  “The Enemy’s on the march.  We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

            Marco set down the wooden duck he’d been carving for his son, folding his knife closed and stuffing it into the pocket of his trousers.  “We’re finally leavin’?” he sighed.  “Wonder how long as we’ll be gone?”  He looked at the figure.  “I’d hoped t’finish this and send’t off t’the bairn afore we left this place.”

            Bucca looked at his brother with concern.  Now they were part of the fuller army his fear for those who’d accompanied him out of the Shire had grown, for now he’d spoken with many who were veterans of older battles, Men who’d seen fathers, brothers, and friends slain as they fought side by side, who’d come upon settlements and farms that had been destroyed by the enemy and seen the atrocities practiced upon the bodies of the slain.  It could so easily be his brother who died in the coming battles....

 *******

            One of the Tooks was the first Hobbit to fall, hit apparently solely by accident by a missile from one of the enemy’s sling-carriers. 

            The contingent to which the Hobbits were attached remained just north of the East-West Road, and defended that feature as much as possible from Angmar’s forces.  Captain Belegorn and the other officers of this battalion used the Hobbits to the fullness of their capabilities, which mean that they did indeed set them to spying on the enemy’s forces, and used them in ambushes on scouts and advance troops.  There had been about twenty-five Men, an equal number of orcs, and five wargs sent to feel out the defense toward the western line of their position.  Ten Hobbits and thirty veteran Men archers lay in wait as the group of Angmarians approached a place where two of the Weather Hills would force them closer together.  At the first flight of arrows from the defenders, five who carried slings and ten archers from the enemy stepped forward to offer what cover they could.  For the most part they fired randomly, for they could not see where it was the shots had been fired from.  The Hobbits, whose strategy had ever been to shift positions between shots that they be harder to attack, were moving when suddenly Heliogard Took slumped to the ground, blood seeping around where a stone had taken him in the temple.  He did not appear to have realized he’d even been struck.

            Only three of the first flight of arrows from the Hobbits had struck any of the foe; in the second flight, seven enemies were hit by the golden-fletched arrows of the Periannath, leaving three dead.  The third flight was even more deadly.  Any question Belegorn might have held about the effectiveness of Hobbits amongst the defenders of Arnor was now dispelled.  With the death of one of their own they now all had a personal stake in seeing the war won, and all were intent on seeing it fought and fought well. 

            Over the remainder of the following year they became increasingly experienced warriors, and three of them had begun to carry short swords adequate to their stature, one of them Marco, who often served amongst the spies.

            “I’m not sure as why ye think as ye need it,” Bucca admonished him.

            “Well,” Marco answered, “it served me well yestereve when that soldier from the enemy’s camp all but tripped o’er me as he sought a private place to relieve hisself.  Had him dead--and quiet-like, mind ye, afore he knew as what struck ’im.  Another one o’ theirs as won’t be hurtin’ none of ours.”

            The finding of the Man lying dead of a sword thrust in a place within full view of the camp caused consternation amongst the Angmarian troops, and when others died as mysteriously the fear grew.  It was soon being rumored amongst them that the Arnorians employed wights who could walk unseen into the camp and slay at will.  The Hobbits lying under cover of low scrub, watching the enemy’s activities, brought back the stories as they heard them.  And perhaps it might have gone on far longer had Marco not become careless, wounding but not killing his intended victim.  A cry from the Man, and immediately they were surrounded and Marco taken prisoner.

            “What have we here?” the enemy captain asked as he joined the Men crowded around the wounded Angmarian soldier and their captive. 

            “Some kind of manling,” answered one of those who held a sword to Marco’s throat.  “He stabbed Derrig there.  Mayhaps he’s the one who’s been killing our folk about the camp.”

            The other Hobbits had all gathered where they could watch the proceedings.  Bucca was terrified.  “We have to rescue him!” he whispered to Ladro Baggins.

            Ladro looked at the tableau across from them.  “We each pick a target,” he whispered, “and best to kill yours with the first shot.”  He looked around, and the other Hobbits, all white faced, all nodded.

            In an instant bows were strung, and each of forty Hobbits chose an arrow, indicated which of the Men was his target, and moved into a position where it was felt a clear shot could be taken.  Bucca had chosen the captain, and moved around to where he felt he could take the Man between the shoulders.  Holmwise stood where he was hidden from the camp but could still be seen by the other Hobbits.  When all were in position, he raised his hand, then brought it down sharply; forty arrows flew, and most hit their targets squarely.

            Marco, who’d been held to the chest of one of the Men, fell to the ground as an arrow hit the one holding him in the throat.  He rolled away from the Men, then scrambled to his feet and fled the scene before the rest of the Men in the camp realized quite what had happened.  As he ran one of the surviving Men nearest the group threw a dagger after the fleeing Hobbit.  Bucca saw his brother lurch, then continue running.

            Bucca was glad to see that the captain was hit exactly where he’d been aiming.  Feeling relief, he hurried forward to bring Marco back to their own camp.

            Belegorn was coming toward them as the Hobbits returned in a huddle about Bucca and Marco.  “What has happened?” he asked.  “My Men say there has been a major disturbance at the edge of the enemy camp.”

            Bucca was surprised to see how his fear for his brother’s safety had turned to anger, even rage, at his narrow escape.  “It was this fool,” he spat, “trying to add further to the confusion o’ those in the enemy camp by lying close enough to hopefully again take one o’ their number.  This time he was caught.”

            “I’m sorry,” Marco panted.  “But, please--my back--it hurts.”  He started to slump, and all saw he’d been hit low in the back by the dagger thrown after him.

            “Stars and water!” gasped Bucca as Belegorn turned to call for a healer.

 *******

            “And thou sayest that the one to stab thee was as a small Man, but beardless and with bare feet?”

            “Yes,” the injured Man said, pale and shaking as he tried to hold his attention on the Nazgûl who questioned him.

            The Witch-king straightened, thinking.  “I had thought all such were gone from Middle Earth with the droughts brought by my Master upon their lands along the eastern flanks of the mountains,” he whispered.  “So, some have come into Eriador and seek to aid the foul Elendilim, do they?  They shall rue it!”  He turned to the Man who served as his lieutenant over his Mannish troops.  “Find one of these--capture him alive.  I would find what they know!”  So saying he turned from the wounded Man.  “Slay that one--do not waste resources upon one who walks right into the assault by one such as this,” he added as he left the healers’ tents.

 *******

            Marco recovered, and when he returned to full duties he was much subdued and far more cautious than he had been.  However, his determination to see the forces of Angmar destroyed was honed, and he continued to both carry the long knife he used as a sword and to practice with it with the other swordsmen.  When his abilities to wield it well served to save three of his fellows who’d been found by enemy scouts, Bucca finally quit complaining about its continued presence at Marco’s side.  But Bucca found himself grieving to see his formerly retiring brother become hardened to war and so grim of nature.

            And soon other Hobbits were dying.  They lost four in a skirmish near Amon Sûl, two more in a pitched battle to guard a portion of the North Road.  Then their camp was assaulted by night, and two were slain and one more injured by arrows as they came out of their tents in their small clothes to learn what the commotion might be.  Considering the far greater loss of Men in each of these encounters, casualties amongst the Periain might appear negligible; but for Bucca each loss was a personal grief.

            The enemy paid for each yard of advance made; but it appeared his army was beyond numbers, and now more and more troops of orcs were at his Men’s sides at each battle.

            Then there came word that Rhudaur had attacked from the south, assisted by the Dunlendings.  Prince Beleg split his forces, sending half his Men and fifteen Hobbits south to assist those who defended that direction, Delgo Watercress leading those Hobbits who went with them.  Bucca and Marco of the Marish were left with the rest of Beleg’s army in Eriador, and soon Belegorn’s division was given over to Prince Aranarth’s command as Beleg went to aid his father at the King’s fortress of Fornost.

            “We go east and then probably north,” Aranarth told his commanders.  “More orcs and a battalion of trolls have issued out of the Trollshaws, marching west to join those who are besieging Fornost.  We seek to hold them off as long as possible in order to allow my father to evacuate those who dwell both within the fortress and about its walls.  The Witch-king’s forces have almost leveled Annúminas, although few have fallen there.  He will soon turn his attention toward Fornost, and when he does his wroth shall be unendurable.  So great is his hatred and that of his dread Master toward our people and our lineage--they would see us utterly destroyed.”

            As they approached Fornost some days later they could hear the unmistakable sound of battle; suddenly they were hurrying forward as one of their scouts returned with word there was heavy fighting ahead between close to thirty Angmarians and what appeared to be twelve Elves.  Falling on the enemy from the rear, the Arnorians soon had the Witch-king’s Men all slain or subdued.

            The Hobbits all stood amazed at the sight of the Elves, the first most had ever seen.  Bucca went forward with some of Aranarth’s lieutenants, closely followed by Ladro Baggins and Holmwise Goodchild, to stand near Prince Aranarth as he consulted with the Elves they’d aided.  “Lord Glorfindel!  I am pleased to have been able to come to your assistance!” the Prince said, bowing respectfully.  “And Lord Elladan--nay, forgive me, Elrohir.  It is long and long since we stood so by one another.”  He turned to greet still another Elf with equal respect.  “And Lord Gildor?  Well met.”

            Bucca felt rather uncertain as to how he ought to behave, but decided in the end to join with the rest of Aranarth’s lieutenants and bow deeply.  These three Elves turned to look at the three Hobbits.

            “Periannath?” asked the Elf identified as Gildor.

            “Yea--we had forty from the Shire and nearly twenty from the Breelands who answered the call for levies,” explained Belegorn from near Aranarth’s shoulder.  “Good soldiers have they shown themselves.  Their archery and use of sling and catapult are unsurpassed by any others in our armies.”

            “And they have proven capable and resourceful, as well as faithful to us and one another,” Aranarth added with a proud glance at the three Hobbits.  “May I present Bucca of the Marish and Ladro Baggins, both from the Hobbits’ Shire, and Holmwise Goodchild from the Breelands.”

            Lord Elrohir, whose hair was very dark and who seemed to resemble Prince Aranarth strongly, looked thoughtfully at the Hobbits, appearing to examine Bucca himself the most closely.  The two golden-haired Elves inclined their heads in token of respect, and Lord Gildor murmured, “Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielmo.”  Seeing the confusion in the Hobbits’ eyes, he translated, “A star shines down upon our meeting, friends.”

            Bucca nodded, feeling somehow warmed by the greeting, even if he wasn’t completely certain of what it meant.  But behind him he could hear Ladro Baggins trying the words in low tones, apparently enchanted by the sound of the Elvish language, while he noted out of the corner of his eye that Holmwise’s eyes were fixed on the three Elves in fascination.

            Prince Aranarth turned his attention back to the Elves.  “How is it the three of you are here with these?” he asked, indicating the rest of the Elves.

            “We arrived yesterday to find your father held off from entering the fortress by these.  We spoke with him and his captains during the night, and this morning engaged them so your father could slip behind them and see to the evacuation of Fornost.  Most will be going south and westward toward Mithlond and what remains of Lindon, but your father hopes to then go northward so as to slip behind the enemy and drive them into the main army to the east.”

            Aranarth’s travel desk was being brought forward, along with maps of the area, and what their scouts and the Elves could tell them of the enemy’s movements were plotted upon them.

            Suddenly another Elf appeared to materialize within the circle of soldiers about Aranarth, and Bucca noted a small, definitely pleased smile on the Elf’s face as those set to guard the hastily indicated boundaries became agitated to realize someone had managed to get past them.  The smile, however, was swiftly lost as he made a report:  the enemy sent a second battalion toward the King’s fortress from the northwest, appearing intent on cutting off any escape from Fornost if at all possible.  The vanguard of this company was mounted and hurrying ahead of the rest of the army, and should reach a particular defile within two hour’s time.

            Aranarth exchanged looks with his own lieutenants and the three Elven lords.  “My friends?” he said grimly.  “Shall we be there to greet our guests?”

 *******

            The ambush was successful, but the cost was high enough.  Two Elves were seriously injured; eight Men and two Hobbits were lost, and there were many who were wounded.  Aranarth’s Men had barely made it to the walls above the defile in time to take up defensive positions.  The Elves had crossed to the other side, having traveled more swiftly than had Aranarth’s folk.   There they’d strung their bows and made every arrow count, many of those having been gleaned from the battleground they’d just quitted.  Now they had four prisoners, one from the earlier battle who’d been brought along, bound over the back of a horse, and three from this battle.  The battle won, Aranarth set his folk to finding a good place to set up a camp, sent out new scouts to see to the progress of this new army, and called the prisoners before himself and his lieutenants.

            “Your name,” he demanded of the prisoner from the earlier battle.  When the Man didn’t answer he repeated the question in the Man’s own tongue.  The Angmarian appeared shocked to hear the question in his own language, but something the tone in which the question was asked caused him to answer, as happened with the next question and the next.

            Once done with this one the Prince called for each of the others until all four had been questioned.  It was now after sunset.  Few fires had been lit, and those in sheltered hollows.  The prisoners were sent up to the fortress to be housed in the cells below it, and now the lieutenants again were gathering as Prince Beleg and another of Arvedui’s highest captains came down to consider the next moves they should consider.

            “The rest of the enemy’s forces will be here in the morning, and they will seek to raze Fornost,” Aranarth explained.  “We are not a large enough force to hold them back indefinitely.  We cannot save the fortress, but we must allow my father and brother time to get our people out.

            “The armories have been emptied save for the most worn of weapons or armor--our own weapons cannot be used against us.  Most of those who lived and farmed in the region were moved into far more hidden areas months ago; now we must remove the Steward and his family and those who have stubbornly remained here, hoping to weather the storm.  If they are taken, even the least of the children will be tortured to death to demonstrate how deeply our house has ever been hated by Sauron and Angmar.”

            The others nodded their understanding.  “What about the treasuries?” asked a lord from the Angle.

            “Most are so well hidden as to be inaccessible.  It is to be hoped they will believe the vaults, too, were mostly emptied long since; and if they hope to catch my father and our people they will not have time to search any too deeply to find the hidden doors, much less to scour the hills and valleys about in order to seek out where else the contents might have been hidden.  Nay, Angmar and his people will hold onto the hope of returning here once the victory has been won and searching at their leisure.”

            “Is there no other route of escape that can be taken by those within?” asked one of those from the borderlands.

            “If there is,” Prince Beleg advised them, “we would do ill to discuss it here.  Nor would it be likely to allow for the escape of more than fifty in a timely manner so as to be well away or hidden before Angmar’s folk followed its route to its end.  Nay, it is through riding away from the fortress that my father and I will be best able to get our people free.  Now, if we might beg seven more horses from those of you here gathered....”

            The horses were given freely--but then this was not land conducive to mounted combat.  With that thought in mind Aranarth set his army in position to take advantage of the hills surrounding the expected field of battle while his brother returned to Fornost with the mounts.  Once the residents of the Citadel had won free, the major portion of the defense was to pull back to the southwest, while those who still had mounts were to follow the King northward where he hoped to meet those troops he’d set there a few weeks back.  They hoped to circle around Angmar’s forces and fall on them from the north, and catch them between the two forces.

            “We are not as great a force as the King had thought to have here, though,” Belegorn lamented.  “With the drawing away of almost half our Men to go to the defense from Rhudaur we are perhaps too much diminished to serve as the anvil to the King’s hammer.”

            “And there has been no word from the forces my father sent north,” worried Aranarth, “to assure they lie in position to await his coming.  If only Mithrandir could bring the promised reinforcements from Gondor!”

 *******

            No reinforcements came that night, however.  Instead the enemy’s Men arrived shortly before dawn to find themselves assaulted from the heights of the hills and lower mountains.  When more enemies arrived from the east they were allowed to join those already on the field--after their numbers were suitably reduced by Elf and Hobbit archers.

            One of the Elves finally appeared at Aranarth’s side.  “Your adar--he and your brother have led most of your folk out of the fortress; however his steward and ten of his Men have refused to abandon it.  They believe if they can cut the road below the gates they can keep the attention of the enemy so fixed upon themselves it will allow the rest to win free--they are willing to sacrifice themselves that your adar and brother can reach the army to the northwest.

            “As for those who have just ridden away, most will be heading for the Breelands where they ought to lie safe for now.”

            “Is my mother among them?” Aranarth asked.

            “Yea--indeed she is.  She speaks of leading the rest to the dower lands along the Baranduin.”

            “The tower there is strong,” Aranarth said.  “They might hold out long there.”  His eyes, however, were troubled.  “But they also might find themselves trapped there if they are pursued.”  He thought for a moment.  “Then we must see to it they are not followed,” he said with decision.  “Come, my friends!”

            But a new surge of the enemy came between them and the fleeing riders, and now the Nazgûl himself appeared in the midst of their enemies.

 *******

            Near sunset Aranarth sounded the retreat, and unable to go north to his father’s aid or west to that of his mother he drew his army into the hidden places in the hills surrounding Fornost he knew so well and the enemy knew so little about.  The siege was begun, and Aranarth found he could not break it.  More forces came southward out of Angmar to join the Witch-king’s army, and daily more and more slaves worked at building a great earthen ramp up to the level of the gate to the fortress, those within having succeeded at cutting the road.  There was nothing any could do to stop the eventual taking of the fortress, although Aranarth did all in his power to do so, flaunting himself at one point in challenge to the Witch-king himself, although that challenge was ignored.

            On the eighteenth day he called for volunteers to try to enter the fortress through one of the secret ways into the place, and Marco and a Man from Fornost itself stepped forward.  Messages were given them, and they left.  Two days later Marco returned--alone.

            “The enemy--they range through the ways near the tunnel’s end,” he said, once he’d been given some of the sour wine that was part of their rations.  “They saw Tergil an’ slew him.  I don’t think as they saw me at all.  Tergil’d pointed out the hidden entrance ere we come out o’ hidin’; he started first, keepin’ low, but not headin’ direct toward it, see--goin’ at it sort o’ sideways, mind.  Second time he broke cover an arrow took him.  I stayed put--they never saw me.

            “He’d give the messages t’ me t’ carry, so as t’was nothin’ as I could do I stayed put till they come fer his body.  Nothin’ as I could do.  Nothin’ as I could do.”  He stopped and took a deeper draft of his wine.  “Finally was able to reach the entrance, ’bout ’n hour ere sunset.  Got in and got out, I did.  Give ’em the messages.  Say as they won’t come out--will stay till the last Man, make ’em pay dear fer the takin’ o’ the fortress, they will.  Sent word--yer dad, sir--yer father--left the Star of Elendil there, an’ the Sceptre, in case--in case him’s lost.  They’ll try ’n’ smuggle ’em out t’ you if’n they can.  Couldn’t bring ’em with me--too shiny--would of give me away.”

 *******

            After two and a half more weeks the ramp was done.  Marco had gone on another attempt to go through the tunnel into the fortress and hadn’t come back.  Bucca was certain he, too, was dead--dead, or perhaps unable to escape again through the tunnels, a prisoner with the others within the fortress.  Together they waited to see what would happen next.  They might slay as many of those on the edges of the enemy’s camp as they could reach--save for small parties, the Nazgûl was keeping his army put, both orcs and Men.  His focus was on the fortress and only the fortress.  On the morning after the completion of the ramp he led the way up it to the gates of the Citadel itself.  Boiling oil, great stones, spears and flaming objects prepared to stick to the skins of those on whom they fell--all were dropped on those who wielded the Witch-king’s great ram.  None mattered--as soon as a Man or orc fell, another would be sent to take his place.

            For two hours the ram struck the gates again and again, and at last the Ringwraith himself went forward, calling out horrible words of ruin and destruction that were heard even among Aranarth’s hidden troops--and at last the gates fell in rubble.  The Witch-king’s forces poured into the keep.  Within minutes clouds of smoke were rising within its walls, and they saw fire leap from some of the roof.

            Then as night fell the place went eerily quiet, although there was revelry within the camp below the fortress.  That night a number of those on the borders of that camp fell as arrows or carefully thrown stones took them, but none seemed to note the losses, so glad were those below at their dread master’s victory.  Finally at midnight the revelers were whipped into silence--apparently their noise offended those who were within the fortress itself.  Discipline restored, proper watches were set and only a handful more were eliminated before Aranarth bade the harriers to desist.

            Near dawn all were alerted as a great drumming went up--apparently the Witch-king wished an audience for what he did next.  As the Men, Elves, and Hobbits watched helplessly, Men appeared on the battlements, and in time figures were thrown over them to hang from ropes or chains, some blessedly still, others obviously writhing in agony.  Nine figures at last hung there, and then some came out of the camp carrying a bundle.  Shocked, they watched as something the size of a child was carried up the ramp and through the gates.  They heard a distant hammering, and all went still.  Then those who’d entered the fortress came out carrying all of value they’d been able to find.  The Witch-king called out in his shrieking voice, and his army drew up--drew up and marched east and southwards, except for one group heading decidedly southwestward.  Elves and Men were sent that direction to follow them and learn their intent, and Ladro Baggins went with them, followed as ever by Holmwise Goodchild.  But the rest waited to see what might happen next.

            Late in the day not an enemy was to be seen anywhere near the ruins of Fornost.  Aranarth and Belegorn, accompanied by Glorfindel of the Elves and Bucca of the Marish, circled into the hills behind the place.  They found where the enemy’s people had camped, looking for any sign of secret entrances to or from the fortress or any of Aranarth’s folk seeking intelligence.  These camps were now empty, however.

            Suddenly movement was discerned, and all went still and melted into the rocks; there were marching feet approaching, and the occasional clang of great weapons accidentally striking against the stone walls of the maze of stone valleys.  All readied to take on another of the Enemy’s battalions.

            Those who came into view, however, were not orcs or from Angmar--they were Dwarves, Dwarves who’d plainly been fighting, their shields dented and many of their axes and swords notched, their leather harness and helms stained with blood that had been both red and black.

            The Dwarves paused and one of them stepped forward to address the rest.  “The entrance to the tunnel is near here, lads,” he said.  “Now we’ve dealt with the last of Angmar’s folk, we’ll see if we can get in and help Arvedui’s people within the fortress--drag them out if we need to.  He did ask this of us, after all, that we help save his Men.”

            Aranarth rose from where he’d concealed himself, turning to hand his sword to Belegorn, who’d crouched near him.  “No need,” he said.  “Welcome, folk of the Khazad.  I regret you have come too late--I fear all who were inside are now dead, hanging from the walls.  Angmar took the place yesterday.  He did not bother razing the fortress, but his folk have burned and plundered all that remained of the city below the fortress itself long since.  We, too, sought to enter in and see what was done.  So, it is to you we owe the freedom to walk here within the hills overlooking my father’s fortress unmolested?  I thank you, although I know not what I could give you in repayment.  But come--let us see what we can learn.”

            He led them to the hidden entrance.  The Elves he allowed to approach it first to examine the ground.  “A Perian came this way some days past, but did not go toward the door.  Instead he went that way, and apparently was captured--the tracks of Men and orcs meet his there.  He did not show them where the entrance might be.”

            They followed the tracks further, and found a similar place to that of the door where obviously great mattocks had been used to beat upon the stone, breaking much of it into rubble.  “But why this fury at the stones here?” Belegorn asked.

            Bucca knew as if he heard his brother whispering in his ear.  “He led them here--Marco led ’em here--told ’em as it were where the entrance was.  Look--some as tried diggin’ down to it from above--see the signs?”

            Aranarth sighed, placing his hand on Bucca’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry, Bucca of the Marish.  Your brother was a brave man, and a resourceful one at that.”

            At last the mixed group went back to the actual tunnel mouth, and Aranarth sprung its hidden latch.  Inside they heard a strange wailing as of souls in torment.

            “What deviltry’s afoot here?” grumbled the commander of the Dwarves. 

            Torches were brought forward by other Dwarves, and Aranarth, Glorfindel, and the Dwarf captain readied to go in.  Suddenly Bucca came forward, too.  “I’ll be goin’ with ye, m’Lord Aranarth,” he said.  “’Twas my brother as saw to ’t as them didn’t find this--I’ll see with my own eyes as to what him was protectin’.”

            It took time and care to go through the narrow way, for here and there new-fallen stones showed the tunnel was no longer stable.  Deeper and deeper they wormed their way, until they came near a final rockfall so great it was plain there was no way through it back into the fortress--not this way, at least. 

            But one was trying, a young Man, Bucca judged him.  He was weeping and wailing with grief, and had obviously been shifting what stones he could from the pile to a place where they might not fall back to continue to block the way.

            “Adar!  Adar!” he kept calling.  “Adar!  Why did you lie to me!”

            The Dwarf gave his torch to Bucca and went forward to catch the youth in his arms.  “Nay, laddie, you’ll do him no good.  You’ll not do any good for your father, going at it this way.  Come away--your prince is here.  Come--tell him what happened.”

            Aranarth gave a gasp of relief.  “Ah, Halbarad--your father sent you out, then, did he?  I feared you were among those the Witch-king hung from the walls.”

            The tale was brief.  Halbarad was given the chest holding the Elendilmir and the Sceptre of Annúminas and other signs of the Lordship of Arnor and had been sent into the escape tunnel and was told the others would follow him and that they’d pull the tunnel down after them.  “We worked for days, preparing it to collapse.  But they didn’t follow.  They told me to go to the far door and wait there, but not go out until they came after me.  As I waited I heard the rumble, but they never came--he lied!  My father lied!  He sent me to safety, but stayed to die!”

            It was after sunset when they came back to the Prince’s army.  His lieutenants who’d stayed looked grim.  No one stayed them or offered any threat as they made their way up the ramp and stood under the walls, looking up.  There hung the nine Men who’d last defended the King’s fortress, all head downward.  Some had plainly been dead when so hung; two had definitely expired during the day.  Some scaled the walls, with difficulty as the stairs within had also been cut, and the bodies were let down so as to be properly buried.

            Stakes had been erected within, and charred remains hung from each of them--apparently those of their own who’d been taken prisoner or found lying wounded in the skirmishes that had been the main features of the past weeks.

            But it was on the doors to the Citadel itself they found the greatest horror--there had been nailed a rope from which hung the trussed body of Marco of the Marish, and what was worse, he was still alive.  He’d obviously been tortured.  An ear was missing, as well as an eye, several toes, and his right hand.  He rolled his eye to see his brother.  “Didn’t take my tongue,” he whispered thickly.  “Wanted me t’talk.  Didn’t.  Didn’t tell  ’em--nothin’.”  He smiled brokenly, and died.

            Bucca’s world grew blank.

The Battle of the Queen’s Tower

            The Dwarves saw to preparation of a tomb of sorts for those who’d died in defense of Fornost, lifting some of the great paving stones of the courtyard and hollowing out places underneath.  There they laid the Steward of Arnor, his brother, and the seven other Men who’d stayed to keep the main attention of the Witch-king and his army fixed on them, laying beside each one a sword in token of the defense they’d made.  And there they laid also Marco of the Marish, his Hobbit bow at his side, and his remaining hand over Aranarth’s own long knife, which rested on his breast; as well as the charred bones and ashes of those who’d hung from the stakes.  Aranarth kept young Halbarad by him, as he did Bucca, and he had a hand on a shoulder of each as the stones was reverently replaced.  Afterward he drew them and Belegorn, whose brother was among those buried, back to his own tent, and together the four of them wept until their tears were spent.  Then they slept much of the following day, and for a wonder the enemy left them undisturbed.

            “He wishes us to be shaken with horror by what was done here,” Aranarth declared as they broke their fast.  “We cannot afford so much horror, however, for if we indulge in that he will fall upon us from behind and slay us while we yet mourn.  Nay, we must instead take upon ourselves righteous anger that such has been done to our own and seek out the best ways possible to wring vengeance from him.”

            The son of Elrond and Lord Glorfindel, who ate the tasteless bread and too-dry meat with them, indicated their agreement, and they swiftly explored possible strategies by which they might do so.

            Aranarth’s army was not great enough to meet that of Angmar head on, so it would be better, they decided, to break into smaller units, each headed by one who knew the land well, and for them to harass Angmar’s flanks and then disappear into the folds of the land as best they might.  Only when they found isolated battalions of orcs should they stay to slay all if possible--orcs might be particularly brutal toward those they encountered, but they were not given to tactics, and relatively small numbers of fighters repeatedly could destroy large squadrons of such creatures if they knew the land while the orcs did not.

            And so the means of waging the war changed.  Angmar could not find an army to face and bludgeon into the dust.  Instead those on the tail ends of his lines ever seemed to find that rather than following their fellows through valleys, somehow they were diverted into blind gullies where arrows and vicious stones left most dead or too injured to return to duty.  Advance squadrons were led into isolated glades from which there was no return.  Rockfalls would trap those on the wings of the advancing forces in ways their comrades could not get to them until after the defenders of the land left those so entrapped dead or so crippled they could not fight more.

            For this was the advice of the Elves--to leave a significant number of those cut off from their fellows alive but incapable of fighting in the future, as such a move could be more demoralizing than merely slaughtering those culled from the main army.

            The Hobbits found the challenge of throwing stones intended to blind rather than necessarily kill made it easier in many ways to find suitable weapons as it became increasingly more difficult to replace arrows for their bows.  And when one evening the Hobbits found a hornet’s nest hanging from a rocky overhang an ingenious plan was hatched--while the insects were rendered incapable of flying due to the cool of the night the nest was carefully and most reverently detached and carried to the nearby camp of the enemy Bucca’s group had been shadowing, and Bucca and two others managed to get past the sentries and leave it under the cot of their commander in his sumptuous tent before slipping out of the camp and melting into the surrounding wilderness.  When the commander and his lieutenants met over breakfast to discuss how they would go about locating the Arnorians, the hornets began to waken from their nightly stupor, angry to find their colony now on its side, lying on the cold ground.  A few of its sentries emerged, buzzing about the tent.  When the commander, hearing the unknown noise, went within to find out its cause, he was promptly stung.  His subsequent cries and struggles drew more hornets out who, sensing possible danger, became increasingly infuriated.  They swarmed the commander and then poured out the flaps of the tent and fell on the Men gathered before it.

            Two died of the hornets, one of them the commander; the rest were left seriously demoralized and confused.

            The Dwarves had come at the King’s plea and had met Arvedui himself as he went northward hoping to find the forces he’d sent there with the intent of falling upon the enemy from the rear.  He had told them of the plight of those trapped within Fornost and had begged them to go in through the hidden tunnel, which Dwarves had helped to construct to begin with, and bring them out to safety.  Finding they’d arrived too late, they threw themselves into finding means of chipping away at Angmar’s armies.  They dug pits across the ways the enemy must travel and lined them with sharpened stakes set at such angles they were likely to seriously maim those who fell upon them.  Elves and Hobbits would then cover the pits in ways they appeared to be part of the path or road or open ground.  Many of the enemy fell to such ruses.  The Dwarves found ways of constructing deadfalls and traps intended to snap the ankles of soldiers and such horses as carried officers or supplies.  They found ways of disguising known roads and commonly used tracks while making paths into dead ends and unnegotiable wastes appear to lead toward settlements or major camps.

            Oh, all found reason to rejoice the Dwarves had joined them!

            More and more they focused on the enemy’s supply wagons, finding ways to so disrupt the trains they could appropriate wagons of food and weapons.  And the policy of leaving those they fell upon too injured or maimed to fight began to bear fruit.  Angmar did not have the means to care for so many injured Men; but the orders to kill the wounded that they not burden those capable of fighting rankled and festered in the hearts of those who realized they were being ordered to kill their comrades and kinsmen, Men who in many cases could be expected to recover enough to return to the homes and crafts they’d been torn from by the Witch-king’s demands for soldiers.  There began to be defections, and on a few occasions the Arnorians found they had unwitting allies who’d fled their battalions and turned on their heartless commanders in the desire for vengeance.

            But still the forces of the enemy expanded as more fresh detachments poured southward from Angmar and as thousands of orcs and squadrons of trolls came west from the Misty Mountains, and increasingly Aranarth’s folk were driven south and westward.

 *******

            Bucca faced the headman for the village they’d found in a fold of the hills.  “You must leave now--Angmar comes, and they kill all as is in their path.  We’ve seen it again and again.”

            The broad-chested Man with the great curling beard laughed.  “And what does a manling such as yourself know of how true Men can defend themselves?” he boasted.  “We’ll not flee the enemy!”

            Five days later his squadron came that way again, and found the settlement still smoldering, the barns raided, the animals taken--save for a few pigs and chickens that had managed to flee to safety and now rooted and scratched amidst the ruins of barns and corncribs; and a lone dog that sat ’neath a spear set in the ground, on which was impaled the bearded head of the Man Bucca had spoken to.  Bucca turned away, shivering, and surveyed the area with a Hobbit’s eye and sense to where it would be logical to find that which might have been hidden.  They found at last a series of cellars the enemy had overlooked:  in three lay the bodies of those who’d died when the fires overhead had consumed the air within the chambers; in four others they found women, children, and two youths, one with a broken arm, sent there by their menfolk.  These looked in shock at the remains of their once-proud settlement as they were led out of the place to more hidden refuges.  Also found were some stores of grains and meats--the soldiers divided these evenly with the survivors, glad to have some food to supplement what they’d carried with them and taken from the supply wagons stolen from the enemy.  One of the wagons recently liberated from the Angmarians they gave to the survivors, and sent one of their Men to lead them to hoped-for safety.

            “You tried to tell him,” she who’d been wife to the headman told Bucca.  “He might yet be alive if he’d listened.”  So saying she handed the carefully wrapped bundle that held two trussed hens up to her young daughter who was to ride in the wagon, and took the rope to lead away the dog.  “Come, Gueron,” she coaxed.  “Good dog!  Nay, you can do no more for him.”

            And with a snorting of herded pigs and the grinding of the wagon’s wheels the survivors headed away to their new life.

*******

            They had not heard tell of the Witch-king himself for a week when Bucca’s squadron fell again in company with that of the King’s son, and learned Aranarth had determined to come to the dower lands near the Baranduin to learn what he could of the fate of his mother and those she’d led from Fornost.  They traveled quickly, and by the time they approached the river north of the Breelands their numbers had been increased again, then a third time as they were joined by Gildor’s folk.  They found signs a sizable force from Angmar was before them, and after two days’ further careful travel they found that the Nazgûl had joined those who now besieged the watchtower for the Queen’s Lodge, as the fortress here was known.

            “We must draw them away!” fumed Belegorn.  “We cannot allow your lady mother to be captured--who knows what horrors would be practiced upon her person by the enemy’s folks?  And what it is said the Nazgûl has done to other female prisoners....”

            Aranarth nodded, his expression most grim, leaving Bucca wondering just what the Witch-king was rumored to do, then deciding perhaps he was best off not knowing.  “I will have to offer myself as bait to capture his attention,” the Prince sighed.  “I do not like doing so, for not knowing whether or not I am still alive or upon the field adds uncertainty to his actions.  But it must be done--I will not allow our kinsmen’s sacrifices at Fornost to see these safely away to be in vain.”

            But the return of two of the Elves who’d been among those scouting the situation with a prisoner distracted them momentarily, and those now in Aranarth’s company drew deeper under cover of the forest lands surrounding them to learn what intelligence might be wrung from the Man, one whose face was marred by a scar left by a sword-cut, one that had come very close to robbing the Man of his vision.

            This one, however, proved not to have come originally from Angmar, but instead from Rhudaur.  He resisted questioning at first, but suddenly began to give answers clearly, as if he’d suddenly known a change in heart.

            “What would you do should I not answer you--slay me where I stand before you, helpless under your guard?” he’d answered at first.  “And then what news would you get from me, then when I cannot answer you?”

            “Then answer and live.” 

            Aranarth’s voice was calm, but something in it caused the Rhudauri to search his face closely.  At last he said, his voice filled with a measure of wonder, “You are descended directly from the Elendilionath?”

            “As are many among the Dúnedain of the north,” the Prince answered, refusing to be baited into revealing his true identity.

            Bucca thought on the Man for the moment.  Neither Aranarth nor Beleg had been particularly obvious as to their filial relationship to Arvedui, eschewing gilded armor for more practical, plainer steel that might be somewhat finer than that worn by their average knights or captains, but visually almost indistinguishable from that of their closest lieutenants.  Since the day at Fornost Aranarth had not displayed any banner, had given over the large pavilion he’d used before in preference for one identical to those used by the rest of the captains, and had not worn any token of his role as his father’s primary heir save the Ring of Barahir upon the index finger of his left hand, and that was hidden often enough by his warrior’s gloves, even as it was now.  So many of the Men among the defenders of Arnor fit the same mold--hair dark brown to black, typically worn to or just short of the shoulders, jaws bearing clipped beards, eyes steely grey with perhaps hints of blue or green such as one saw in rushing water, tall and lean, narrow-hipped and wide-shouldered, expressions intent and discerning.

            But somehow the prisoner appeared to recognize the importance of the one questioning him, and his responses became more informative with each question.

            “My name?  Rhúagorn son of Haldorin.  Of course I am from Rhudaur and have some Dúnedain blood within me!  Not all within Rhudaur are of base breeding.”  He glared at one of those standing near to Aranarth who’d made a disbelieving grunt in response to that statement.  “We were abandoned long ago when so many of our folk fled our lands to tie themselves to Malvegil and his son.  We would not give up our identity as Rhudauri to bind ourselves under Arthedain!”

            “I see.  So how is it that you are found not on the southern borders of our land, but in the direct company of the Witch-king of Angmar himself?”

            Rhúagorn shuddered.  “Name him not to me, that accursed thing!” he spat.  “I am told at one time it was truly alive and a Man?  I have difficulty accepting that, particularly as the--creature--orders the deaths of those who have been injured as if they were wingless flies to be crushed between mailed fingers!”  He spat as if to clear his palate of a bitter taste.  And he began to talk.

            How had he come to be among the hosts of Angmar?

            “It was not my idea.  Nay, we have fared poorly against the defenders of your lands, and my father chose me to come northward to bear word of our plight to the Witch-king.  However, he seems intent on taking this place he besieges to the point of ignoring his allies to the south completely, and has not vouschafed to hear my report as yet.  To find myself caught by these--these abominations when I went to the edge of the camp to relieve myself....”  He paused, sensing the carefully controlled fury of all involved at the slight to the Elves.

            “It would be best not to offend Lord Gildor’s folks,” Aranarth informed him, the impact of his words reinforced by his not quite casual tone.  “Remember, the Elves came first in the thought of the Creator, and we Men are rightly listed among the Second-born.  And, as we who are descended from Númenor bear the blood of Elves within us, those of us who claim descent from Elros Tar-Minyatur himself, we tend to see that strain of our heritage as blessed rather than as an abomination.”

            Rhúagorn blanched at the undisguised rebuke.  “I beg pardon, lord,” he said.

            “Also,” suggested Belegorn, “it is likely you, too, have some Elven blood if you indeed are descended from the Dúnedain of Arnor.”  His eyes were filled with a carefully controlled anger.

            After that much of his hauteur was dissipated, and Rhúagorn answered further questions simply, appearing somewhat defeated.  At last the King’s son dismissed him to be held as a prisoner and called for his lieutenants, including Bucca.  “The Witch-king lies in siege of the Queen’s Lodge.  Most of those within the place have taken refuge in the tower at the north end of the complex, and as was done at Fornost the Nazgûl’s folk are building a ramp to the upper levels.  It appears my mother and many of those who escaped from Fornost are being held there.  What suggestions do you offer to disrupt this siege?”

            Messengers were sent out to draw more to the Prince’s side, and during the night many slipped into places assigned them by Aranarth and the Elves.  As dawn approached the Arnorian forces crept closer, ready to disrupt the besiegers as they could.  Bucca crept with three Elves close where they could see both the siege forces and the walls of the tower, then slipped back to the Prince’s side to report on what they’d found.

            “The ramp’s windin’ mostly ’round the tower ’stead of leadin’ up to it straight, for it don’t ’pear as any inside can get up on top of the tower to drop anythin’ down on ’em.  There’s bigger windows up higher, and it ’pears the enemy’s tryin’ t’reach them, hopin’ t’get in there easier.  Most of the rest of the place’s been burnt, what we could see.  Walls are still standin’, but the roof’s most all gone.  There’s a camp straight off from the tower, and that’s where most is gathered.  There’s nowheres as many as we saw at Fornost, though.  Don’t know as where most of his folk’ve gone, but his army’s smaller now.”

            Again Aranarth sent for the Rhudauri, and learned that he’d seen two hundred Men sent eastward and another battalion of light troops sent northward.

            “In pursuit of the King?” Belegorn wondered.

            “It would seem so,” agreed one of the Elves.  “Can you perhaps search using one of the Palantíri to find out where it is your sire has gone, Lord Aranarth?”

            The King’s heir shook his head.  “Nay, for he took them from their various places all to Fornost a year back.  Either he took them all with him when he fled, or the enemy has them.  I suspect the former, for so far there has been no sign that the Witch-king’s folk appear to know the movements of our troops.  Had the Nazgûl possession of any of them I am certain he would have sought to use it by now, and we would not be able to lie here undetected so close to his camp.”

            The Elf nodded thoughtfully.  “Well, my lord, what would you have us do?”

            Aranarth gave a glance in the direction of the lodge.  “I would see my mother and our folk brought out of there safely, and without the sacrifice known at Fornost.”

            “Then perhaps we should prepare the assault,” suggested Gildor.  “Perhaps when the sun is at its height and all are focused on the ramp?”

            The final orders were issued, and soon all were in place.  It took patience to wait until the sun was at its highest, but none wished to have to deal with the Nazgûl or the orcs if it was possible; and by then the folk from Angmar and Rhudaur were preparing a single catapult that was aimed at the watchtower at the north end of the complex.  All could see that what had been told by Bucca was true.  Were all who had been within the Queen’s Lodge now within the tower as had been suspected?

            The day was growing increasingly cloudy, and it appeared a storm was imminent.  That could both hinder them and yet help them.

            “Can we stop them from using the catapult?” asked Belegorn of the Elf who lay in wait nearby.

            “Perhaps,” the Elf began, then stiffened.  A darker shape had appeared near the engine, and all were shuddering with fear and revulsion.  “Nazgûl!” he whispered.  Would the Prince give the signal while the Ringwraith showed itself?

            Just then all could hear the flight of an arrow aimed, apparently, at the rope that drew back the arm of the catapult before it could reach its furthest point.  However, it was not just their folk who realized someone sought to part the ropes before the thing could be fully cocked.  The Witch-king also was turning, and lifted his arm.  There was a sword with what appeared to be a blade of flame in his hand, and he had it raised and drew it down on the arrow as it passed him, shattering it with a noise like a miniature thunderbolt.

            The creature then drew itself up to its imposing height and turned its malevolence on the catapult, beginning to utter a spell of such evil intent over it and on the great, reddish stone brought now by a nearly naked troll to lay in its basket that all stoppered their ears, so terrible was it to listen to.  Not even the Elves appeared immune to the horror of its sound!

            The stone was laid in place, and the Nazgûl himself signaled for its release.  High and true it flew, hitting the wall just above the height of the ramp.  They could see the stonework shake; but it did not fall, and only a single breach could be seen.

            From inside the tower they thought they could hear cries of dismay.

            “They know we are nigh!” Belegorn breathed in dismay, “Yet they remain fixed upon the tower!”

            Bucca shared the feelings of frustration and anxiety.  But just then the signal went up, and Bucca and his archers joined their flights of arrows to those of the Men and Elves who also carried such weapons.  One of the soldiers in their group unshuttered the lantern he’d carried, and an arrow with an oil-soaked rag about its shaft behind the point was passed to the Hobbit.  He dipped it into the flame, then once it was alight sent it in an arc toward the wagons of supplies while others targeted the tents and one sent his among the picket lines.

            All was pandemonium within the opposing camp, and through the chaos not even the voice of the Witch-king could be heard.

            A third flight of arrows was sent, and then the Prince’s army rose and surged forward.

            Those who’d been preparing to attack the tower were packed too close together to easily defend themselves, as intent as they’d been on hurrying up the ramp to enter through the breach that had been effected in the wall.  Orcs began boiling from their tents as the army of Arnor fell on them.  With the dark clouds shielding the light of the Sun they were less defensive than they might have been; but still they had not been prepared for such an assault and were easily slain.  As for the Witch-king himself, he was upon his feet and not as able to bring his full power to bear before a flaming bolt set fire to his very robes.  There was a high screech, not this time of power but of dismay, and it fled the battle.  Then Bucca found himself following the rest of the soldiers into the melee.

            Apparently not all of the buildings about the grounds of the Queen’s Lodge had been fired, for now horses carrying women, children, and older Men appeared from behind the tower, taking advantage of the flight of the Nazgûl to retreat south and west toward the Bridge of the Stonebow; but carefully aimed arrows from slits higher on the walls of the tower were striking down some of the captains of the host from Angmar.

            Belegorn grabbed up a great shattered stone as he ran, and managed to wedge it into the works of the catapult--it would take much time to remove it so that the engine could be put to use once more.  He then drew his sword and fell on those who’d worked its mechanism.  Bucca could see Prince Aranarth himself assaulting the troll.  The creature opened its mouth to cry out, then paused as an arrow aimed from the tower took it in the eye.  Those about the thing barely managed to move out of the way before it fell, stretching its length upon the ground.

            But one Angmarian archer remained, and he appeared marvelously skilled--or perhaps merely monumentally lucky.  He aimed at the wall above, and miraculously his arrow found the arrow slit.  Bucca could hear the cry of pain and froze--he was certain it was a Hobbit’s cry he’d heard!

            The Prince had sent most of his folk off to follow the riders southwesterly, retreating before the Witch-king could return and gather his folk together to follow.  However, he and Belegorn, Bucca, and a few of the Elves including Lord Gildor climbed the encircling ramp and entered in, finding themselves on the second floor of the place.  They found the floor of the room had been torn apart by the great stone flung through the wall by the catapult.  And below one of the arrow-slits a small figure knelt over a second figure.  Aranarth himself went forward to see what could be done, Bucca right after him.  The kneeling figure was Holmwise Goodchild, and the one he sought vainly to ease was Ladro Baggins.  The Baggins lay still, the arrow having taken him in the throat.  Holmwise was weeping, crying, “Don’t leave me!  Oh, Master, ye can’t leave me!”

            Bucca gently pulled the weeping Hobbit into his arms as the Prince of Arnor knelt over the body of the stricken one.  Ladro’s eyes flickered open briefly, and he looked up in question.  “They made it?” he mouthed.

            “Yea, indeed they escaped.  Rest and be glad, champion to my mother.”

            But the Hobbit’s eyes were already beginning to glaze in death, although a ghost of a smile could be seen on his face.

Angmar Bested

            “You will go back with them?” Saruman asked his fellow Wizard.

            “Yes--if we can ever convince Eärnur that his armada is large enough to face the forces of the Witch-king.”  Gandalf’s expression reflected his growing frustration with Eärnil’s son.  “He appears convinced that only if one cannot see the surface of the sea for his ships will he have enough of a force to bring to Arvedui’s aid.”  He frowned northward.  “Although I suspect at this point the need will be for Aranarth rather than for his father.  I feel a cold darkness surrounding Arvedui, and do not understand what that means.”

            “Think you that it portends that Arvedui is a prisoner of the Witch-king?”

            Gandalf clutched his staff more firmly, his concentration northward intent.  At last he gave a shake of his grey head.  “No--no, not that.”  His frustration deepened.  “I know not what it means.  But I do not sense the satisfaction I would expect that one to know should that be true.”  He returned to his previous concern.  “We ought to have sailed at least a year ago, but Eärnur will not be satisfied with this fleet of his.  He need not bring every last soldier Gondor has, for that would leave Gondor itself open to whatever the Enemy’s designs might be.”

            Saruman settled one hip elegantly on a window embrasure.  “It seems you are not easily satisfied, my friend.  First, when he would have marched immediately off to Arnor with five battalions you complained that it was not enough.”

            Gandalf turned to look at his companion in surprise.  “And indeed it should not have been enough.  Nor would he have been likely to arrive with such an army to face Angmar’s forces, for he would have found himself engaged in battle the moment he passed north of the vale of Isengard.  The people of the Brown Lands would have refused his army passage, and those who now people Rhudaur would have challenged him as well.  It is unlikely more than a thousand Men should have made it further than that, much less reached the most likely battlefield before Fornost.”

            “Have you asked Eärnil to seek contact with Arvedui or his people through the Palantír of Minas Tirith?”

            The Grey Wizard was quiet for a time, still looking northward but now seeing a memory, or so Saruman would guess.  At last he said quietly, “Yes, at my behest he tried.  But the Anor stone does not easily answer to him, and he does not easily interpret what he sees.  And in the end he sees first blinding light, as if the sun shone upon a mirror; and then he sees only dark shadow, as if the stone he seeks to contact were shrouded.”  The furrow of his brow deepened.  “That he does not master the stone properly troubles me.  As King of Gondor he ought to be fully in mastery of the thing.”

            Saruman appeared somewhat bored.  “I thought we had agreed it would perhaps have been better for all concerned had Arvedui been accepted as King by both realms.”

            “So it would appear.”

            “Then why are you surprised?”

            “I had hoped that in the taking of the Winged Crown Eärnil would have been granted proper control over the stones as well.  There has never been any suggestion that any in Meneldil’s lineage has been anything but masters of their Palantíri.”

            Turning away to look out the window on whose sill he leaned, Saruman shrugged his shoulders.  “Perhaps the gift is more properly inherited rather than bestowed with the office,” he suggested dismissively.  “Eärnur has certainly shown little in the way of the healing gift common to the descendants of Elendil.”

            “That gift has been manifested in both of Arvedui’s sons,” Gandalf noted.  “Will you come north with me and help face the Witch-king’s assault?”

            Saruman shrugged.  “And if the Necromancer seeks to take advantage of Eärnur’s absence with the forces he takes with him do you not agree that at least one of us should remain here in the southern kingdom to his father’s support?”

            Gandalf considered this.  “Perhaps you are correct.  The fleet Eärnur builds is so great that it seems enough to nearly empty Gondor of all its men.”

            But the White Wizard was no longer paying attention as he stared out the window toward the street.  “Speaking of Eärnur, it appears he intends to pay us a visit.”

            Gandalf came close where he might look over the shoulder of his seated friend, watching the tall form of Eärnur approaching, surrounded by Men in various uniforms.  “Perhaps he is at last ready to sail,” he said hopefully.

 *******

            And so it proved.  Four days later the ships remaining along the quays of the Harlond cast off and were carried by the current down the Anduin to the Sea, where they gathered forces day by day as they sailed west and then northward along the coast of Middle Earth.  Ossë appeared compliant; his winds blew ever from the desired quarter, or so it appeared, and the fleet sped northward in force.

            Eärnur had taken Gandalf aboard his flagship, Anor’s Pride.  “I do not believe that Arnor’s foes will be able to prevail against us considering how great a force we have raised!” the King’s son exulted.  “Do you not agree, Mithrandir?”

            Gandalf looked about them.  It was difficult to see the surface of the sea, so many ships were there.  “I only hope that the harvests within Arnor have been sufficiently great so as to feed all of these,” he commented.  “Although as the folk of Arnor have been fighting the forces of Angmar steadily for the past several years, it is questionable that there will have been many to work the lands to sufficiently meet their own needs, much less the needs of so many more.”

            Eärnur waved a negligent hand.  “Not all of these ships bear only Men and horses and weapons of war, Lord Mithrandir.  The harvests of Lossarnach, Lamedon, and Ithilien have been particularly heavy for the past few years, and each year we have gathered a tithe of that bounty into the public stores, and another tithe solely to carry with this fleet.  Ever, it has been said, an army marches upon its stomach.  We know all too well how great a strain this force should place on the resources of Arnor did we not bring a goodly amount of food with us.  Some carry only kine and swine and poultry and foods for them; others carry great stores of dried fruits or grains.  There are mills within Arnor, are there not?”

            “Indeed!”

            “Then if the Enemy has not destroyed them, we should not empty out the barns of my kinswoman’s husband’s people.”

            Gandalf had to admit that perhaps Eärnur had learned somewhat of wisdom befitting the future King of Gondor in the years since his father had accepted the Winged Crown.

            Some weeks later one of the smaller scouting ships returned to the fleet and came within hailing distance of Eärnur’s craft.  “We have made contact with a small fleet of exceedingly swift ships crewed by Elves!” the captain informed them.  “They come to lead us to safe harborage.  They tell us there is a great gulf some four to six days’ sail from our current position, and there might all our ships find anchorage.  Within a week we should all be arrived where we might at last disembark and prepare to face the enemy!

            “And they send word to Mithrandir as well, my Lord Eärnur,” he added.  “Forces even now have braved the mountain passes from the valley of the Anduin, as allies from amongst the Éothéod and the Dwarves from the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains also come to join the fight against Angmar.  So heavily has the Witch-king drawn for Men from the lands to the east of the mountains that there is now the freedom known there to allow them to send support to Aranarth and his folk.”

            “And Arvedui and Beleg?  The King does not fight alongside his son?”

            The captain’s face grew grim and he explained, “They tell us that Arvedui went north with Beleg and many Men early in the war, hoping to flank Angmar’s army and attack from the rear.  Alas--the Witch-king had more Men than they’d thought to see--ever the King fought, but was forced ever further and further north.  They tell us that Lord Círdan has sent a ship northward to see if they can find the King and those with him.”

            A week later the Firth of Lhûn was filled with Eärnur’s armada.  As the ships were unloaded, Eärnur and his captains met repeatedly with Círdan and his folk and what messengers had come through the Shire with word for the lords of the Havens and what remained of Lindon.  “The Queen rests here with her son’s wife and much of what remains of Arvedui’s court,” they were told.  “The Periannath brought them safe through their lands and have left the road all but impassable for Angmar’s army.  Indeed, oft they hide in the shadows of the fields and forests, slaying the enemy’s folk with their arrows and thrown missiles and driving them back over the Bridge.  Some have sought to pass the Barrow-downs of Tyrn Gorthad to enter the Shire from the east, but so far there is no easy way to do so, and many of their folk are lost to the enmity of the Old Forest and the malice of the Barrow-wights.  In this is Angmar’s evil will working to his own despite.  So it ever is--evil in the end serving to limit its own effectiveness.”

            “And has aught been heard of the King’s welfare?” Eärnur demanded.

            Círdan’s face was grey with grief.  “Word came after our ships went south to lead you here--one of our ships sent northward entered the Bay of Forochel, we having heard that Arvedui and those remaining of his folk had taken refuge there with the Snow-men.  Although the ruler of the Snow-men advised them not to do so, all of Arvedui’s folk went aboard the ship, seeking to escape to the open Sea ere the ice fully closed in.  They would have done better to heed the advice received--ere they could win free the ice came together, grinding upon the hull of the ship and sinking it.  Only two of our folk escaped with word of what had happened--the rest died in the frozen waters of the bay, alongside Arvedui and his younger son Beleg.

            “And there was a worse hurt--the King had borne with him the Palantíri, having had foresight that the Witch-king would seek to capture and destroy the places where each was kept and thus use them against the interests of the descendants of Númenor.  All were lost with the ship and Arvedui.”

            The Grey Wizard did not know whether to be filled with relief that the Enemy was denied the seeing stones or grief that they were lost.  Now indeed direct communication was denied between Gondor and Arnor.  “The Stone from the western-most Tower was lost, also?” he asked.

            “Nay--that was not taken, for it is of little interest to the folk of the Enemy as its focus has ever been westward, not toward the rest of its fellows or the lands ruled over by the descendants of Elendil.  Nor has any of the Enemy come so far.  Indeed, they find the impenetrability of the Shire a far worse obstacle than any had thought to see.”

            “And when we travel eastward to face the Witch-king’s forces?  Will we not also know difficulty in coming to face the enemy if all is as bad along the road as you say?”

            One of the Elves who sat by the side of Círdan gave a feral smile.  “Oh, but it is not wise, we are learning, to underestimate the abilities and inventiveness of the Periannath of the Shire--what they have apparently destroyed they can and will restore swiftly.  Yavanna’s children they may be; but they also have a great appreciation for the land itself, as if Aulë also is an influence in their hearts.  They are not lovers of stone as are the Dwarves; but they understand the ways of the earth itself and ever use it to their advantage.”

            “And of what kind are these Periannath?” asked one of Eärnur’s lieutenants.

            Their questions were answered as two very small personages were led into the circle of those taking part in the council.  One had muscular shoulders and a cap of loose dark curls, the tips of his leaf-shaped ears clearly seen.  There was no question, however, of taking this for a child, for his face was as solemn as that of any Man or Elf present.  And the quiver and bow at his shoulder, though small, were obviously well wrought and maintained, if well worn.  The other had hair of a lighter brown with eyes to match, a face intended to be light hearted, but now filled with the healing grief and purpose Gandalf had seen too often in those who had gone into war idealistic young Men of good will but who had seen too many of their brothers die about them.  He carried a board to which were pinned what appeared to be lists of some kind that he handed to one of the northern Dúnedain officers, who accepted it with a nod of acknowledgment and thanks.

            “Captain Bucca--Master Holmwise.  We are glad you could join us.”  Círdan’s manner was deeply respectful.  “Lord Eärnur, if we may present Bucca of the Marish in the Shire, and Holmwise Goodchild from the Breelands.  They have fought the Enemy alongside Lords Arvedui and Aranarth and our kindred to the east.  Lord Eärnur is the heir to the King of Gondor to the south of the Mountains of Mist.  He has come at last to the aid of the north against the threat of Angmar.”

            As the two Hobbits bowed politely, two women entered the chamber where the council was taking part.  The younger was very beautiful, but it was plain she was in mourning.  As for the older one----

            “The Lady Fíriel?” whispered Eärnur to Mithrandir.

            “Indeed,” the Wizard murmured in reply.  “With her is she who was the wife of Prince Beleg, the Lady Istarien.”

            “And Prince Aranarth--is he, too, married?”

            “Yes, but his wife was sent to safety when word came that Angmar indeed led his forces from the north.  She was expecting their first child at the time.”

            “There are places of refuge within these lands?”

            “Not many, but there are ever some.  And there are those who gladly protect the heirs to Isildur’s lineage.”

            Gandalf watched the Man absorb this information, turning his attention back to the company at large, although he kept turning to watch the two women who’d come to this council as well as the Hobbits.

            Hobbits, fighting the Enemy’s folk.  Most extraordinary, he thought to himself as he, too, found himself contemplating the presence of these two at the council.

            A few days later he was following a small guide along a narrow path through a wooded part of the Shire along with a squadron of Men.  He knew that there were many such groups traveling many such paths throughout the forested area, most of whom would emerge at various points across the northern borders of the Shire, some of whom would cross at the Sarn Ford, and some across the Bridge of the Stone Bow.  There had been a good deal of damage to be seen in villages along the length of the Road; the Witch-king’s folk had been as quick to burn and loot here as they’d been anywhere throughout Eriador.  But the Wizard was willing to wager that deaths had not been as numerous within the Shire as they were elsewhere in Arvedui’s lands, as the Hobbits along the Road had been encouraged to hide themselves and to lead their attackers astray, tasks they had taken seriously.

            The Road was being cleared even now, he knew, being readied for the supply trains that would be carrying the bounty Eärnur had brought aboard his ships.  He was grateful that the Shire was filled with folk as capable and quick on the uptake as were the Hobbits who populated it; had it been Men he suspected it would have taken thrice the time just to get all to agree to cooperate in the endeavor, while a significant number would be more intent on baiting the enemy rather than focusing on the task at hand.

 *******

            Within three weeks most of Eärnur’s reinforcements were through the Shire and preparing to join with the Enemy.  Gandalf was somehow not surprised to find those with whom he’d traveled joining a mixed force of Elves and Men that was keeping a fairly large troop of the Enemy under watch.

            “Gandalf!” he was greeted by Gildor Inglorion.

            “My Lord Gildor--an honor!  And I see you fight alongside the Men of Arnor!”

            Gildor gave a sour laugh.  “And if we do nothing to hamper the aims of Angmar, do you think he will thank us and leave us alone?  I think not!  Why should we make it simple for him to set up a base of power close enough to assault us at his will?  Certainly his fell Master and the Lord of them all never wished good on any of the Children of Ilúvatar who have failed to worship at their feet.  I expect nothing different from this foul one.”

            “Gandalf?” asked Eärnur’s lieutenant.

            Gandalf smiled.  “So they have ever called me, here in the northlands--Gandalf, the man with the staff.”

            The Man nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the Wizard’s rod.  “A name most mete to your appearance, Lord Mithrandir.”  So saying, he turned to the Elf and indicated the force facing them.  “Let you tell us of these.”

            “They were in direct company with the Witch-king himself for some time, until we attacked them as they lay siege to the Queen’s Tower.  We have rarely faced them directly, not having sufficient men for pitched battles.  Instead we have mostly hounded them out of the shadows of hills and woods, coming upon stragglers and whittling them away, capturing such supplies as we have been able to take from their own trains.  The number now is perhaps a third of what it was when they came out of the north at the whistling of the wraith, but remains too numerous for us to face it directly--until your coming, of course.  Now I would ask you more of your Prince--he is a Man apt to war?”

            The lieutenant nodded.  “Indeed, he is such a Man, and has been since his youth.  A hardy, canny warrior and Captain-General he’s proved for Gondor.  And a great force has he brought to Arnor’s defense.”

            “It is appreciated by all, although for the Mannish kingdom of Arnor I fear it is come rather late.  Too many are already lost in this war.”

 *******

            For two weeks Gandalf and the lieutenant he accompanied followed Angmar’s folk.  Enough of Eärnur’s armies had made it through the Shire by now that they could plan proper battles, and more and more often they were winning these.  But the enemy was falling back toward the plains before Fornost, and it was there that at last they found themselves between the forces of Eärnur and Aranarth once again, facing the Witch-king himself.

            Three Hobbits remained of those who’d set out from the Shire--Bucca of the Marish and two Tooks; accompanied by Holmwise Goodchild they crept close to the camp set up between the combined forces of Gondor and Arnor and the ruins of the fortress, intent on bringing back such intelligence as could be learned.

            “They are planning to fall upon our camp shortly after midnight,” one of the Tooks reported.  “It is then that the power of that one is at its highest, and their goblins are most obedient and willing to fight at such an hour.  They think to attack the southern Prince first, hoping that if they can defeat him they will be able to better cow the rest.”

            “They have five hundred horse hidden in a hollow there,” the other Took added.

            “And another five hundred t’the west,” added Holmwise.

            Bucca, wearing a long knife at his belt for a sword, returned last leading a woman.  “This one was the woman o’ one of their captains.  The Witch-king ordered ’im killed after our folk wounded him.   She wants ’im punished for it.”

            The grief in the woman’s eyes could not be denied, nor the hatred she felt for the Nazgûl and his policies.  “His wounds--they were but little!” she said in her heavily accented Westron.  “He lost two fingers--but two fingers!  And for this they killed him?”

            Aranarth himself appeared out of the darkening twilight, accompanied by Belegorn, three Dwarves, and two Elves.  “You are willing to tell us where more are?”

            “There are more squadrons of the foul ones to the northwest, and there is yet another army of our Men from the other side of the mountains that has been marching from the east for the past week.  Before my man was injured two days ago they told him he would meet them near Amon Sûl and lead them through the hills to the plain here before your ancient fortress.  He was to bring them here at sunrise, and they would appear suddenly out of the dawn and fall upon you all to your destruction.  Now that task falls to another, one who has not been here as long as my man was and who does not know the land as he did.”

            As she spoke they were joined by a small but deadly mounted troop of Elves from Imladris who swung down from their mounts to listen.  One of these was exceptionally tall, his carefully braided hair obviously pale even in the wan starlight. 

            With him were two more who were as dark-haired as he was fair, their faces identical.  One of these spoke.  “Our adar sent us with word that this army has come over the High Pass, but they are fewer than they were when they began the journey.  They were frightened by the mountain giants, and sought to attack them.  Usually the mountain giants pay little attention to the passage of Men, Elves, or Dwarves; but after three were severely injured they struck back, rolling great boulders down the pass after the army passed by them, believing them driven off.   These succeeded in slaying and injuring many.  There are perhaps five hundred where there were originally two thousand warriors.  And worse for them, most of their supply wagons were destroyed, and many of their beasts of burden were slain or frightened into flight.  They are angry at their losses and will probably fight the more fiercely at least at the first; but they are not in good array and have had but little rest.  They ought to be fairly easy to confuse.”

            The other added, “And what they do not know is that our daeradar leads another company northward, having crossed over the mountains at Caradhras.  The folk of Dunland and Rhudaur are engaged in a fierce battle with the army watching the southern borders of Arnor, and so have none to stop the Elves of Lothlórien from traveling swiftly up the eastern ways.  They travel far faster than Men, and will be in better shape to fight when they are come.  They, too, will arrive at the dawn to swell our ranks even more.  And with them is a great army of Dwarves from Khazad-dûm, who have no love for the Witch-king after what he has done to their northern kindred.”

            The tall, fair-haired Elven warrior examined the Men who faced him.  “You have done well, Lord Aranarth, to not draw attention to yourself by wearing distinctive armor or carrying great banners--the wraith is confused, for word has come to him that the ice he caused to form early on the Bay of Forochel has slain the King and his son.  That it was the younger son and not the heir to Arvedui he does not yet appreciate--he thinks of you as but a captain of your people who thinks perhaps to name yourself ruler once all is again quiet within the ruins of Arnor.  But rumor of the coming of the son of the King of Gondor has reached him, as I am certain you intended, Lord Eärnur.  He will seek you out upon the battlefield, and intends to see you slain as brutally as possible, hoping that by doing so he will break the will of those who have followed after you.”

            “And does he think that I will merely stand by and allow him to crush me?” Eärnur responded.  “I have fought the armies sent by the lesser wraiths many times, as well as having defended our lands against the might of Harad, Rhûn, and Khand.  I swear I will face him, and fight him alone if it is necessary.”

            Aranarth gave a brief, mirthless laugh.  “You say that now, but you have not yet faced him.  I have done so, and I tell you it is not so simple as you might think.  Sauron granted him far greater power than you can yet appreciate when he gifted him with the ring he wears, and he has learned to wield that power to full effect.  I have found myself trembling in fear more than once when I have faced him--it has been far easier whittling away at those at the edges of his army by stealth than it has proved to stand in the face of the terror that is his greatest weapon.

            “Nay,” he added, raising a hand against the Gondorian’s protests, “I call no Man a coward.  But do not count your battles won before they are even fought!”

            “Few even among the Elves bear within us the ability to withstand his power,” agreed one of the two dark-haired Elves, “but we will do what we can.  Of us all, Glorfindel here is most proof against the terror he would wield.  He will stand by you, if you will allow it, to shield you as he can.  The wraith does not love him, and has learned to respect his strength of will and the power of his songs.”

            “Songs?”  Eärnur turned an amazed visage toward the tall warrior.

            There was something terrible to see in the almost gentle smile given him by the pale-haired Glorfindel.  “Do not forget--I was born under the Light of the Trees, and have spoken with the Powers face to face.  Have you forgotten how it is that Ëa was wrought?  I fought against Morgoth and his creatures in my time, and was given special preparation before being returned to Endorë to assist in the ongoing battles against the servants of Darkness.  It is difficult to rouse unmanning fear in one who has faced werewolves and balrogs.  I suspect that the Witch-king fails to understand how little power he has over those who have passed already through the death he accepted his ring to avoid.”  His smile grew even more fell.  “Nay, he fears me far more than I fear him, which will help to keep him more off balance when he seeks to fall upon us.”

            One of the Dwarves spoke up.  “Enough of talk of fear and whose will might be greater.  We would be of some use this night, and we could do this best by slowing the approach of that one’s reinforcements.  Lord Aranarth--you know this land perhaps best of all present--where would it be best for us to cut off the pathway for those approaching from the northwest and the east, and perhaps lie in ambush for them?”

            Aranarth nodded, his own expression becoming fixed with purpose.  “Yes, we will continue to follow the strategies that have served us best so far.”  He looked back toward Eärnur.  “I have so few Men left to me, and when this last battle is won, as I pray it will be, there will be little enough remaining to try to fashion once again into a kingdom.  I must leave the greater battle to you, kinsman, for you alone command sufficient troops to effectively counter the strike Angmar even now shapes to his hand.”

            He ran his hand through his hair, which was prematurely grey, as he turned to the Wizard who stood at Eärnur’s side.  “Gandalf--have you any of your powders and smokes at hand that we might use to the consternation of the enemy, and perhaps to help break his path?”

            Gandalf felt uncomfortable at this request.  “I would rather not again use my toys as weapons, for doing so sets a bad precedent.  But when it is necessary to stop the advance of such an army....”

            Soon he found himself on the edges of the battlefield, going through the wagon given him by Eärnur to carry his stores.  “Here,” he said as he rooted out some of his disassembled rockets and tubes, powders and balls.  “Let me show you how I think such as these might be used to throw Angmar’s troops into disarray and to frighten his horses.”

            There was little enough time to prepare much, but at least the Wizard knew he was adding to the probability that the armies of the Kings of the West would have at least a chance to win through the night.

            It began before the middle hour of the night with drums beating in the enemy camp, first one, then more, here, there, on this side, on that.  And each added drum was just out of beat with those already being sounded.  This had a most unsettling effect, and those among the defenders of Arnor who had been ordered to rest and sleep as they could gave it up as a bad job, rising and readying their weapons and taking their assigned positions.  After some time of this one among Eärnur’s folk who had come from Rhovanion began following the beat of one of the drums, and began a chant in keeping with it.  Soon others joined in, and in time an entire company was singing together fiercely, which caused some of those taking part in the drumming to falter.

            Recognizing that this was serving to cause uncertainty among the enemy, Bucca, who’d been readying his bow, gave his fellow Hobbits a feral smile.  “Shall we give them a rendition of Mistress Broadloam’s Pantry, d’you think?  I doubt as they’ll understand the sentiments, but it’s cheerful enough as it ought to confuse them, don’t you agree?”

            Gandalf heard the answering laughter, and Bucca began to sing, swiftly joined by the two Tooks, then by their Breelands companion.  There were some Men who were Breelanders in the company, and soon they were singing along, too, and those of Dúnedain extraction began laughing, and were soon joining in on the choruses.  The drums closest to them began to either quiet or unconsciously reflect the rhythm of the song.  And he heard other groups among the defenders doing much the same--here a Gondorian drinking song, and there a song commonly sung on long marches.  The Wizard found himself smiling at how the music among the defenders appeared to be putting the invaders out of countenance.

            As the darkness deepened a signal was given, and those who’d been singing went silent and shifted into their proper defensive positions.

            There were only a handful of drummers still beating upon the skins of their instruments, and they had long ago fallen to a more coordinated beat.  An order in a high piercing wail rang out, and all fell silent.  Then an orc horn gave a shrill blat, and a company of goblins surged forward.  The horn of a northern kine was blown, and a company of Men from Angmar began moving toward the last known position of some of Aranarth’s forces.  A hoarse shout, and a squadron of horsemen armed with long lances came out of a defile.  Gandalf’s smile hardened--this would be his first use of his devices.

            He spoke a Word, and a fuse began to sputter.  There was a great bang, and a glowing ball of light shot high into the air in front of the cavalry charge.  Suddenly it blossomed into brilliant golden and silver sparks, which exploded into red and green coronas as they neared the ground.  The enemy’s horses, unsettled already at being forced to run in the dark, gave neighs of terror and began to rear up and to the side, many bumping their fellows and throwing the intended assault into confusion.  Then there was a creaking and groaning of rock, and from the tops of the bluffs on each side came a rolling of great stones.  The mounted charge fell to sheer chaos.

            A call among the archers in Gandalf’s group, and Men and Hobbits aimed at the approaching orcs, with cries of satisfaction as the first row fell under the barrage of arrows to roll under the feet of their comrades.

            There was a great boom off to the west, and the top of a steep hill was launched into the air, raining boulders down upon the enemy.  And then some of Eärnur’s Men began their own countersurge against the Men from Angmar.  A shriek from the Nazgûl was heard, and Gandalf aimed one of his rockets toward the source and uttered another Word.  A great, blinding light lit up the center of the enemy’s army, and both Men and orcs could be seen trying vainly to shield their eyes against the sudden brilliance, many of the goblins throwing themselves in terror upon the ground, while the black shadow of the Ring-wraith fled involuntarily backwards.

            Then the battle was being joined where any among the enemy was able to make it through the already sown chaos.  Gandalf found himself doing what he could to protect those with whom he stood, particularly trying to shield the four Hobbits.  A Man from Angmar was felled near him by a Hobbit-flung stone, and the Wizard reached down to catch up the now idle sword the Man had carried.  In moments he was moving forward with the rest, using staff and sword to cut a swath of destruction among the enemy.

            A grim dawn came at last.  Clouds darkened the sky--undoubtedly weather engineered by the wraith to offer more comfort for himself and his orcs and trolls.  But at least the light was now sufficient to show that great destruction had been wrought among Angmar’s forces.  A great squadron of knights from Gondor now charged the center of Angmar’s bunched soldiers, and the Wizard could see Eärnur’s standard at its head.  They were able to put more of the Witch-king’s folk to flight, but not without cost.  At least thirty horses were suddenly felled as great bolts were fired by vast engines of some sort that had been hidden behind the Angmarianlines.  Gandalf grabbed a rocket from a bag at his shoulder, pointed it at one of the devices, uttered a brief spell, and a ball of white fire was directed at the thing, causing the engine to burst into flames and spattering those firing it with great sparks.  He then called upon the power of his hidden Ring to cause the fire to spread unaccountably sideways to the next such device, then to a third....

            “Master!” he whispered, “We need a wind--let us have Light upon this battle!”

            Most of the enemy’s army was beginning to scatter under the heavy assault forwarded by Eärnur’s forces, and many were looking to the east, from which it was known the Witch-king expected reinforcements of both Men and orcs.  Suddenly a cry of triumph could be heard from the wraith’s folk as a number of trolls, massive and deadly, broke through the line of defenders from the rear along the eastern borders.  Gandalf thought he saw about twenty-five of the creatures--certainly more than a score.  Suddenly his heart froze as he saw a small figure rush into the path of one of them--a Hobbit was running forward, expecting to best such a monster as a troll?

            As if all had been slowed to a remarkable degree the Wizard saw the Hobbit raise its small bow and aim upward.  The troll opened its mouth to give a great cry of triumph as it bent forward to snatch up the small being, and the Hobbit let fly.  It took the troll in the roof of its great mouth, one of a troll’s more vulnerable sites.  There was another cry from the troll, of confusion and pain this time; and it fell forward--right on top of the small hero of a halfling!

            He heard “NO!” from several quarters, including, he realized, himself, and now another small figure of a Perian ran forward as if it could single-handedly roll the fallen corpse off of its kinsman.  Another troll, being harried closely by the archers, ran onto the field and turned sideways--and blundered over the darting Hobbit.  It stumbled and fell upon the ground, and Gandalf could hear, somehow, a sharp crack! and knew that the second Hobbit was also gone.

            But there was a wind blowing now as Celeborn of Lórien arrived with folk of the Éothéod and a great force of Dwarves, and the Wizard realized his prayer had been heard and was being granted.  Cries from above marked the coming of the Great Eagles, who were only allowed ordinarily to take part in a battle when it was obvious that all were doing their best to protect themselves and one another.

            As midday approached a great rent appeared in the clouds to the southeast, and through it shone bright sunlight.  There were cries of dismay from the remnants of the army from the north that remained on the field, and both orcs and trolls turned to flee--except where the Sun caught the trolls out in the open they began to freeze to immobility as the sunlight stole from them the life with which Morgoth had infused their ancient ancestors with foul spells.

            There was another call:  from behind the line of stiffening trolls came a new line of horsemen--not the great, muscular steeds from Gondor brought aboard their great ships, but the smaller, hardier strain bred by the northern Dúnedain.  “Elendil!” all heard.  At their head, the Elendilmir shining like the Sun above and behind him about his brow, rode Aranarth, his sword raised in wrath against the soldiery of Angmar that had not yet managed to flee the field.

            Out of a defile to the northwest rode one last mounted file of enemy soldiers, this time obviously come from afar, for their banners were black with strange symbols figured upon them in red.  “Haradrim!” Gandalf shouted out.  “Men from Far Harad!”

            And toward them Aranarth turned, his escort behind him, those with lances riding forward to outstrip their Lord, sweeping those in the vanguard of the Haradrim to the ground.  They were joined by those with the blue banners of southern Gondor, and they had this new force driven back against the wall of stone behind them as the day reached the fifth hour after the noon.

            Doom!  Doom! went the enemy’s sole remaining drummer as dusk approached, and a freezing cry cut across the field as the Nazgûl himself rode forward to assist his folk.  Not even Aranarth appeared capable of withstanding the horror of that cry; certainly the Haradrim were as dismayed as were those from Gondor and Arnor.  Then one of the Haradri lords raised up his banner of scarlet serpent upon a sable cloth and shook it, and the strings of dried bones that depended from it gave a great clatter.

            Somehow Gandalf found himself with one of his final rockets in hand.  He could not allow that banner to be used as a rallying point by the Witch-king’s folk--this he knew!  He aimed the rocket and spoke a Word, and the fiery missile flew in growing incandescence from his hand, striking the banner right in its center, and it immediately burst into flames, its surprised bearer struck from his steed by the impact.  And as he lay stunned upon the ground a third small figure appeared at his side and stabbed a blade into his chest.    The Nazgûl gave still another cry and raised its blade, and the great sword burst into flame as it rode forward to confront the small figure.

            All seemed to freeze at the sight of the great, black-shrouded figure mounted on its skeletal steed, looming over the small form of the armed Hobbit.  And out of the almost deafening stillness that had replaced the cries of battle all could hear the wraith laugh!

            “And what is this that seeks to defy me?” the terrible voice asked.

            But one other was able to control his steed to ride forward.  Suddenly Eärnur arrived behind the Hobbit.  His voice sounded amused as he called, “And does one such as you think it needful to face such a small champion as this?”  But in spite of the apparent lightness of the challenge, Gandalf, who had spent much time in the company of this Man in Gondor, detected a tremor of fear, and realized that the son of King Eärnil was no more immune to the power of the Witch-king than any other Man, although he yet managed to stand up against the foul thing.  His admiration for the Man’s courage rose.

            But it was all Eärnur could do to keep control of his horse, whose eyes were rolling with terror, its mouth foaming with bloody froth as it fought the bit as the wraith transferred its attentions from the still frozen form of the Hobbit to the face of his new challenger.  The wraith seemed to swell in darkness, and even the Sun seemed again shadowed.

            “And dost thou, too, think thyself greater than am I?” that horrible voice asked.  “Nay, I think not, princeling, though thou shouldst know we have indeed heard of thee.  But no Man may think to stand against me!”

            It spoke a Word of power, and a great ball of purple flame appeared in its hand, and it hurled it at Eärnur.  This was more than the Man’s horse could withstand, and with a great neigh of terror it broke out of its master’s control and leapt away, bucking and shrieking in rage and fear as it fled both the dark fire and the horror that the black shape radiated.  After the fleeing forms of horse and rider followed the derisive laughter of the Nazgûl.  “Behold the one who would be King of Gondor!  The heir of Elendil and Anárion!  See him flee like the craven being he is!” he called out.  And he began to utter Words of Power as he turned his gaze again upon the Hobbit, who’d fallen to his knees!

            But he was not unchallenged.  Glorfindel rode onto the field from the east, followed by a troop of horsemen from Imladris.  Gladdened by these reinforcements, Gandalf uncloaked himself, as did Glorfindel, once the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.  Behind these two the sons of Elrond now rode forward, followed by their father, who although he came with no weapons in his hand still shone with the pure Light of the Noldor, whose hatred had ever been kindled by the forces of Darkness.  Against the Wraith’s Words were raised Songs.  And toward them from the other side, his own steed answering to its master’s will, approached Aranarth of Arnor, his blade naked in his hands, the Star of Elendil kindled upon his brow.

            And there was one more who rose out of the tumble of the fallen to face the Witch-king of Angmar--the last Hobbit, who, bow in hand, dipped an arrow into the flames still rising from the destroyed engines, aimed, and let fly with a cry of defiance.  The wraith turned to seek out the source of the cry, and as its attention left the Hobbit before him that one rose unsteadily to its feet and stumbled forward, and struck his blade against the foot of the dread being with a defiant cry to answer that of the one who’d fired the arrow.

            The blade pierced the armor, and there was another cry from the wraith, this time one of dismay, just as the flaming arrow caught in his black mantle, setting it afire.

            Eärnur had mastered his horse and was returning as the wraith’s steed gave way to its own terror; with its dread master immobilized by pain he ought not to have felt and his shrouding garments flaming, there was none to guide it, and it fled from the field.  Seeing his enemy flee, the Gondorian prince set himself to pursue it, only to have his shoulder caught by Lord Glorfindel.  “There is no use,” the Elven warrior advised him.  “Not by the hand of any son of Man shall that one meet his end.”

            The Man glared at him.  “I would not have it said that I fled from the face of such a one as that.”

            One of the sons of Elrond, watching after, shook his head.  “There was no shame in what happened.  There is no question it was not you but your steed that was overwhelmed by terror.”

            “I have never fled an enemy!”

            Elrond gave the prince a cool stare.  “If you feel your honor is measured by such standards as never fleeing before an enemy then it is likely that it will end with you dying untimely, my Lord Eärnur.  Only a fool does not know when it is wise to pull away from an engagement that you might live to fight again, and with better preparation and chance to prevail, on another day.”  He sighed as he dismounted and looked about.  “The Witch-king has fled, but there are many wounded.  I have work and to spare here.  My sons, I leave you and Glorfindel to assist Lords Eärnur and Aranarth to subdue those who would think to continue to fight.  Mithrandir--if you will aid me....”

            Together they turned toward the small figure to be seen now kneeling where he’d stood in defiance against the wraith, and Gandalf saw another Hobbit running toward them, having dropped the bow he’d wielded.  “Master Bucca!” they heard the Perian cry.  “Master Bucca?  Are you well?”

            Bucca of the Marish knelt, clasping his right hand to him as if it hurt, his dazed eyes fixed on the ground where the hilt of his broken sword lay.  “How?” he was saying as they came even with them.

            Elrond knelt and placed his hand on the Hobbit’s right shoulder, then looked up in alarm at the Wizard.  “It’s cold!” he breathed.

            But Gandalf was also falling to his knees, fixing Bucca’s almost feverish gaze with his own.  “How what?” he asked.

            “M’sword--the blade!  The blade!  It burned away, sir!  Like it was kindlin’!  I but struck his foot is all I did--cut through the armed boot.  But he cried out as if I’d struck off the leg, and the blade--it----”  Again he looked down at the hilt, which Elrond reached down for, lifting it with exaggerated care.

            “It’s not broken!” the Master of Imladris said, examining it carefully.

            “No--as he said, it appears to have been burnt away,” Gandalf agreed.  He took it gingerly from Elrond and turned it, then sang a trill of Song that questioned the situation.  In his mind he could see an echo of the enchantments that had been woven around the ring of Power the wraith had once accepted, back in the day when he had been one of the greatest of lords of Men.  He examined the traces of the spell with interest and growing repulsion.  At last he looked at the Peredhel.  “Have you about you anything of silk with which I might wrap this?  It will warrant further study, but now is neither the proper time nor place for such work.”

            Elrond thought for a moment, then released the shoulder latch for the armor he wore over his chest to expose the silk shirt he wore under it.  He tore away the front panel of the garment and handed it without question to the Wizard, who used it to enshroud the hilt of the weapon before he stowed it carefully in the bag he wore over his shoulder.

            The other Hobbit had reached them by this time and was enfolding Bucca in his arms.  “Master Bucca!  It’s all right, sir--ye’re not alone.  Ye’re not alone!”  Then he looked up at the two opposite him, his expression alarmed.  “His arm--it’s cold as ice!”

 *******

            It was nearly sunset when the Mannish lords returned, Eärnur and Aranarth together, Aranarth weary with the fighting and griefs of the day, Eärnur’s fury and shame at having been torn from his confrontation with the wraith still clearly smoldering in his heart.  Behind them came some of Eärnur’s lieutenants and his aide.  Elves had begun raising pavilions into which the wounded were being brought, and some of the most notable of the fallen were being gathered to a sheltered place at the foot of the siege ramp that the enemy had raised to enter the fortress of Fornost.

            Aranarth watched as Captain Belegorn came out of one of the healer’s tents with the shrouded form of what appeared to be a child in his arms.  At his lord’s wordless cry of alarm the captain looked up, his eyes filled with grief.  “One of the Periain, my lord.  Densodras Took, sir.  He slew a troll with an arrow to the roof of its mouth--went through and into the brain, you see.  But it fell upon him.  He was yet alive when we found him, but never woke.  He breathed his last a few moments ago.”

            “Do any of these brave souls remain?” Aranarth demanded.

            “But two, my lord--Bucca of the Marish and Holmwise Goodchild.  Densodras’s last remaining kinsman died upon the field--his neck snapped when another troll tripped over him.  Unless any of those who went south remains yet alive, only two Hobbits have survived of all those who answered your call for men.”

            The two Men entered the pavilion, and found themselves approaching where Gandalf sat by a low pallet on which lay a still, small body, holding the pale white hand of Bucca of the Marish.  He looked up.  “It is as if the wraith’s own breath seeks to steal away his life,” he said softly.  “I cannot call him back.”  So saying, he laid the still hand upon the Hobbit’s breast.  “I must help those I can,” he said as he rose and bowed before turning to cross to where Elrond labored over still another form.

            “Can you call him back?” Aranarth asked Eärnur.

            The Gondorian looked surprised.  “Call him back?  And how would I do such a thing?”

            Aranarth gave a great sigh.  “Then I shall see if I can do so,” he said, and he turned to one of the Elves who knelt nearby to offer water to one of the wounded.  “Have you any athelas?” he asked.

            Eärnur exchanged inquiring glances with his fellows, and all turned to watch the latest Lord of Arnor as he stripped off the Elendilmir and carefully placed it in his scrip before brushing his hair back from his face with his fingers.  He knelt beside the Hobbit and placed his hand on the small one’s right hand.  He appeared surprised and dismayed.  “The warmth of his very life is nearly stolen away!” he murmured.  He placed his other hand on Bucca’s brow.  “Nay,” he commented, “not all his warmth is gone--not yet, at least.”  So saying, he closed his eyes as if in concentration, then opened them to look down in authority at the Hobbit.  “Bucca!  Bucca of the Marish!  Bucca--come back!  I do not give you leave to depart this life!”

            When heated water and green leaves were brought he accepted them, rolling the leaves between his hands and breathing upon them before casting them into the steaming water, then accepting cloths and with them cleansing the Hobbit’s hand and face.  Then again he called to the Hobbit, and this time there was a response.  The pale grey of the Perian’s face began to show some color once again, and his breaths became deeper.

            Eärnur’s aide watched in awe.  “He lives!”  He looked up to search Aranarth’s face.  “In you the power of healing known to the ancient Kings remains!”

            “The athelas answers to his authority,” the Elf explained.

            It was the aide who bore back to Gondor a rhyme he’d constructed about athelas answering to the hand of the King....

 *******

            Three days later the corpse of the wraith’s horse was found in the Baranduin some days north of the Bridge of the Stone Bow; its master had disappeared completely, and did not return to the northern lands for many lives of Men.

            Six weeks later Eärnur’s army stood alongside the remnants of the once great army of Arnor, watching as Aranarth honored many of the heroes of the war.  When the Ring-wraith had fled the field before Fornost his allies to the south of Arnor had inexplicably lost all heart for the battle and had retreated into the hills and hidden places of Rhudaur and the Dunlands, and most of those who’d marched south had returned a few days earlier.  At last Aranarth called before him the two Hobbits who alone remained of those who’d fought against the forces of Angmar, although fully half of those who’d gone south, all of them from the Breelands, had survived.  “To Bucca of the Marish and Holmwise Goodchild of  Staddle--stand forth.”

            The two Hobbits came forward, but when they would have bowed he forestalled them.  “Nay, it is to you we should bow, for you had the fierce courage to do what we could not--you both struck blows, each in your own way, at the Witch-king of Angmar.  Little harm perhaps did he suffer at your hands; but nevertheless he is gone from our lands and you remain alive and healed, save for the wounds of grief for countrymen and kinsmen lost.

            “Never can we fully repay you.  You, Holmwise, once indicated you hoped to receive lands of your own where you might cultivate gardens of flowers and trees.  I would----”

            Holmwise interrupted him.  “Ye would give me lands, here, outside the Shire?  Nay, sir, beggin’ yer pardon, Lord Aranarth, but I’ll not remain here outside no longer.  I promised Master Ladro as I’d go in, find his wife ’n’ childern, take ’em his last respects an’ a letter as he wrote ’em, an’ bring ’em his things, like.  And then--well, there’s still land within the Shire as is open to them as is willin’ to take an’ work it.  But I’ve had enough of Men’s battles and Men’s griefs.  Yer ancestor give the Shire t’ Marco and Blanco of the Tûks for the dwellin’ of any from among Hobbit-kind as wished to live there.  I want t’ live there, now.  I hope as you understand, my lord.”

            Aranarth nodded his head in understanding.  “I do understand.  And I would wish you well.  To you I give this chest, which was made for me in my childhood.  Within it is sufficient, I think, to allow you to purchase land of your own and the means to provide for you and whatever family you’d take to yourself.”  So saying he laid a strong coffer of carved oak in the Hobbit’s hands.  “And I give you this book also, to serve as the repository of the history of your family.  May all who follow after you remain as honest, true, and loyal as you have shown yourself.”  With these words he presented a yellow-bound volume, and laid his hand upon the Hobbit’s brow, blessing him, before he turned to Bucca.

            He looked long upon Bucca, before at last saying, “How can I ever show you the honor you deserve, Bucca of the Marish?  You convinced your people to send out the requested support to our lands.  It was no fight of yours, not that the Witch-king would have recognized that and left your lands unmolested had he prevailed.  Nay, I deem that the Shire my ancestor Argeleb gave unto Blanco and Marco would have been trodden underfoot, its lands razed by fire and the earth salted to make it desert, its people slain for sheer sport, had he been victorious.  The forces of darkness have little respect for those who are given to mere joy of life, we have learned over long centuries of strife.

            “I would see your lands preserved, and swear my people to the protection of the borders of the Shire as we can.”

            “What?” Bucca answered him.  “Ye’d protect us, but not them of the Breelands an’ other places?”

            “We intend to do what we can to help them as well,” Aranarth replied rather hastily.

            Bucca looked back at the small contingent that remained of Arvedui’s once-proud army and shook his head.  “Ye’ll be hard put t’protect yer own,” he declared as he returned his attention to the Man.  “Ye’ve not enough t’set to the keepin’ of our borders, too.”

            “Then what would you have me do?”

            Bucca searched Aranarth’s eyes.  “Fer now, ye need t’return t’yer own lands, Lord Aranarth--set them in order.  Us Hobbits’ll have t’care fer our own till ye can return t’call us t’allegiance as subjects of the King.”

            The Man exchanged looks with Gandalf, then nodded.  “Then know this--I hereby name you my theign, my deputy charged with seeing to it that order is restored within the Shire and that its borders are made proof against enemies from without.  You and the descendants of your body shall hold this office from this day forward, offering all justice and protection in the name of the King.”

            He gestured, and Belegorn brought forward a second coffer.  “This was made for my brother Beleg.  It, too, is filled with sufficient to aid you and yours to rebuild and restore your homes and lands.  And so it will be until the King returns again, at which time the office will be reconfirmed.”  He reached toward his waist, and unhooked from his belt the sheath of a long knife.  “This blade has come down in my family from the days of Malvegil.  I give it now to you, a sign between the lineage of Isildur and the folk of the Shire of the love that we hold for you.  May it ever serve to remind you of the honor in which we hold your people.  We cannot give back those who came out with you, nor your brother, who died succoring those who remained within the stronghold of Fornost.  We can never repay the folk of the Shire for their faithfulness and the sacrifices you have made for us.”

            Aranarth straightened to his full height once Bucca reluctantly accepted the blade.  “I tell you this--there are not enough now of our people remaining in our lands that I can name myself King of Arnor, and for more generations than I can foresee I fear we who remain of the Dúnedain of the northern kingdom will be hard put to offer open protection to those who have depended upon our defense.  But as I told you, we will do what we can to be faithful to our responsibilities to the folk of Eriador, even if we are not recognized as the remnants of Elendil’s own folk.  Will you yet swear fealty to the ancient line of the Kings of the descendants of Númenor?”

            Bucca nodded, never taking his eyes from the face of the son of Arvedui.  He then knelt, his hands upon the hilts of the blade given to him, and made his oath:  “I, Bucca of the Marish, do hereby swear....”

            The oath given and received, Aranarth leaned down to kiss the Hobbit upon the top of his head, then lay his hand again in blessing upon his dark curls.  “My Steward I name you, then.  Go, and do well by your people.”

 *******

            Some weeks later Bucca, accompanied by the Grey Wizard, crossed the Bridge of the Stone Bow, Holmwise Goodchild their lone companion.  The village that had grown up on the Shire’s side of the bridge had been burned to its foundations.  Fields had been reduced to ash, and farmsteads near at hand were destroyed.

            Bucca’s home had suffered damage, but there were signs that it was being rebuilt.  He paused, recognizing the young Hobbit who turned from the turves being raised to serve as its roof.  “It’s m’ cousin!” he said with surprise.  “Little Bolco--him’s all grown up!”

            A Hobbitess looked out of the unglazed window at the sound of the unaccustomed voice, and suddenly Bucca’s wife came running out of the door, all thoughts of decorum fled her mind as she raced to take her husband at last again into her arms.

            Another five days found the Wizard and Holmfast Goodchild entering Hobbiton.  The Baggins home remained much as it had been the last time Gandalf had been there with Drogo Baggins for his marriage.  Holmwise gave Ladro Baggins’s widow the letter her husband had entrusted to him, and she slit the seal to take it to the window to read it.

            Her eyes were red when she looked back up at him.  “He’ll never know the son what was born after he left us,” she said, her voice tight with emotion.  “He’ll never see the day his lads and lasses come of age and take wives and husbands.”

            Holmwise nodded.  He appeared thoughtful, then picked up the coffer Aranarth had given him.  “This goes with the letter,” he said.  “Ye’ve lost yer husband, but him’d never want fer ye and his childern t’be in want.”

            She looked at the coffer in surprise, while Gandalf held his peace, watching to see how it would play out.  She finally reached out her hand, released the latch and opened it.  There was a small fortune within.  She carefully lifted out a small hoard of coins, and then a golden necklace before she looked back at him.  “This was given my Ladro?” she asked, amazed.

            “Him helped save the Lord King’s wife,” he explained.

            She turned her attention back to the contents of the coffer, her eyes still wide.  “He helped save the King’s wife?  And the King sent us weregild?”  Again her eyes were swimming as she suddenly slammed the lid shut.  “I’d far rather have him home again than all the treasure in the world!”

            She rose.  “Please,” she said, doing her best to restore her dignity.  “Please take no note of me.  Both of you--sit and I’ll see to a meal shortly.  But for the moment....”

            They waved her off to the kitchen where she set about washing her face.  Holmwise eventually joined her and began to help her start a meal.

            After supper she gave them the best seats in the smial, and stood to address them.  “My Ladro--well, Mr. Goodchild, he thinks the world of you--that’s plain for them as reads his letter.  His gammer--she was from the Northfarthing, from Gammwidge.  She inherited a farm there, but it’s not been worked for ever so long.  There’s the farm and a ropewalk.  My Ladro--he wanted you to have it, Mr. Goodchild.  I’ve no use for it--I’ll not be wanting to leave Hobbiton.  I’ll see to it as its title is made over to your name.  And I want to thank you--for coming to tell me, to see me and bring me his things and his letter.”

            She looked at the coffer that had remained where she’d left it on a small table.  “And I’ll use this--see to it as it goes to all them whose husbands didn’t come back.”

            He nodded, his own eyes swimming.

            He remained in Hobbiton for three days before he prepared to leave it, heading north, deed in hand, to examine his new property.  Before parting with Gandalf he sighed.  “I know as the coffer was give t’me, but I’ve no use fer it.  Nay, it’s better put t’use by her, I’m thinkin’.  And I suppose as the King did give me lands, fer with it I’ve bought land of me own.”

            The last Gandalf saw of Holmwise Goodchild was of the sturdy Hobbit marching northward, heading for the roads into the Northfarthing, going off to inspect his new home.

This chapter contains graphic violence and indications of character rape.

The Flight of Nimrodel

 Nimrodel stood with her back to Amroth’s messenger. “The ship my lord has ordered built is ready, you say?” she murmured.

“Yes, my Lady,” he said respectfully. “I am to be one of those who accompanies you south to Edhellond, and will serve as primary guide to the party.” When she did not reply he assayed, “Unless, of course, you do not wish to leave Middle Earth after all, Lady Nimrodel?”

“Do I have a choice in the matter?” she muttered to herself. She shook her head and turned to face the Elf. “No, Galadorn,” she told him, “I do not wish to remain separated from the one I love, and will not seek to tarry here in Middle Earth when he would prefer to take the Straight Path to Elvenhome if it be open to him. I do not believe that this will prove the best time to take the road south, however. Since the defeat of Angmar, many of the evil creatures that were driven out of Eriador roam the valley of the Anduin and the mountains south of Khazad-dûm, as well as the Great Road through Calenhardorn and Anórien. I cannot see any safe path to the Havens where my beloved awaits me.”

“There are a number of roads open to us, although in this case the Great Road might prove the best. There have always been more patrols from Arnor guarding the road south from Bree to the gap west of Orthanc, and thus fewer fell creatures that will assault travelers that take that way. You are correct about the dangers of seeking to follow the river, of course. Orcs from Dol Guldur have been seen on both banks of the Anduin, and Haldir tells me the Wardens have repulsed at least four assaults on the borders of our land in the past sun-round alone. It is said that the people of the Éothéod are considering going further north toward the headwaters of the river to escape their depredations and to protect their horse herds.”

“But how many patrols has Aranarth been able to field since the fall of Arnor?” she asked.

That question gave the Elf pause. He finally admitted, “I do not doubt they are far fewer than one saw in times past. But, as you say, at this time all roads are beset. We will do our best to seek the one that offers the least threat.”

She nodded. “I am certain that this is your intent. I must make ready, then. Will you send to summon the Lady Galadriel from Caras Galadhon, then? The sooner I speak with her, the sooner we will face what dangers the road chosen will present to us.”

*******

“I surrender the rule of this land to Celeborn and to you,” Nimrodel told Galadriel. “My beloved summons me southward to join him, that we might sail West together.”

Galadriel’s face was white. “And if that is indeed how you in truth come to the West…” she began.

Nimrodel’s expression was filled with a strange peace as she reached out to toy with a lock of her friend’s hair that seemed somehow to marry mithril and gold together. “One does not require a ship to reach the West, you will remember. One way or the other we will come where we might look upon the faces of the Valar. Do not grieve for us—Amroth and I will come there together, that I vow.” She looked deeply into the far-seeing eyes of Galadriel Artanis. “I cannot and will not allow them to take me—they will wish to do so, and to make of me the greatest of horrors to inflict upon the rest of the world. They will find that although I am no warrior maiden, still I will fight their will as I can, and I will do so effectively.

“Keep well this land and its people until the power you wield is finally shorn, and regret it not when that day comes. Then come and join us, and you can regale us with the tales of your deeds and exploits.”

With that Nimrodel kissed the forehead of the new Lady of the Galadhrim and took her leave, followed by those who had chosen to accompany her.

*******

There was an ambush laid for them upon the Stair, but Nimrodel’s party fought it successfully, unexpectedly aided in the end by a number of Dwarves who fell upon the mixed troop of Men, orcs, and two trolls from behind, driving them over the edge of the defile to fall into the far valley below.

“You leave this land?” asked the leader of this group, the grandson of the King of Khazad-dûm. “Do not do so, my Lady,” he said, bowing low in honor to her. “I do not have a good feeling about your proposed journey. And it appears that the Enemy seeks to take possession of you.”

“He has shown that this is his desire,” she agreed. “But I swear to you that he will not have me in the end.”

“We will see to her safety,” the captain of her guard announced stiffly.

She gave the warrior a pitying look before returning her attention to the Dwarf. “Do not worry for me. I swear again that the Enemy shall not turn me from what I am to what he would have me be. And I shall indeed come to the West with my beloved lord. Blessings be upon you for your desire to aid me, grandson of Durin.”

He flushed as she bent to kiss his forehead in blessing, and watched in hopeless confusion as she and her guards and those who traveled with them turned to continue their journey. As the last of the party of the Eldar passed him, an Elven maiden with hair dark as ebony paused and pressed into his hands a small box. “My lady would have you take these, in remembrance of the former Queen of the Galadhrim,” she murmured. She smiled upon him and turned to follow the others, a single guard left now to follow after her. The Elves melted into the pass above and were not seen again in those lands.

When the Dwarf later opened the box in the privacy of his own chambers he found it to contain six great opals, stones of craft rather than natural in origin, filled with a fire he could not help but marvel at. “An heirloom of my house these will be,” he vowed to himself. The first of the stones he set in the comb he crafted for the woman he loved, the one he had chosen to be the mother of their children. The others he set by for those he might sire by her.

*******

Gandalf came south from Arnor accompanying Celeborn as he and his warriors returned from the war against Angmar, followed by a stay in the valley of Imladris where he visited with his daughter and her family, and his men recovered from the final battle against the Witch-king.

“It will be good to return to the side of my beloved,” Celeborn admitted as they turned toward the pass of the Redhorn Gate. “What Galadriel has seen from afar I am uncertain, although it is most likely most of what happened. But she and our Lady Nimrodel will be pleased to hear the reports I bring of what was experienced upon the ground, I know. If only Amroth were here to receive the news directly.”

“Then he still lingers in Edhellond?” asked the Wizard.

“Yea, even so,” Celeborn answered. “He has indicated he will not remain longer in Middle Earth once the ship he has been building for so long is finished. I doubt not that the folk from Edhellond and those who have dwelt near him about the hill of Cerin Amroth will for the most part accompany him, as will most of those who live about Nimrodel’s retreat toward the mountains. Not that I look forward to that day.”

Gandalf nodded his understanding.

As they passed through Hollin and approached the western doors of Khazad-dûm, however, they were met by a mixed patrol of both Elves from Lothlórien and Dwarves from beneath the mountains. These reported that at least three mixed troops of foreign Men, orcs, and trolls had been caught climbing the pass and menacing those on the Dimrill Stair, and that one of these groups had assaulted the party in which Nimrodel traveled south in answer to Amroth’s call to join him.

“She did not wait for my return from Arnor?” demanded Celeborn, his face gone pale at the thought of the Lady of the Galadhrim under attack by such enemies.

“No, my Lord Celeborn,” responded the border warden Haldir. “When word came to us from the son of the Dwarf King that those who had climbed the Stair had been assaulted, we hurried to search for other enemies, and some of us came over the pass into Hollin, where we have found tracks of their passage northward along the feet of the mountains. Now it appears one group has turned southward again, following the path taken by our Lady Nimrodel and those with her. But other enemies hover near—we can sense them, even if we have not yet seen them or found out their hiding places.”

“I suspect that some are massing on the eastern slopes of Zirik-zigal,” grunted the leader of the Dwarves. “The mountain groans at their presence.”

*******

In the end Gandalf went southward with a company of seven Elven warriors, hoping to come even with those enemies who followed Nimrodel’s party before they could in turn catch up with their prey.

For seven days they followed the trail, seeing nothing of orcs, Men, trolls, or wargs. Now and then dark birds could be glimpsed far to the south of their position, once circling ominously over a particular spot; but when those with Gandalf finally approached the area they found only hints that perhaps orcs might have camped there in the shadow of a thick stand of scrub and a rocky outcrop. It took some searching to find that a boar had been caught by the orcs and had been eaten largely raw. A single large crow stood over the small amount of flesh still clinging to the head of the carcass, flapping its wings at them to protect its prize. At no time did they find any signs of the Elven party the orcs were pursuing, for which the Wizard was glad.

On the eighth day they entered the northern reaches of Fangorn Forest, and Gandalf felt a dark shadow of disapproval toward some presence that had recently passed through it. For three days they carefully picked their way amongst the trees, which appeared to watch after them with a level of concerned tolerance and even a degree of impatience, as if it was wondered why they hadn’t been swifter to come this way. Late in the night of their third day within Fangorn they felt a terrible anger suddenly loosed ahead of them. Toward morning, as the sky greyed in the false dawn, they noted movement ahead of them, and recognized it as the arrival of one of the Onodrim at some point in their path. The Ent bowed low over formless shapes upon the ground, speaking in a low, reassuring rumble to the trees about him. It straightened to watch their approach, its gaze keen. “Do you know why these were abroad within our forest?” it asked them, pointing to the flattened corpses of two wargs and three orcs, an axe with a shattered haft lying near the hand of one of the latter.

“We have been pursuing them,” the leader of the Elves told him. “In their turn, they followed after our Lady Nimrodel as she traveled southward to join our Lord Amroth, for it is told to us that he sent to call her to join him at Edhellond where at long last the ship intended to carry the both of them and many of our people who would leave Middle Earth at this time lies ready for that voyage.”

The Ent raised its great head and stared uneasily southward. “Hoom. A party of your people passed through our woods some days ago, going with great swiftness. Our trees and the huorns grieved that they would not tarry among us, but did all they could to see their way clear before them.” He returned his attention to the bodies of the slain creatures at its feet. “This group entered five and a half days ago. Most went swiftly enough and gave our trees but little attention, but these lingered behind, quarreling amongst themselves, intent it seems on turning from their fellows and perhaps striking out on their own. Complaining of the cold, they thought last night to make themselves a fire, and the huorn they attacked took—exception—to their attentions to it.” It gave a ponderous shake of disapproval. “Their fellows were more careful, and have cleared our borders as of this time. They will undoubtedly move the more swiftly now that they have reached the clearer ways beyond the eaves of our land, although they will most likely seek to take shelter from the Sun soon.”

Gandalf nodded his agreement. “Orcs do not like sunlight, after all. At least there are this many the fewer to possibly attack the lady’s company.”

The Ent met the Wizard’s eyes. “That is true, Mithrandir. And it is to be hoped they fail to catch up with their quarry, for they do evil things to those of Elf-kind they capture.” He straightened. “I shall have the huorns of this portion of the forest dispose of this carrion that it not foul our land. And I wish you good hunting of your own!” He indicated the best route for the hunting party to follow, and turned his attention back to the trees about him, reverting to the rolling tones of Entish to direct the huorns in their task as the Elves and Gandalf sped away.

*******

They found where the orcs were sheltering late in the afternoon, and slew all in the party—twelve goblins from the depths of the Misty Mountains, five Uruks apparently from Dol Guldur, and three orcs of a sort seen on occasion in the White Mountains, along with four wargs and seven Men who appeared to be from Rhudaur.

“A troubling confederacy,” commented the captain of the Elves to Gandalf as four of his fellows saw to the burning of the bodies.

One of the others, who’d been scouting the route it appeared Nimrodel’s company had followed, returned. “There are signs that three Men left this group some hours ago, and were met by four mounted Men a half mile to the west of here,” he reported. “Two of those who went out returned here, while one joined the mounted Men, riding double behind one of the others as they headed south and west at speed. The signs indicate these riders are allies, and it is likely they are heading for wherever the others are camped to carry word of the movements of the Lady’s company.”

His fellow returned even as the first scout finished his report. “I have found which route our people take. They head toward the defile that leads to the entrance to the Keep of the Oath-breakers. There are several passes our Lord Amroth has taken at different times, and there are three such routes over the Ered Nimrais that lead from that valley, as well as two not far east of it.”

“They would not follow the Great Road through Anórien and south past Minas Tirith?” the Wizard asked. Once they’d indicated this would not be done, he asked further, “Do you know which route would be preferred by whoever was sent to guide the Lady to Edhellond?”

“Galadorn has always preferred the central pass from the defile as it is the lowest of the three there. And as he guides several ellith I suspect he will wish to take them by the route where there is the least climbing.”

“Which of the passes they might take is most open and the easiest to detect enemies lying in wait?”

“The most open is actually fairly far to our east, near Firien. It leads into the valley of the River Ciril, as the Men of Gondor name it. But the route to it leads along the feet of the Ered Nimrais, and there are many places where enemies might set up an ambush amongst the lower mounts and hills and outcrops of stone ere they come to the pass itself.”

“So, the sooner they come to whatever pass is chosen, the less chance they will be set upon?” Gandalf probed.

“So it is to be hoped.”

The Wizard sighed. “Lead on, then.”

*******

The mouth to the vale was narrow, and Nimrodel, standing by the side of her guide, shook her head as she surveyed it. “And there is no better road than this, Galadorn?” she asked. “It would seem that more of the Dark One’s slaves and allies might have secreted themselves anywhere along the way, and so might seek to fall upon us at any point.”

“My beloved Lady, what else might we do? No matter which route we choose there are places where orcs and other enemies might hide themselves! No road is safe.”

She sighed. Mithrellas, long one of her handmaidens as well as a confidant whose wisdom she respected, leaned forward. “Perhaps we would do best to turn back. We have seen signs of yrch, wargs, and evil Men all along the way, and have been beset twice already. I sense that we are most closely followed by our own people.”

Nimrodel looked southward beyond the mountains, and then west. “The season of storms is nearly upon us. Already it grows dangerous to set sail upon the Sea. If we do not come soon unto Edhellond I fear we shall not be able to depart for several months, not until the spring comes again.”

“I am not comfortable with this journey,” said Mithrellas’s brother, one of those who had intended to follow his chosen Lord and Lady to Aman. “The Men of Arnor have won a great victory against the creatures of darkness, aided as they were by the forces sent by Gondor and those of our people sent from Imladris and our own land. Yet, in spite of the fact that the Enemy’s slaves must have been much depleted still we have seen so many of the orc-kind coming after us from all directions. This ought to be a time when it is fairly safe to traverse the road southward. Why are so many apparently set in our path?”

Nimrodel shook her lovely head. “You know how they say it was that orcs were first created, when the Dark Hunter took as many of our people as he could and tortured and corrupted them until they lost their Light and must hate what they once were. Do you not think that the Necromancer seeks to emulate those who preceded them? And the greater the power in those captives he is able to take, the more implacable he believes the resulting orcs will be. Or perhaps he feels he would be able to harvest a greater amount of power for himself should he manage to take and slay us in whatever way it is he strengthens himself through the deaths of his victims.”

Mithrellas paled. “Then he will wish you taken of all of us, Mistress,” she murmured. “For you have been the Lady of Laurelindórenan, and are rich in fëa.”

Nimrodel’s laugh held little humor. “Indeed. Can you see me amongst his Uruks, do you think?” She again shook her head, her expression growing fixed. “Nay, I will seek above all to come to Amroth’s side and sail with him as he intends, if it can be done. But I will not allow the Enemy to take me—of that you can be certain. I will not lose myself as he would intend. Nor do I advise any of you to allow yourselves to be made prisoners.”

The warriors loosened their swords in their sheaths and saw their bows strung, while those ellith who carried weapons made certain that they could draw their blades easily, their faces pale but as determined as was their Lady. At last, at Nimrodel’s nod, Galadorn drew a deep breath, and led the way into the valley. “We will take the second pass to the left,” he said to those who served as scouts. “Go forward and see to it that our way is clear.”

Quietly the scouts indicated their understanding and melted into the rocks.

*******

“Two bands of orcs have shadowed them,” one of the scouts reported to Gandalf and the captain. “You saw two leagues past how one such band was slain by the warriors who accompany our Lady. But the other has scattered into the folds of the land, now that they are within the vale leading to the Keep of the Oath-breakers. Yea, they flee before us, but I fear they will seek to take as many as they can from the Lady’s company.”

Gandalf sighed. “Such a fear is in my heart as well,” he murmured. “But she has assured me that she will not allow herself to be taken by the servants of the Necromancer. She has no wish to strengthen him through the tortuous death he would offer her.”

“If,” the captain said, “it is merely her sacrifice to himself he wishes.”

Gandalf raised his chin, his forehead wrinkled in grief. “Yes, there is that,” he admitted. “He might well wish to turn her to his own service, if it can be done.” He shook himself. “We are close behind them now. Let us hurry forward to offer them what aid we can.”

All prepared themselves, and at a nod from their captain they began to run down the valley, heading for the entrance to the second pass.

But within an hour a thick fog obscured the path before them, and they were forced to go more slowly that they not miss the right path and perhaps end up in a blind canyon rather than following the lowest pass. It was one of the younger warriors who gave warning of the ambush, but all were ready. The battle was short but intense. Twelve orcs lay in wait for them, and all of the creatures were dead within minutes.

As he stood panting slightly, looking down on the last orc he’d killed, Gandalf commented, “It appears that we are upon the right path—and that these were warned that a second party followed the first.”

“So it would seem, Mithrandir,” agreed their captain. “Let us hope that the party closer to the Lady is as small as this, and that the fog hampers them as well as it does us.”

“But orcs have a keener sense of smell than do we,” one of the scouts pointed out. “They might have difficulty seeing our peoplein the fog, much less hearing our footfalls, but they will have little difficulty following their scent.”

They shared concerned looks, and again turned to the task of finding the proper path amongst the riven rocks of the pass, a task made even more difficult as dusk fell, further obscuring their vision.

They’d traveled less than a few rods, however, before they heard the sudden clash of weapons from somewhere above them and to the right, and bellows of outrage made by an orc. “The Lady’s company is under attack!” announced the captain. “Let us go to their aid!”

But they apparently went too quickly, and one of the scouts gave a cry of dismay as he found that the path they now followed disappeared over a steep cliff even as his toe found no earth or stone under it. “We took the wrong turn!” he cried as one of his fellows grasped at his arm to keep him from overbalancing and falling.

It took some time to come to the site where the orcs of the White Mountain had begun their assault on Nimrodel’s party. The bodies of two orcs and one Elven warrior lay across the path. Not much further on they found the body of an elleth, one arm severed from her trunk, and nearby an orc who lay even now dying of a gut wound, a narrow poniard flung upon the ground nearby a shapely hand that lay far from its former body. “Dúngilien,” murmured one of the warriors, his tone filled with grief. “She used the knife I gave her….”

Gandalf leaned over the orc and gave it the mercy stroke, then hurried after the Elves as they sought to come even with the rest of the combatants.

A cluster of five warriors was found next, and then two maidens who again had obviously fought for their lives, six orcs lying near the two ellith and sixteen about the ellyn. They found seven orcs scattered over the next bit of the path, each of them bearing at least one arrow, and heard a terrible cursing from behind a wall of rock and low brush. There they found a single orc, an arrow transfixing its knee, barely risen up on its sound upper leg, clearly having suffered its own death wound, hacking desperately at the remains of one of the archers of the Galadhrim, having already reduced the Elven bow to splinters. “Keep me from keeping up with the rest, will you, you maggot?!” the orc was gasping out when the captain’s arrow pierced its heart and quieted its tongue.

And so it went. A cluster of ellith were found still alive some way off the main path, although the single warrior with them had died and was being wept over by his beloved. Galadorn had apparently fought valiantly to allow that group to find safety, for he lay at the entrance to the path they’d taken, surrounded by a large number of enemies.

A second party of orcs and at least two Men had apparently secreted itself further along the pass well above the path, and had rolled boulders down upon those Elves who’d managed to evade battle so far. Two of the ellyn were yet alive, pinned in place by boulders no one else had known the leisure to roll away as yet. Four other warriors had obviously survived the initial stoning and had fought desperately to protect those who’d been caught in the assault, and the bodies of their foes formed a near wall about them.

“So many!” exclaimed one of Gandalf’s party. “They sent so many! I have counted more than three score dead orcs and two edain already!”

“And these are not of the Dunlendings,” murmured Gandalf, examining the corpses of the Men closely. “Nay, these are Rhûnim! Note their swords and knives.”

“They were seeking to take prisoners,” one of the injured warriors said. “Two ellith and three archers they dragged away, clearly still alive. The orcs took them!”

One trail showed that at least six orcs were intently following what appeared to be a small party of Elves, even though gouts of black blood indicated that at least one of the pursuers had been badly injured. A larger group, however, had sought to climb over the shoulder of a nearby mountain back in a northeastern direction, and it appeared that they might indeed be carrying prisoners with them. One of the warriors in Gandalf’s party remained to minister to the two injured ellyn, and the other six and Gandalf set out to follow this group.

They found the entrance to a cave, and grim with purpose they twisted some of the dried scrub growing nearby into makeshift torches and followed the tracks of the marauders into the depths of the earth. They’d been picking their way through the shattered stone that littered the floor of the cave for some time when Gandalf held up his hand.

A glimmer of light was reflected from the turning ahead. A gasp of intense pain could be heard, accompanied by a cry of mixed dismay and outrage and a female moan of despair and a sudden slap, then unbelievably coarse crows of laughter. “Do her again! Let her know what it’s like to be with a real ’un!” The voice grated on the nerves.

Nothing could have held the seven intruders back after that. They poured past the next obstructions, four of the Elves with bows readied, the other two and Gandalf with swords and staff raised.

A wounded orc, huge beyond belief, half lay against a portion of a stalactite that had fallen and shattered, breaking off the stalagmite below it as if it were the stump of a dog-tooth in the mouth of an ancient personage. He held the rags of a woman’s skirt pressed tightly against his side, the cloth stained with his black blood.

The unfortunate elleth from whom the cloth had been taken was stretched across another portion of fallen stone. Three orcs turned their heads from their doings of her, their eyes widening to realize they’d been joined by warriors capable of endangering their sport. Four others held an ellon against a pillar, forcing him to watch the violation of the woman, while two other orcs and a Man held a second elleth, the Man’s fist grasping her hair so tightly that her head was at an unnatural angle, forcing her also to watch what was being done to her companion. The orcs holding this woman looked down, amazed to find that each was now pierced through the chest by an arrow, while a third archer slew the naked orc who’d risen from between the thighs of the object of their lustful actions. The Man appeared shocked to realize they were under attack, but when he sought to flee he found his fingers were too entangled in the hair of his own victim to easily leave her behind. Gandalf took great pleasure in striking him alongside the temple with his staff before he turned to deflect a knife aimed at the Elf nearest him by the great Uruk pressed against the fallen stone.

None of the orcs escaped the vengeful Elves and the Wizard who companioned them. Soon Gandalf was kneeling by the pale figure who still lay upon the stone, although at her release she’d drawn into herself, curling tightly about her violated body. When he sought to touch her shoulder she screamed in terror and anguish. Her eyes were wild, and her face disfigured by a myriad of cuts and bruises. Both fists and weapons had been used upon her. And the same was true of the rest of her body as well. One wound near her left shoulder was especially irritated, and when Gandalf laid his hand upon it his face blanched at the cold emanating from it.

“They used a blade upon her upon which fell enchantments have been laid!” he said. “I do not know if they can be countered!”

The ellon who’d been held captive had slid to the ground, leaning back against the pillar against which he’d been held. His face was masked with his own blood, which had poured from wounds over his brows and from a broken nose. He had lost a foot—Gandalf suspected that this wound had been inflicted deliberately to keep him from fleeing, and his right hand had been viciously crushed. “They spoke of it,” he managed to whisper past battered lips. “The big one there,” he waved his injured hand toward the lifeless Uruk lying with the small of its back against the stone, “said that a Nazgûl gave him the knife, and it was to be struck into her shoulder and twisted.”

One of the warriors found a knife lying nearby on the floor, discarded once it had been used. A great notch was missing from its blade, about a half inch from the point. The Elf who found it swiftly passed it to Gandalf with a cry of mixed discomfort and disgust, after which he repeatedly wiped his hand against his leather leggings as if to wipe them clean of some deadly stain.

Gandalf’s face was fixed as he examined the thing. “Yes, this is the evil blade.” Finding more remnants of the stricken elleth’s garb, he swathed the weapon with it before he stashed it in the bag he carried over his shoulder.

One of the warriors who’d accompanied him removed his own cloak, one woven by the Lady Galadriel and her maidens, and covered the nakedness of the orcs’ victim, murmuring softly to reassure her, and slowly she stilled and went limp with his hand upon her shoulder.

The other two captured Elves were found dead in a shallow alcove to one side of the chamber. Soon they had the three found yet alive and the unconscious Easterling carried out of the cave and back to the pass, where a growing south wind had begun dispersing the fog. The member of their own party and the one of those who’d been held by the boulders who could stand were facing along the pass toward the southeast. “Our Lady Nimrodel is yet alive,” the one who’d stayed behind murmured, glancing over his shoulder at those who’d joined them. “They pursue her even now.”

In the far distance they heard the shrill cries of orcs, although no words could be discerned. Two of Gandalf’s party remained with the injured and the rescued ellith they’d found before, and Gandalf accompanied the other five as they set off to succor the former Lady of the Galadhrim. As they came to the crest of the pass, they could see a great storm to the south. “It would appear,” the captain remarked, “that Ossë has raised a great torrent, perhaps hoping that the winds he spawns will aid those who seek to rescue our Lady Nimrodel. I only hope that it does not do damage to our Lord Amroth’s ship!”

*******

Near dawn Amroth, who’d slept aboard his ship in the cabin he intended to share with his beloved, awoke. Out upon the decks he could hear cries of dismay and hastily begun songs addressed to Uinen. The pitching of the ship indicated that the swells beneath the hull were far greater than they ought to have been were the ship properly fastened to the stone quay of Edhellond. He rose and dragged a robe about his body as he quitted the cabin as swiftly as he could and rushed to the deck.

“A storm, my Lord Amroth!” called one of his sailors needlessly above the roar of the wind and waves. “It arose rapidly, and the ropes parted as if struck by a sharp blade! We are already far out to sea!”

“Nimrodel!” Amroth cried. “She is not yet come!”

“We cannot go back, not in this wind!” his appointed captain warned from his place by the great tiller. “We will be driven back upon the rocks, and the ship will be crushed!”

“I will not leave her!” Amroth vowed desperately. “I will not leave her behind!”

None could reach to stay Amroth as a fey mood took him. He stood now by the stern rail, looking back with haunted eyes. “I will not leave her!” he cried again, dropping the robe he’d been pulling about himself upon the deck, and suddenly he stepped up and dived overboard, striking out toward the harbor out of which the ship had barely cleared.

They felt it then—the sudden absence that indicated that their beloved Lady Nimrodel had fled her body, that her fëa even now was answering the call of Mandos and would soon enough find itself in Námo’s halls. They heard a great bellow of despair from the water, and the white form of Amroth stopped swimming purposefully, the head and shoulders alone to be seen now as he realized that his beloved was no longer able to come to him, that instead she had gone ahead of him into the West.

A great wave took his body and drove it toward the stones of the sea wall. For a moment they thought they could see his arm reaching for purchase, and then the receding swell swept it away and into the depths.

Those upon the ship could only watch disbelieving as their Lord Amroth was taken by the Sea. It was growing lighter behind the clouds of the storm, but about Edhellond those who lingered in the Elven settlement who stood upon the stones of the great pier and those upon the deck of Amroth’s ship felt only darkness.

*******

Some days later Gandalf stood at last alone upon the quay of Edhellond as twilight fell. The tumult of the storm had caused great damage. The sea wall had been breeched in two places, and roofs had been borne away from several buildings, while some of the brilliantly colored windows of the Elven halls had been shattered. The remnants of dories and lesser ships littered the shore, along with further wrack of seaweed and drifted logs and other litter swept up from the deeps of the water.

Amroth’s ship is safely away, and has already found the Straight Path, Uinen told him consolingly. No other died that night other than Amroth himself.

“He could have come there still alive!” Gandalf objected.

At this Ossë raised his head above the surface of the Sea. Nay, he would not have done so. He would have faded ere they reached the boundary, or he would have thrown himself into the Sea in his attempt to reach her.

“They say he reached for the sea wall!”

Uinen’s voice was gentle. Nay, Olórin, she assured him. Once he knew his lady was gone, he sought only to join her in death, to come home with her, or not at all. We sought to set him upon the sea wall, but he pushed himself back into the waves.

I took him then, as gently as I might, Ossë added. They are together now as they make their obeisance to our Lord’s grim brother.

“Ah, if only their bodies might lie together as well,” Gandalf said. “We found where the orcs pursued Nimrodel into the mountains, and where she threw herself over a cliff with a stream that fell across the face of the rock. They search even now for where the water might have carried her body.”

Do not worry for that, brother, Uinen told him. Our Lord Ulmo gave word to his naiads and nymphs of the fresh waters to bring to his realm her hröa as swiftly as might be managed. My beloved here had already taken under guard that of Amroth, and I caught hers as soon as it came to us last even. We bore them to an undersea grotto beneath a coral reef. There they shall lie until they are deemed ready to be rehoused.

The Istar sighed. “I thank you for that,” he said, bowing deeply. “I shall rejoice to tell Artanis and her beloved that their bodies will not be despoiled by the Enemy’s creatures.”

I rejoiced to dance in triumph over the shattered dome of Sauron’s temple he had built in Armenelos, Ossë said in bitterness. Almost I think to seek permission to set myself under Aulë’s rule that I might help to bury Dol Guldur and Barad-dûr when the time comes.

The Wizard could well appreciate the sentiment.

Terror Released

            “And where is Grandfather?” asked Thráin of his father Náin, having found the elder Dwarf at his breakfast.

            “He is down in the lowest gallery where they follow the newest vein of mithril,” Náin answered, then greeted his son’s wife.  “Welcome, my dear one.  There are sweet melons upon the side table for you—a gift from the new Lady of the Galadhrim.”

            Thráin frowned.  “Tharkûn warned against following that vein, Father.”

            Náin shrugged, his own expression going grim at the sound of the Wizard’s name.  “Since when do the children of Mahal care for the advice of outsiders?” he grunted.

            “It is far too hot in that gallery, and the atmosphere is oppressive.  We should avoid it.  Just to go by it causes me to shudder.”

            “But if that vein should widen out more….”

            “What matters it should it widen out if we awaken some horror by following it?  I tell you, Father, that the lowest gallery of the mines is not a safe place to be.  The dreams I have had of it have ever been dark and filled with foreboding.”

            Náin shook his head, fixing a suspicious eye on his son.  “Are you one of the cursèd Elves, to be guided by the images of mere dreams?  This is the one vein we are certain will not soon dwindle to mere threads of ore, and we would be fools to break off just as it is widening out.”

            “And if we do find the horror down there Tharkûn and my dreams warn of, will we not rue it?”

            The argument was interrupted by the sudden clanging of alarm bells, and cries that appeared to be spreading from a distant point.  Both father and son rose to head to the doors of the King’s mansion to look out into the great hall of the Dwarrowdelf, hoping to see someone who could explain the outcry.

            “Fire in the lowest gallery!” they heard.  “…A terrible heat!”  “Dúrin is no more—he was consumed by flame!”

            That last rumor caused both Náin and Thráin to go still with shock.  “But there was nothing to indicate that there was a pocket of gas apt to fire in that gallery!” Náin said in disbelief.  “They have checked and rechecked it, and Father assured me that they would not go any deeper than a span into the vein at most.  I myself oversaw the construction of the vents and fans!”

            Both were out into the hall immediately.  A number of miners were entering from the western entrance, and most were concentrated into three groups, each supporting a single individual. 

            Those who thronged the great hall made way for Náin and Thráin, although they jostled one another the more as they followed Dúrin’s son and grandson to meet the oncoming miners.  All met where three of the light shafts directed the sunlight from the outer world at a spot near the center of the hall.  Those who supported the miners brought out of the lowest gallery brought them forward to be questioned by Náin and Thráin.  Thráin recognized Dornar, the foreman for the miners who worked the veins of mithril and one of his grandfather’s most trusted counselors, as one of those about whom others clustered.  Healers were approaching from the Hall of Recovery, and considering the apparent charred skin on the left side of Dornar’s face and the manner in which he clutched his blackened hands, it appeared that he would require their services.  Someone, perhaps his own wife, had brought out a great goblet of water for him to drink, although she had to hold it for him as he apparently could not grasp it himself.

            Náin’s face was pale behind his grey-brown beard as he asked, “What happened?”

            Dornar’s mouth worked before he could answer.  “You know how the vein of mithril ran through a layer of white, as if it were a silver tree caught within a wall of purest alabaster.  And—and how warm that—that wall of white was to the touch.”  His voice was uncharacteristically rough, and now he stopped and coughed—coughed until he could barely catch his breath.  “My throat!” he whispered with difficulty, and accepted another sip offered to him by the woman.  “We—we were surrounded by an acrid smoke!”

            “From whence?” Náin demanded.

            “Your father,” one of the others said as once again Dornar was doubled over coughing, “he sought to remove the vein of the mithril whole, in that tree-like shape.  He was entranced by it!”  His son pushed his way through the crowd to bring a great stein of ale, holding it so his own father could sip from it.  This Dwarf’s eyebrows and beard were singed away, the skin of his nose melted into a strange shape, reddened and weeping fluid.  “He was carving the alabaster away, working deeper and deeper, seeking to remove the tree whole.”

            “He had said he would carve no more than a hand’s span deep!” Náin objected.

            “So he had planned,” Dornar rasped, having managed to contain the cough at last.  “But the tree-shape of the vein of mithril—it went deeper into the whiteness than he had thought it to run, so he kept seeking to carve deeper so as to come behind it.  Deeper and deeper, trying—trying to get behind it to remove it whole—until—until his chisel punched through—through into a chamber behind the wall!  And there was a glow within the chamber, a dull glow!”

            The other took up the thread, having at last pulled away from the vessel his son had held to his damaged lips.  “We looked through the gap, amazed by the glow.  Flame and shadow both filled that chamber, and then the glow stretched and brightened as air reached it, as if a creature wrought of very flame, its blood as if it were liquid crystals beneath its skin, arose from a huddled heap and stretched to fill the chamber beyond.  And the white stone suddenly began to melt away, and the mithril began to bleed as it was reduced to liquid with the heat!  And through the widening gap a great hand reached, grasping at Dúrin, wrapping itself about his head, and he----”  He swallowed audibly, his eyes wide with the terror of the memory.  He sank to his knees and gasped out, “Dúrin—he burst into flame!”  His horrified eyes met those of Dúrin’s son.  “Your father—the flame and the shadow took him—and we fled!”

            Dornar was nodding uncontrollably.  “We triggered the roof-fall as we fled past it, but the others never made it out in time.  The smoke—it overcame those closest to your father, and having—having reduced your father to ash, the hand of flame was grasping at those closest to the growing gap!  I saw Dori’s look of terror as he fell to his knee and the flame of that hand licked at him, and his shirt began to blaze about him!  And as the liquefied mithril touched him, Torchar began to scream with agony!”

            “We could not save them!” grieved the third Dwarf.  “We triggered the roof-fall to seal the gallery, and we knew we could not save the others!”  And he burst into wails of grief and horror.  “My brother Bombori—he was already afire when I looked back, the flame and shadow already taking him just before the roof fell!”

            All felt the horror of his words, and Thráin felt himself shuddering.

 *******

            Celeborn and Galadriel were walking back from Cerin Amroth to Caras Galadhon when they felt a sudden twist in the warp of the world, a discord in the song of the lands about them, and Galadriel stopped, almost stumbling sideways, her face white with shock.  “Fire and shadow!” she whispered intently.  “I sense fire and shadow—and death!”  She turned to stare with a hopeless gaze back in the direction of Caradhras and the doors to Khazad-dûm.  “Dúrin is dead!” she said.  “A great evil has been awakened, one that ought never to have been disturbed!”

            “What is its nature?” he demanded.

            She shook her head.  “I am not certain.  It is ancient, and almost I can put a name to it.  I know only that I have felt it before, but from far further off.”

            “I shall alert the border wardens, then.”

            “No, it does not threaten us, or not as of this time.  But it does threaten Dúrin’s people.  They would do well to evacuate their women and children.”

            “We must not allow our people to use the Dimrill Stair at this time.”

            “I agree.  Evil shall draw more evil to itself, I fear.  Celebrían—the children—when they come to visit us, they must either come over the High Pass or around through Calenhardorn and Anórien.  I will let Elrond know this.  But it is best that they not come now.  And I shall send word to Náin that we shall stand ready to aid his people as we can.”

            He indicated the wisdom of this advice, and the two of them hurried back to the city to warn their people and to send messengers to the East Gate of the Dwarven realm.

 *******

            Gandalf awaited them when they returned to Caras Galadhon, and they were stricken by the news of the deaths of Amroth and Nimrodel.  “So many pursued them?” Celeborn said, shaken by the Wizard’s report.

            “The whole population of orcs of the Ered Nimrais appear to have been mobilized and set to watch for Nimrodel’s party,” Gandalf told them.  “And there were others as well, Men both from Rhudaur and Rhûn.”

            Galadriel bowed her head in grief.  “She knew that it was likely she would not come to Edhellond yet alive,” she murmured.  “But to hear how it was that Amroth also perished—it will be a great grief to all of us.”  She looked up to meet Gandalf’s eyes.  “Our people will be stricken, Mithrandir.  I fear that many now shall desire to leave Middle Earth, with so many tales of evil and woe from so many sides.”

            “What troubles me,” the Wizard said, “is that there are so very many orcs yet on the move.  Thousands were slain in Arnor, yet it seems there is no end to them still.  And among the orcs of the White Mountains that pursued Nimrodel were still others, some from the lower Misty Mountains, some plainly from Dol Guldur, and at least three great Uruks from Mordor wearing the symbols of Minas Morgul.  And one of these brought a cursed knife and used it on one of the ellith taken prisoner.  The blade was brittle, and it broke off in her shoulder.  The shard moved, my friends—it worked its way inward toward her heart.  And as it did so she began to change—became wraith-like.  At last one of the warriors who accompanied me southward gave her the mercy stroke, hoping it would break whatever spell it brought upon her.  She railed as he prepared to do so, but her fëa was relieved as it fled her body, and blessed him ere it answered the call of the Doomsman.  We buried her at Edhellond.”

            “What shape is the haven there in?” asked Celeborn.

            “There was much damage to those ships at anchor in the harbor, but the one being built in the shipyard was not injured in any way.  Indeed, it is nearly ready to be launched.  It is larger than the one on which Amroth’s people sailed, and has been under construction for some five years at least.  The sheets and lines for it are nearly ready as well.  Those few who remain in the Havens intend to leave upon it, save for a few who spoke of removing to Mithlond to join Círdan’s folk.

            “Now,” he added, “the change I sensed here as I arrived—what is it that has happened within Khazad-dûm?”

            Galadriel’s clear gaze pierced him.  “You felt it as we did?”  At his nod she continued, “Something has happened there, something involving shadow and flame, something that has robbed the Dwarves of their King.”

            Gandalf went utterly still.  “A dragon?” he hazarded.  “Could they have been invaded by a dragon?”

            “No such thing has been seen by our wardens or scouts approaching the mountains,” Celeborn said. 

            His wife added, “No, whatever this danger is, it came not by way of invasion, but from the depths of the mountain’s roots.  An ancient evil, I deem it.”

            The Wizard lowered his eyes thoughtfully.  “Many evil creatures fled into darkness at the end of the War of Wrath, or were imprisoned there by the Valar.  They had allied themselves with the darkness, and so found their refuge in the midst of it.  Some of the sires of dragons hid themselves in this manner, and none can say what became of them or where they might have slumbered all these centuries.”

            “Perhaps,” Galadriel sighed.  “I will search later to see if I can discern this more clearly, although as it appears to be a creature that revels in darkness its reflection may not be discerned by the means available to me.  But for now, we had planned to send word to Náin that we will aid him as we can to bring the women and children of his realm away to safety.  Too few of those are there to be risked at this time.”

            “But where would you send them?” Gandalf asked.

            “There are suitable caverns for them in the Iron Hills, and some to the north in the Hithaeglir.”

            “Perhaps.  Would you have me serve as your messenger?”

 *******

            The guards at the east gate to Khazad-dûm examined the Wizard with suspicion.  “And what do you know, Tharkûn, of the woes of the Dwarves?” one asked.

            “Do you think that the awakening of the terror at the roots of the mountains did not go unremarked by those nearby?”  Gandalf found his own temper rising at the attitude with which he was met.  “I came to tell you that whatever assistance can be offered to your people is offered freely by those of the Golden Wood and by myself.  If I might see Náin?”

            Náin, it proved, was almost as surly as were those who manned his gates, although his temper, the Wizard noted, was much fueled by his grief for his father.  “And what aid can Elves offer to the Children of Mahal?” he demanded.

            “They would offer to assist in the guard offered those of your women and children you might choose to send elsewhere for their protection,” Gandalf said with as much patience and compassion as he could muster.  “The new Lady of the Galadhrim would not see them endangered, knowing how precious they are to you.  They wish to offer you what food you might have need of, and anything else they might have that your people might need.  All within Laurelindórenan grieve that your father is taken from you untimely.”

            Náin closed his eyes and passed the back of his hand across them, and Gandalf realized that he wore upon it the Ring of Khazad-dûm.  Ah, but there was another element that could be fueling Náin’s temper!  Although this was the one of the Dwarven Rings given the lords of the Khazad by Celebrimbor himself, still Sauron had a part in its making and had infused his own distrust of others into it, even as was true of the other Dwarven Rings.

            The Dwarf was doing his best to control his emotions, and in his voice could be detected the pain he felt.  “I ought not to have come to this office for another century at the soonest,” he said softly.  “And you are right—we would do well to send our women and children elsewhere while our warriors deal with this danger.  But where might we send them?  So many of our lesser halls in the Misty Mountains have been destroyed by enemies and dragons!”

            “Galadriel has noted there are caverns in the Iron Hills, north and east from here across the Anduin, that would be suitable to their habitation.  And there are others to the north and west in the Blue Mountains, beyond the Hobbits’ Shire.  You might also find shelter in the mountains beyond Fornost, where those Dwarves who allied themselves with Arvedui have begun to delve homes for themselves.”

            Náin snorted.  “We, the children of Dúrin the Deathless, live among lesser Dwarves?  How little you know us, Tharkûn.  But if the caverns in the Iron Hills are as you say, perhaps we should look to send our precious ones there.”  He stood abruptly.  “We will think on this and take counsel with the others.”

            “What of this creature that your father awoke in the roots of the mountain?” Gandalf asked.

            The Dwarf waved his hand dismissively.  “It is contained, or at least for now,” he answered.  “Dornar and the other two who escaped brought down the roof of the gallery to keep it from entering our halls.  It cannot escape further.”

            Gandalf shook his head.  “I only pray you are correct, my Lord Náin.  But creatures of evil are not so easily subdued as we would wish them to be.  I had hoped that after the victory against Angmar that there would be fewer orcs to trouble those who live in the shadow of the Misty Mountains, but still the Lady Nimrodel and her party were harried all along the way to Edhellond, and none came there in the end.  Most are dead, and a few still missing.  As for the Lady herself, she was hounded over a cliff, and fell into a pool at the foot of a waterfall, and I am assured she is indeed dead as well.”

            He sighed and rose slowly to his feet as well.  “Remember the promise of aid offered by Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel.  They will see your women and children to a safe haven at the hazard of their own people.  They remember always the aid given them by your ancestor when Celebrimbor’s land was laid waste by Sauron’s creatures, and they would repay it as they can.”

            Náin’s response was guarded, and all that the Wizard could hope was that the new King of Dúrin’s people would hearken to reason in the end.

 *******

            Gandalf went next to Mirkwood to speak with Thranduil, and was invited to repeat his report to the Council the King called.  In the end a sizable party of Elves that was formed primarily of families with children indicated they wished to leave Middle Earth, and that they would seek passage on the ship now being readied in Edhellond.  It had been much the same in the Golden Wood, with those families with young children announcing that they wished to see their children grow up far from the threat of such creatures as the Necromancer and whatever terror now raged in the lower depths of Dúrin’s realm, which some were now beginning to call Moria, the Black Pit.  He was troubled as he headed north to take counsel with Elrond and most likely Círdan as well.  Too many of the Elf-kind were fleeing the griefs foreseen in the Mortal Lands as this Age of the Sun wended its way toward its close.

 *******

            Azog sat upon his seat of black stone, listening to the message sent from Dol Guldur.  “It is a rich place, filled with treasure and fine furnishings,” the messenger said.  “You could become the greatest lord ever among our kind.”

            Azog snarled, “Many times have our people sought to take Khazad-dûm, and always we have been defeated, slain and driven into even meaner holes in the hills.  Why should we wish to attack them again?”

            The Uruk who faced him smiled evilly.  “Because this time my Dark Lord has an ally, now awake and eager to exact vengeance on what has been done to him, imprisoned in the lowest reaches of the place.  You have only to breach his prison to find yourself backed by power so great no mortal can stand before it.  Already it has slain he who was King of Khazad-dûm, and it wishes to slay all Dwarves, for they taunted it with the promise of freedom but then took that promise away.  Give it the terror of the Dwarves and their lives and bodies to feed upon, and it will aid you to become rich and powerful beyond your imagination.”

            “And why do you not wish this place for your own?” questioned Azog.

            The smile upon the messenger’s face grew more evil yet.  “I have been promised the land of the Wood Elf’s kingdom as my own.  I have no desire to dwell here, so far from my Lord’s presence.  Once my Lord’s ally has conquered the Dwarves he is to be turned loose upon the hidden land to the east of Dúrin’s gates and then will march at the side of my Lord as he takes Mirkwood for his own.  And I am to be his lieutenant there, ordering the work of his new slaves.”

            Both orcs laughed at the thought of it, and Azog began to plan how to summon sufficient of his people to enter Khazad-dûm and to subdue the Dwarves of Dúrin’s lineage.

 *******

            “Where is Dornar?” Náin demanded of Thráin.  “I have called for him several times since the women and children left, but he has failed to present himself.  Is he yet angry that his own wife and son were sent away?”

            “None has seen him since they left, Father,” Thráin answered.  “He accompanied the column as far as Kheled-zâram as did many, and stayed to watch after it once it was well down the valley and the guard of Elves joined it.  But there is no report that he returned inside through the East Gate.”

            Náin sighed.  Dornar’s son was yet quite young, and the father was heartbroken to have the child and his mother taken from his side.  “Perhaps he decided to go with them after all,” he said.  “Although he ought to have gained my permission to do so.”

            “Will you send after to demand his return?”

            Náin slipped his Ring off his finger and into the stone coffer in which his father had kept it.  “No, let him go.  Do we not grieve that your own son is gone from us as well?”

 *******

            The Dwarf they’d captured outside the East Gate of Khazad-dûm had proved most fortuitous, Azog realized.  He hated having to admit that the Nazgûl had been instrumental in pointing him out and insisting that this was the one they should take prisoner.  It had taken quite some time to break him, true; but it had proved worthwhile in the end.  Who would have guessed that they would have managed to take prisoner the chief engineer of the curst stone-delvers’ mines?

            He’d been able to advise them that the creature that the Dark Lord wished freed had been trapped in only slightly larger quarters than it had known before, the roof of the gallery from which its prison had been breached purposely collapsed by those Dwarves who’d managed to escape its grasp.  But there was another gallery that paralleled the one that must be reopened, one whose veins of mithril had been played out years earlier.  And he knew of one of the old orc delvings that ran near to it, and where on the mountainside of Silvertine that tunnel had once opened.

            The Dwarves were not patrolling the mountains’ flanks as they once had done, not with so many of their kind sent off, far too heavily guarded for Azog’s orcs to attack.  So it was that a group of goblins was able to approach the area indicated by the Dwarf and begin to shift rocks and dig without being detected.  It took several days to actually get past the blockage into the caverns that had once housed Azog’s own kind, and now that they were open Azog led them gladly into their new home, one actually returned to them by one of those curst Dwarves who’d driven them forth before.

            Now that they were inside the mountain, word was sent forth to call others to their aid, and so orcs, Uruks, and goblins came from all directions—from those who’d survived the war between Arnor and Angmar, from the lower Misty Mountains, from the White Mountains, from the walls of Mordor, and from Dol Guldur itself.  It was not easy to keep them all in order, and Azog had to break a few heads before they all learned to fear him more than they hated one another.  But the work began on digging into that other disused gallery, one no Dwarf entered at this time.  And once they finally managed to break into it, then it was merely a matter of delving between this gallery and the other one, thus freeing the creature that the Necromancer wished freed….

 *******

            Most of the orcs (save for the dullest and stupidest of them) hated the work of delving from the first gallery into the second one.  Certainly Azog himself shuddered just to come within a short distance of the tunnel the snagas had been digging.  It was far too warm for comfort, and the mere scent of it was more than most of them could bear.  For Azog himself, that combination of heat and scent brought back memories he’d not considered for more time than he’d been able to remember for at least two Ages.

            It was the day that the Sun had first appeared.  Azog and his fellows had been bringing up buckets and barrows loaded with frozen earth and bleak stone from the depths beneath First Master’s fortress, creating still another passageway lined with cells in which to hold those intended to be broken fully to First Master’s will.  Azog believed that this was how those who had given birth to him had become servants to First Master, through such breaking.  He doubted he had ever seen the one whose coupling with his mother had given him into First Master’s service—not, of course, that such things even mattered that much.  As for his mother—there had been a way she stood that was not in keeping with her status, and in time First Master had ordered Azog to slay her, which Azog had done swiftly.  She was but a female, after all, and had failed to provide him with much in the way of sport or entertainment as he remembered it.  If anything, she had appeared to be grateful to him when he drew his knife across her throat….

            They’d come up to the surface with their buckets and barrows, and were pouring the contents out upon the ground, when suddenly the brilliance had sprung up from the West, and all had turned that way in terror, for none of them had ever seen such light.  The dark earth had sparkled beneath it, and the stone had shone with color!  Such color was unseemly, of course.  All was best seen in the uncertain light of torches and cookfires, that was clear enough.  Azog and his fellows had quailed, and had sought to flee back down into the tunnels from which they’d emerged to hide from what the unexpected light revealed to—and about—them.  But First Master had forbade it, and the fiery lashes held by his two lieutenants assured that the orcs did not flee away.

            They’d held that intense heat, that odd scent—those two lieutenants, one who became Second Master and who was able to shift—then, at least—into any of a number of shapes, but for whom that shape seemed so natural, and the other, the one who after Gondolin was no more.  Two of that number had fallen, there in Gondolin, and never returned to trouble Azog and the other orcs of Middle Earth.

            If the supposed ally to the Necromancer was one of them, did Azog truly wish to see it released and perhaps suffer under its lash?  He considered whether he should order the snagas to quit the work upon the tunnel between the two galleries—keep it prisoner in the area that held it now.

            But then a patrol of Dwarves surprised them, and there was a terrible fight that cost Azog close to two score slaves and the Dwarves but two of their own.  Nay, it would indeed be best if they had such a terror in their debt, and swiftly!  Azog ordered three more tunnelers to aid those involved in the delving.  Soon enough, he hoped, they’d have the horror free, and hopefully not at such a cost in goblins that he would have to summon still more of the helpless beasts.  He only hoped, however, that the creature appreciated that they were striving to free it, and was willing to not only spare his laborers but to turn its ire toward the Dwarves and such Men and Elves as might come that way!  Azog wanted to survive to plunder the mansions of the Dwarrowdelf, after all!

 *******

            “I couldn’t believe how many of the horrors there are down there, in the lower reaches of the mines!” the head of the patrol told Náin.  “We killed almost twenty orcs, and lost Borin and Nifur.  I can’t understand how they got into the mines themselves undetected!”

            “It’s not natural for such creatures to be after the ore themselves,” Thráin grumbled.  “Orcs can’t do anything but the most rudimentary of smelting, and prefer to steal metal ingots from us, after all.”

            Náin played with one of the golden beads inlaid with mithril wire that held the braids into which his beard had been plaited.  “Nor do they usually hide so deep under the mountains,” he said thoughtfully.  “Nay, they seek after something.  But what?”

            “Could it be the creature of flame and shadow?” Thráin asked his father, his voice deliberately low.

            His father shuddered, but then after pondering the question for a time shook his head.  “Wouldn’t they be as wary of it as are we?” he asked, his eyes searching those of his son.

            Thráin pulled at the lobe of his ear.  “One would think so.  But, if they believe that it could be convinced to aid them, perhaps they seek to free it in order to help in assaulting our people.  They have long wished to slay us and to plunder our treasures, after all.”

            Náin straightened, shaking his head more strongly in denial.  “And how could they hope to communicate with the monster?  As for controlling it----”  He shuddered more strongly.  “Nay, my son, I cannot see that freeing it would give them any advantage over us.”

            But Thráin was not convinced by his father’s arguments, and that night met with many of his friends, and gave quiet orders that as many as could be convinced of the danger these invaders to the lowest galleries might pose should lay things in readiness to possibly flee at a moment’s notice.  And after that all he could do was to wait and see what mischief was intended by those orcs who now infested the depths of their ancient realm. 

 *******

            Three of the major ways into the deepest delvings were deliberately caved in to try to keep the orcs out.  But those few Dwarves who’d begun to look for the entrance by which they’d gotten inside the mountains under which Khazad-dûm had been carved did not return after their patrols, which was sufficient in itself to let Náin and his counselors know that this party had a strong and unusually intelligent leader, and was most likely intent on conquest of their kingdom.  Patrols of the entrances to the mine delvings in that quarter of the realm were increased both in size and in frequency.  More than once Thráin found himself wishing that Dornar had not decided to go willful-missing as he had, for he knew more of the secret ways of the deepest portions of Dúrin’s realm than any other living Dwarf.

            Then two from one patrol came with word that the wreck of a Dwarf had been found cowering in a narrow crack said to lead to Dúrin’s Stair.  No one knew for certain if indeed that legendary structure existed at all, much less if that passage could have led to it.  It was choked with cracked stone from a rock fall some generations back, and none had sought to remove the rubble to test if there was perhaps truth behind the stories told.  Several hours later six more came with a litter upon which they carried the broken Dwarf, and Thráin was horrified to recognize the missing Master of the miners and engineers.  His hands had been crushed, and most of his toes removed, and most horribly by the look of his feet and legs.  One ear was missing, and the corresponding eye as well.  Had he been a Man rather than a Dwarf, most likely he would not have survived the tortures he’d endured, Thráin judged.

            “What happened to you?” he demanded once Dornar was settled on a couch in his own quarters and a healer was seeing to him.  “We thought you had decided to leave with your wife and son!”

            Dornar gave but a slight negative shake to his head.  “I was captured, there by Kheled-zâram, where I stood near Dúrin’s stone, watching after my wife and son.  Orcs took me there, and in full daylight!  I—was made to—to help them free the horror of fire and shadow, the one that took Dúrin.  They intend to free Dúrin’s Bane, and once it is free, they will loose it—loose it at us!  I was made to draw up plans, plans of the lowest galleries.  Show them where it was found, other galleries that might—might run near to it, where the walls were narrowest.  I had to be able to draw, so at first they did not injure my hands.  I had to be able to see, so they did not blind me, not completely.  I had to be able to talk, so they did not take my tongue.  They took my toes, but not my feet.

            “I escaped two days ago, and have so come to you, to warn you.  All must flee!”

            There were cries of woe and exclamations of negation from those who had crowded into the far corners of the room.

            Thráin stood stricken.  “We will be forced to fight for our home and our lives!” he said.  “I must go and so advise my father!”

 *******

            The invasion started three days later.  Miners and engineers had sought to close off the lowest galleries, but they were too late.  Already the delver orcs had cut passages into higher galleries, and crude ladders had been rigged with which to climb up and out of the lowest ways.  Fiercely those Dwarves who defended the ways into the living halls fought, but it was never enough.  Too many orcs had gathered, orcs who had borne memories of hundreds of defeats of their kind that they now wished to avenge.  And wherever it came, Dúrin’s Bane burned all who had the misfortune to look upon it, and many who’d merely sought to flee as well.

            Clouds of smoke poured from the East Gate of Moria, and there was no sight of Dúrin’s Crown of Stars to be seen from his stone, so dark was the stain against the sky.

            On the fourth day after the battles had begun Thráin did as his father ordered and led a retreat of the younger warriors out into the Dimrill Dale, Thráin bearing hence the Ring of Dúrin in its small stone casket.  Náin hoped to be able to flee via one of the bolt holes from the King’s Mansion itself, but in the end was foiled of this plan when he found a large number of orcs coming down it, and he must fight for his life.  He was driven back into the main hall of the Dwarrowdelf, and there he and his household warriors were stricken down.

            Two hours later Azog himself sat upon Dúrin’s throne, Dúrin’s terrestrial crown upon his head.  “We have done it!” he exulted.  “We have slain Dúrin’s heir, and are now in control of his kingdom!  The wealth of Dúrin himself is now ours!”

            Outside of the mountains that had housed them for over two Ages of the Sun, Thráin’s people cowered and wept, and Thráin himself vowed he should be avenged upon the ones who had slain so many of their people, including his father as Dúrin’s heir and the King of Khazad-dûm.  Dornar died there, and they buried him neath a cairn of stone, and three days later they headed up the valley of the Anduin, seeking passage over the great river to those lands rumored to exist beyond them where they might make for themselves a new home.

The beginning of this chapter is taken from the fic I wrote some time ago called "The Might of the Númenórean," which I'd indicated would be worked into this epic once I reached the appropriate point in the story.

A Find Amidst the Mountains

They were referred to as the Númenóreans, although none could say precisely why these were so called when they were no more such than was the family of the King or, say, the Steward, or a host of other lineages of the hereditary lords of Gondor. But it was said that their own line was descended from the younger sons of Tar-Calmacil as well as the younger sister of Pharazôn, who had gone into exile in Romenna with Amandil and his family rather than to number herself among the fold of the King’s Men, and so put herself into obedience under his fell advisor, known on the Star Isle as Zigûr. Pharazôn’s sister had married a descendant of Calmacil, another Prince among the Faithful, without the benefit of her brother’s blessing—or permission. She died in childbirth a day before the King’s Men came to bring her back to the capitol, where she was to have been given to the altar in Zigûr’s temple. When they came, the King’s Men were shown her body being prepared for burial, and by it lay the still form of a newborn; in reality her son Faramir had lived and had been exchanged secretly for the stillborn daughter of a servant within Amandil’s household; only when he was eight years of age and his foster mother had died was the child reunited with his true birth-father and acknowledged within Romenna as a prince of the realm.

Faramir the Númenórean was a man grown and accounted very wise when the Faithful put to sea upon the advice of Amandil ere he sailed West to lay the griefs of the Faithful before the Valar—if they would deign to hear his petitions on behalf of the people of Númenor. Faramir's ship stayed with those of Isildur and Anárion, and he chose to settle among those who had colonized the islands off the southern coast of Middle Earth, themselves largely descended from younger sons and daughters of the line of Kings who had rather be important among the emigrants from Númenor than be merely smiled at with tolerance in the courts of the King remaining on Elenna. Here Faramir’s wisdom was honored, and he was made their Prince, and in time he built his stronghold upon the heights overlooking the Sea, near the Elven haven of Edhellond. Wide lands he governed in the names of Isildur and Anárion, and he was a frequent visitor to Osgiliath where his advice was always heeded by the Kings of Gondor and Arnor, who accounted him their close kinsman and liegeman.

And even now, when most of the remaining descendants of the Kings of Gondor squabbled petulantly with one another and held but little power in their own names, the Prince of the Southern Fiefdoms was still accounted great in the eyes of the realm and ruled second only to Eärnil and then his son Eärnur. So it was that he known as Imrazôr the Númenórean was honored more on his visits at his father Adrahil’s side to Minas Tirith than many who counted Aldamir or Telemehtar among their ancestors. Those known as the Númenoreans were yet mighty while most of the descendants of Anárion had sunk to the rank of petty lords of the realm. And Imrazôr looked upon them and shook his head at their envy and sycophancy, welcomed as he was into the personal chambers of the King while they were reduced to maneuvering against their own kindred in order to gain a seat on Eärnur’s Council!

How the mighty have fallen, he thought.

*******

“And how long do you think we will be gone?” Imrazôr’s chief aide and friend asked him.

Imrazôr shrugged. “Who can say? The reports from the Morthond Vale indicate that many orcs have been seen there, as if they gathered for some fell purpose. Whatever purpose that might be, it will not be to the good for our lands or for those of Gondor in general. Meanwhile, those who watch the Elven haven of Edhellond tell us that they have finished one of the two ships they have constructed there, and are now seeing it outfitted. The second, greater ship is nearly finished, but has not yet been put into the water, or so they say. But many scouts have they sent north to several of the passes over the Ered Nimrais, as if they await word of the coming of some of their kind to join those already gathered, but as if they are uncertain as to which pass they might take. I believe that it would be to our advantage to do some hunting of our own toward the mountains so that we might learn what all of this portends.”

Three days later they found themselves near the Stone of Erech, and the word there was that the Oathbreakers had been restless, and that none would venture near the place once the day began to wane. A group of eight orcs common to the Ered Nimrais had been ambushed a day past, and all were dead. But another smaller group had fled up into the rocks, and spoor of at least four more groups had been found here and there.

“None of these groups is particularly large,” commented the Lord of the Morthond Vale, “but to see so many so close together is ominous.”

Imrazôr and his men had to agree.

They courteously declined the offer of hospitality made by the Lord of the Morthond Vale, and worked north and east into the foothills of the mountains before making camp, near the southern end of one pass over which travelers might be expected to venture. Nightfall might be several hours hence, but the day was darkening. Clouds hung low, obscuring the ridges and peaks above them; and to the south dark clouds were beginning to form out over the distant Sea. “I’d not like to be crossing over the mountains this day,” commented one of Imrazôr’s companions. “It would make for damp traveling, and enemies might lie hidden until one is on top of them.”

“I know,” agreed the aide, looking up from the tent peg he was seeking to pound into stony ground, his eyes following the faint trail until it was lost amidst the stones and obscuring mist.

Soon enough their camp was set, and they gathered about their small campfire where a number of quail were sizzling on a spit and root vegetables seethed in a pot of broth. Now and then they would hear pebbles rolling down the slope, or the furtive movements of the small creatures that slipped out of their holes in the more obscure hours to feed on insects or what grasses were hardy enough to take root in such stony ground. A few birds huddled in the branches of the one nearby tree, stunted as it was, murmuring softly to one another as if commenting on the unseasonably cool dampness of the weather.

“We might have been more comfortable had we camped closer to the forest, there a mile north of us,” commented one of the men who knew the lands thereabouts somewhat better than the rest.

“Perhaps,” Imrazôr said, “except that no trails lead down into it from the heights. No, if we would learn what the orcs are up to, we will do so better here.”

“As if,” muttered another, “we wished to face the creatures ourselves.”

The aide shook his head. “Are we to avoid them and allow them to molest others unhindered?”

The other, chastened, dropped his gaze to his tin plate and eating knife, wisely keeping his counsel.

As the hidden Sun dropped further to the west the mist thickened into a full fog, and all sound seemed somehow deadened. When an owl swept low across their camp all were startled, then shared low, nervous laughter at the false alarm. The watch was set, and Imrazôr retreated into his tent while most of the rest withdrew to their bedrolls.

*******

It was about midnight that they awoke to the sounds of fighting above them in the pass, and all were out with their swords drawn in moments. Imrazôr led the way up the slope, but they could not seem to come to the aid of those who sought to defend themselves against the orcs whose growls they could plainly hear. The fog was, if anything, even thicker, and played tricks, it seemed, with the echoes. Imrazôr sought to lead his men to the left, only it appeared that once again he had chosen the wrong direction. He found himself suddenly in the midst of spare evergreens, their branches widely spaced and with but little underbrush beneath their boughs, perhaps due to the fact that during the day they would receive but little sunlight, what with the narrow gully in which they grew.

He turned back to inquire if any of his followers believed himself to be more certain of the direction of the battle they’d been pursuing, and realized that he was alone.

He heard a cry of surprise and an orc’s grunt of challenge, then what appeared to be a woman’s voice calling out in defiance. There was a crashing as something heavy came rolling down the slope, and he had to shield his face from flying pebbles. At last he saw a shadowed mass come to rest against a tree trunk to his right, and he went forward to find the body of an orc, one arm held to the body by a few sinews, its face distorted by agony and fury, its ebon blood pooling about the roots of the tree, which appeared to be seeking to crowd away from the befoulment. There was another clash of arms, it sounded to be right above him, then the woman’s voice off to his left.

Suddenly he realized that the wind was beginning to blow, and it quickly began rising, blowing over the ridge behind him and tearing at the tops of the trees. Quickly the fog was thinning, torn by the moving airs, and he peered upwards toward the mountain slopes ahead of him. He could see a faint deer track, or so he judged it, and began making his way upwards, following it as it turned to follow a ledge to the left, hoping to come to the woman’s assistance. A male voice called out in challenge, and an orc’s harsh tones answered, and again there was a terrible clash of weapons, then a woman’s voice calling encouragement in Sindarin for someone else to run. How fair that voice! Almost he forgot to move in the enchantment it wrought over him, but a fall of stones down the slope awoke him to the need to keep moving. Again he worked his way along the ledge, which now went at a distinct upward slope. Now and then he’d need to use one hand to catch at the roots of trees growing above him on the slope to steady himself, and never, it seemed, did he come up to the fighting, which sounded quite fierce. One woman’s voice could be heard calling its challenge in the distance, while a second one, the one he’d found himself responding to, shouted encouragement to another. Two fights he could now hear, and then a cry of abject pain.

“No!” he heard as he sought to scramble straight up the side of the steep slope to his right. At last he reached the top, and saw an orc bending over a kneeling figure, leaning over to cut an exposed throat. He attacked the orc from the rear, but only just too late to save the embattled person the orc had sought to slay. The horrible creature turned, and the Man managed to run his sword into the side of its chest. He could see the expression of surprise and denial upon its features ere it fell, and he quickly freed his blade, seeking to come to the aid of the woman he could hear desperately fighting somewhere in the dark.

The wind was now tearing at his cloak, and the sky was darkened as the storm clouds swept in from the Sea. Lightning suddenly lit the scene, and he realized that some of what he’d taken for stones were the corpses of orcs, and was that figure there indeed one of the Rhûnim? But of the unknown woman and her adversary he could see nothing as the dark swept back in on him and his ears were deafened by the thunder that followed the streak of light. He raised his arms against his ears, and blinked, hoping his eyes would adjust swiftly.

Then rain was falling about him, and within minutes he was soaked. It was hard to see through the trees to tell if the movements he saw might be enemies or those in danger, or merely the dance of the tops of the trees below him on the slopes, swaying rapidly in the growing tempest.

He could no longer tell the sound of combat from the louder roaring of the wind and the increasing rolls of thunder, and at last he took shelter amidst an outcrop of overhanging stone. Here he huddled for hours, until at last the storm began to dissipate northward and growing greyness indicated that the dawn was approaching. He appeared to doze, and startled to awareness when he heard the sound of weeping. He cautiously came out of his shelter, such as it had proven, and followed the sound of the wordless lament, until he realized he was hearing also the rush of water down a slope, then a distant roar below him of a falling cataract.

He moved with even greater care, and as the Sun’s light finally could be seen clearly he found himself looking down at a mossy ledge but a few feet below him, and there the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, her hair dark as ebony, torn from its plaits by the winds that had buffeted her and the rain that had poured over her, her face cradled in her arms, obviously in grief beyond telling. The head of an orc rested nearby, its nose pointing toward the sea, and to his right he saw the body from which the head had been hewn.

By her knee where she crouched lay discarded the fairest sword he’d ever seen, its blade notched and stained black with the ichor of the orcs she’d fought.

And before her he saw the torn edge of a precipice where someone had apparently fallen with the rush of a stream as it poured down into the depths below them.

*******

It was late in the day that he managed to find his men, all of them as wet and fouled with mud as was he, but none wounded that he could tell. They gave cries of relief at the sight of him, followed immediately by questions as they caught sight of his companion. It had taken some time to convince the woman to come away with him, and he carried her damaged sword in his free hand as he drew her along, his left arm about her shoulders protectively. Her face was blank, and she’d not spoken any word since he’d found her, walking as if her body responded merely to his will rather than her own.

“Who is she?” demanded his aide.

“I know not. I know only that she is in grief. Someone she loved dearly appears to have plunged to his—or her—death from the brink of a waterfall, and she is yet suffering the shock of that loss.”

“A lover, perhaps?” suggested one of his men.

“Or perhaps the lord of her people.”

“Or her lady,” Imrazôr hazarded. “I heard two women calling out in defiance. Perhaps they were sisters, or closest of friends.”

“She is an Elf,” noted the aide.

“Aye, that she is,” Imrazôr agreed. “And never have I seen any woman to equal her in beauty.”

For the first time she turned voluntarily to look at him, her white face finally aware as her grey eyes, deep with sorrow and the ghost of interest, searched his, her mouth moving silently for a moment before the grief took her again. But he’d brought her back, if only for an instant, and he vowed that he would do so again!

Kingless is Crown

            Gandalf, newly returned from his counsels with the rulers of Elven and Dwarven kingdoms in the north, looked on his fellow with dismay.  “Lord Eärnur went where?” he demanded.

            Saruman felt exasperated by the dullness of the Grey Wizard.  “He went to answer the challenge offered him by the Captain of the Ringwraiths,” he repeated.

            “And you simply allowed him to go?”  Gandalf’s voice was filled with incredulity.

            “And how am I to stop him?  Am I his keeper?  Has he not been King of Gondor now for seven years?  Is he not the master of his own counsels?”

            “Perhaps he is, but he is also foolhardy, and has left no heir, either of his body or declared!  You simply allowed him to leave to face Angmar, knowing the tale of his discomfiture before the gates of Fornost, knowing he will do anything to prove himself unafraid of the Witch-king?  You know the way to the gates of Minas Ithil as well as I—it will be nothing for an ambush to be laid----“

            “You think that Angmar has so little honor?” interrupted Saruman.

            “I know he has so little honor!” roared Gandalf.  “And had you seen and heard what he did within Arnor----“

            The White Wizard drew himself up straight and tall, towering over his furious companion.  “And what is Arnor now, other than a name in the histories of frail Men?” he demanded in his own turn.  “Sometimes, friend, it seems nothing pleases you.  When Eärnur delayed the sailing of his fleet to make certain that he took more than enough forces to see to the defeat of Angmar’s armies, then you whined about how much care he took.  Now you insist he takes too little care, and act as if it were somehow my fault!”

            “We were sent to offer the folk of Middle Earth guidance and wisdom,” Gandalf began, moderating his tone with obvious care.  Saruman, however, again cut him off.

            “And how often to they listen to us?  We were not given sufficient authority to make certain they heed our wisdom, after all!  Indeed, if I recall correctly that is why we took such forms as we did—that we not overwhelm them with our authority.  Well, I have no stomach for seeking to wheedle with those with little understanding or appreciation for the consequences of their actions and choices.  If the King of Gondor is such a fool, then I say let him live with the fruit of his decisions.”

            And with that, the White Wizard turned and swept out of the room and out of the house, leaving Gandalf watching after him with increased consternation.  At last he walked out upon the balcony at the back of the house in which the two commonly dwelt when within the White City, looking down.  Long he stood there, hoping against hope that Saruman would return.  But an hour before sunset he saw a rider heading east across the Pelennor from the great Gate of the city, and knew that Saruman was gone from Minas Anor, now called Minas Tirith.  He was heading toward the ruins of Osgiliath, where he would ride across the great bridge and probably turn north and then east again toward his frequent haunts beyond Rhûn.

            “Why, brother, did you not even try to stop him?” he muttered as he saw his fellow drawing further and further away.  “Arnor is no more, and Aranarth remains a king without a kingdom to rule.  Would you see Gondor go the other way, and become a realm with no king?”

            But there was none to answer, and at last he shook himself.  He had no horse this time, but perhaps if he were fortunate the Steward Mardil would allow him to borrow a mount from the stables in the Sixth Circle so he could perhaps seek to overtake Eärnur and coax him to turn back….

 *******

            Fifteen Men, all competent Rangers, followed Gandalf.  But no signs of the King or his small escort could they find, not once they passed the Crossroads.  Those who’d guarded the way there spoke of an eerie silence from the road to the captured city of Isildur, which they now referred to as Minas Morgul rather than Minas Ithil, now that the Nazgûl had taken it and Angmar had joined them.

            No enemy did they see as they rode, although all were certain that they were watched.

            “I do not understand it,” murmured a returning scout, keeping his voice low as if the rocks themselves might be seeking to hear what news he carried.  “Not one trace of even the least of orcs have we seen.  Since the wraiths took the city, this way has been teeming with the creatures, and even when we do not see them we are aware they are above us and about us.  There are always rocks pushed off the heights above us, or crows in the daytime and bats at night, shadowing our movements, keeping an eye upon us.  But now all is strangely silent.  I like it not!”

            Gandalf had to agree.

            They rode to the bridge over the river, and paused.  “We have not been allowed to come so far since the city fell to the wraiths,” said the Captain, then he blanched as he looked upon what had been the fair Tower of the Rising Moon.

            The glowing white of the city was now somehow tainted.  Where once it shone with the light of the moon for which it had been named, now it seemed to merely capture what light there was, and the gleam of its walls was dampened, somehow sickly.  No longer did living trees rise from the parks within the upper levels, and even the vale before the place was apparently sickening and dying.  The great poplars that had served to break the wind were all apparently dead or fallen, with many limbs broken away or twisted unrecognizably.  As for the water under the bridge—it was no longer pure and sparkling, but grey and putrid in color.

            “It is like looking to see the face of the woman you love, and instead seeing only her skull,” whispered one of the Men, and Gandalf found he could appreciate the sentiment. 

            The city of Minas Ithil had been left almost empty for many years now, barely protected by a small, often harried garrison of Men who had come to see themselves as abandoned by the rest of Gondor.  But still it had been beautiful, even stripped of its populace and dignity as the former habitation of one of Gondor’s two founding Kings.

            “It is as if they have stripped it of its skin,” one of the older soldiers said, looking at the stained, sickly walls.

            But of the King and his escort they found no sign.

            The railings of the bridge had been broken down, and the statues of Isildur and Anárion that had ever guarded it were now headless and armless, the sword and battleaxe on which each had leaned hammered into shards.

            “There is not even a rat!” muttered the oldest of the soldiers.

            No birds roosted in the bare limbs of the trees, and no frogs croaked in the meads beneath them.

            A younger soldier, shivering, whispered, “It is as if dead eyes were upon us!  It is haunted!”

            Another answered him, “Then you feel it, too?”

            There was nothing to see, nothing to tell them the fate of the King or his companions.  At last they turned to go back.

            But although all were aware now of the watch being kept on them, they saw and heard nothing.  “We cannot even say where it was he might have been ambushed!” fumed the Captain.

            It was as they passed a cutting in the rock that, if Gandalf remembered rightly, had once led upwards toward the pass higher in the Ephel Dúath, that he paused, troubled.  Beyond the cutting the stone was crumbled.  He looked upwards.  There was another tower on the inner boundary of the mountains, reachable by this path; except it appeared that the pass was no longer open.  “Something has smote the stair that once rose here,” he noted.  “The road itself is unmarked, but not the mountainside.”

            The Captain nodded, but said nothing.  Finally they rode away, not certain what to think.  Only as they left the cleft behind them and could see the statue of the King at the Crossroads did they hear anything—and even then no one could say for certain precisely what they heard.  Only Gandalf in his heart was certain that they’d just been honored to hear the laughter of the Witch-king of Angmar.

 *******

            Deeply had the slaves of the wraiths dug below the keep of Minas Ithil.  Its libraries were long gone, carried first to Osgiliath and then to Minas Tirith, where what remained had swelled the store of wisdom kept by the heirs of Meneldil.  The same had happened with the treasuries, and even much of the statuary of the city had been hauled elsewhere in the centuries since all realized that Isildur’s sons would never return to the city their father had built.

            Too few had lived to return here of those who’d followed Elendil and his sons to the Dagorlad.  And of those few, too few remained as time dragged on and no lord of the land would agree to live so close to the memory of Sauron.

            There were a few cells within the levels below the Citadel, but the true prison for the place had been in the lower levels of the city.  Now the orcs and nameless creatures who might once have been Men and who slaved alongside them scoured the hidden holes and crannies, carving out noisome pits and fitting out torture chambers.

            Here the party that had come from Minas Tirith was brought, helpless prisoners.  And here the one who pretended to the throne of Gondor was forced to watch as, slowly, one by one, three of his Men were tortured and killed before his face.

            “He is strong,” muttered the chief of the wraiths’ torturers as he came before the former lord of Angmar to make his report.  “He has failed to break, no matter what we have done to him or to his servants.”

            The Witch-king made a soft hissing, and then a guttural noise horrible to hear.  “I will see him myself,” he said at last, and rose, casting about himself the black robe that gave him sufficient shape to be perceived by mere mortals.

            The chamber in which Eärnur was chained to the wall was dank, lit by a single, smoking torch whose red light flickered feebly upon the walls stained black with the blood of what victims the wraiths and their lackeys had already drained there.  The pretender sagged in his chains; the bands about his wrists, new when put upon him, were already marred by the Man’s attempts to free himself during those times he was left unwatched.  His breath was harsh, ragged.  His skin was pale from lack of sunlight, and dry from the prisoner having been denied sufficient water.  His eyes were deeply sunken and his mouth slack, the former dry and reddened by the strain to see in the feeble light and the misery of his captivity, the latter working to moisten itself from too little saliva.  Dried blood had left trails down his chin and chest from where he’d bitten his lips repeatedly at the horrors he’d been forced to watch.

            His remaining men had been removed to other cells, and now he knew abject solitude.  He looked up as the Witch-king entered, and the wraith recognized relief in the shadowed eyes of the Man.  And now he knew, at last, how to break him.

            “Unbind him, and place him alone in a cell.  Let him have light and water and sufficient food for each meal.  But do not speak with him, nor show your faces,” he directed his servants.  “We will leave him to his own company for a time.”

            Within a matter of days the Man was raving; within two weeks he was catatonic.

            But the Witch-king had overestimated the Man’s strength—within four weeks the Man was dead.

 *******

            No one within Gondor held sufficient of the blood of Anárion or Elendil to put himself forward to claim the Winged Crown and the throne of Gondor.  None questioned Mardil’s right to rule in place of the King until such a time as the King might come again.

            Gandalf wept over the situation, and sent up silent prayers for the repose of the King’s spirit.

            He rode south to consult with the Prince of Númenor vi Ennorath, to suggest that perhaps he might put himself forward to take the Winged Crown and Gondor’s throne.  Imrazôr greeted him with solemn dignity and drew him to a courtyard at the back of the keep where the view was out toward the Sundering Sea.  “It is the favorite place within the grounds of the house for my lady, where she appears to find the greatest comfort,” the Man explained as they walked slowly through the building to the rear gardens.

            “Then you have married since I was here in the south of Gondor a few years back?” asked Gandalf.

            “I heard that you visited my city and Edhellond while I was out in the mountains hunting with my men,” Imrazôr said.  “I am sorry I could not be here then to entertain you as you deserve, Mithrandir.  But we had to learn just what disturbances were occurring within the Ered Nimrais.

            “Yes, I have since married, although,” his expression became more defensive, “not all appear to accept my marriage as perhaps proper.  I will tell you this—I found my bride there, amidst the mountains.  She had been forced to fight for her life against orcs, and she had apparently seen many she loved greatly slain cruelly.  I found her atop a steep cliff over which at least one appears to have fallen to death, although she has never told me who it was who died there, or what that one meant to her.  A stream fell over the cliff in a narrow falls, and the body of whoever fell was lost in the pool below.  We searched it, my men and I, seeking for the body of the fallen that we might see it properly interred, but it was in vain.”

            The Wizard paused, realizing that whomsoever Imrazôr had married was most likely one of Nimrodel’s companions, and perhaps a member of her direct household, maybe even one of her handmaidens.  He gave a guarded nod, and resumed following the Man out into the rear courtyard, unsurprised to realize he recognized the elleth who sat there, her hands busied with a spindle and a basket of wool.  He approached her, smiling gently into eyes that had seen at last the depth of sorrows that Elves might know in this marred world.  “Mithrellas?  It is good to know that you are here, and have found safety at the side of one who loves you.”

            Imrazôr appeared surprised to realize that the Wizard recognized his wife.  “Ah, my beloved one, I rejoice that one has come who appears to recognize and honor you,” he said to her in soft tones as he knelt by her.

            “Yes,” she said, her voice not as sweet as Gandalf remembered it.  “Mithrandir—it is good to see you again.”

            Yes, she had been nearly broken by what she’d experienced within the embrace of the White Mountains.  “A long way it is from your home to the north, my lady,” Gandalf said.  “And I am told that now you have accepted a home here, in Prince Imrazôr’s house, and as his wife?  I believe your lord and lady would rejoice to know of your happiness here.”

            Her face paled at the direct reminder of her loss.  “You think so, Mithrandir?  I must suppose it would be so.”  She attempted a smile that Gandalf realized her husband took at face value.  She rose, and he realized with some shock that she was pregnant.  “I must see to it that a room is readied for your use, that you be properly honored in keeping with your station.  If you will excuse me.”  She gave a partial curtsey, and lifting her basket went into the house once more.

            A short time later Gandalf and Imrazôr sat together within what Imrazôr used as his office, a tray with a bottle and two goblets set between them by the Prince’s aide and a stand of candles alight above the hearth.

            “Then, you knew her before,” Imrazôr said, focusing his eyes on the wine he was pouring out for the two of them.

            “Yes, I saw her on occasion in her Lady’s company,” Gandalf agreed.  “She was the chief of the handmaidens to the Lady Nimrodel, late of Lothlórien.  Long has Lord Amroth, Nimrodel’s beloved, been here in the south, overseeing the building and outfitting of the ship on which they and their households were intended to sail to Valinor.  He recently sent word that the ship was finished, and called his lady to join him.  She never made it alive out of the Ered Nimrais.”  He accepted the goblet offered him and took a sip.  “Mithrellas has not told you of the journey?”

            “She has never told me aught of what happened there in the mountains,” the Man answered him, his voice sad.  “She will not speak of from whence she came, or why they traveled over the pass, or what became of any she traveled alongside.  It was weeks after she came here ere she would speak at all, in fact.  Her grief is very great, and seems to stay with her in spite of all done to give her comfort by me or mine.  I had to coax her to eat, and my maidservants had to all but carry her to bathe, and for weeks must change her clothes as a girlchild would treat her poppet.  At last she trusted me with her name, but when asked who it was who fell over the cliff into the pool below would go silent and still again, as if seeing over and over again what she beheld as that one fell.”

            “I see.  It was her beloved mistress whom she saw fall, and I am assured that the Lady Nimrodel is indeed dead.  There were many close to Nimrodel and Amroth who came south intending to take ship with them to the Undying Lands, and very few survived the many attacks they knew from orcs and Rhûnim once they came into the pass that had been chosen for them to traverse.  Again and again they were assaulted, and it is a wonder that any survived.” 

            He sipped again at the wine, glad for the warmth it appeared to give him.  At last he continued, “Those few we could save returned to their own land with word of what happened, and will soon arrive in greater force to take the other ship lying ready now in Edhellond.  Few of the Elves of Middle Earth who have children will agree to remain within the Mortal Lands to see evil again rise to destroy all they hold dear.  There will be few if any children born now to the Eldar of the Hitherlands, and their numbers shall ever dwindle from this day.”

            Imrazôr gave a single nod of recognition of the import of Gandalf’s words.  “And perhaps—perhaps she will wish to go with them?” he asked in low tones.

            “I do not believe she will, or not at this time.  But how was it she came to agree to marry you?”

            The Man shook his head.  “It was a few months after I brought her here.  Some of my people began to speak against her.  It was said that the lord of those who had sailed from Edhellond as the storm hit the coastline fell from his ship and was lost, and the people grieved and wondered at the word of such a thing happening.  But many of my people fear and distrust the Elves of Edhellond, who after all have little commerce with other races.  The rumor was rife among the people of the city that the Elves are accurst, and there were some who would have seen her driven forth, hoping that by forcing her to leave she would take whatever ill fortune is believed to be attached to the Elves with her and so spare the people I rule.

            “I could not allow them to do that, and at last I besought her to wed me and so take upon herself my protection as her husband.  She loves me as she can, and I know that it is not with the depth of her heart as she is capable of doing.  But she said that there is no place for her in the land from whence she came, and no other place she feels she could turn to, not at this time.  So, she agreed, and we wed at midwinter.

            “Few seem to remember now that she is not a woman from among Men, or at least none speak aloud of it.  All are now respectful of her as is right toward she who is now my wife, and now that she had quickened all appear most hopeful and speak even of how blessed my lineage will be, with so fair a mother for my children.”

            Gandalf felt relief at what the Man told him.  “I am glad that she recognizes the love you hold for her, my lord, and that she responds to it.  She has a faithful heart, and will never willingly seek to cause you hurt, particularly as she realizes how deeply you love her.  But I do not believe that all will be easy for you, as you appear to realize already.  The heart of an Elf is not easily won, for their love is intended to last unto the ending of this world.  I will tell you this—she once loved another who could not return her love, and knowing how that one’s heart was disposed she was willing to know that grief.  That she has allowed you to worship her with your body is a surprisingly hopeful thing, and even more so that she has conceived a child by you.  But as you approach the ending of your days it will become increasingly difficult for her, for Elves do not live by the cycles of birth, life, and death known by Men, and to think that you must perforce go where she cannot follow will be a great grief for her.  It will not be that she truly will cease to love you.  Nay, she will only need to distance herself from your aging and movement toward what lies beyond the Circles of Arda, for she will not be able to follow you there, I fear.  Not for her the choice of Lúthien.  Her lineage is not great enough to accept that.”

            “I stand forewarned,” Imrazôr sighed.  “All I can do, I suppose, is to reassure her as I can that I yet love her, and will never cease to do so, but that I will not seek to hold her when at last her heart tells her it is time to leave me.  I would do such a thing anyway were she a mortal and to die before me.  I must think there is but little difference in the end.”

            *******

            Later that evening Gandalf told the full household of what had been found by those warriors who followed Nimrodel’s party into the pass, and what he’d further learned of the fate of Amroth, and that they were believed to have been reunited when the waters that bore Nimrodel reached the open Sea.

            After word came that the greater ship that carried many Elven families West had sailed from Edhellond, the story that Mithrandir had told to Imrazôr’s family was told abroad throughout the city of Númenor vi Ennorath.  In time, after Imrazor’s son Galador was born, the people, in honor of the woman their lord Prince had married, came to call their city Dol Amroth, in memory of the one it was whispered she might once have loved.  Certainly as long as she dwelt among them, the Lady Mithrellas never told them any differently.

            But Imrazôr refused ever to make himself King of Gondor.  It was enough for him to remain Prince of the Southern Fiefdoms, and he publicly pledged his oath to the Ruling Steward until such time as the rightful King might return to take the Winged Crown for himself.  And his heirs ever echoed that oath.

Seeking to Answer Questions of Identity

            They met next in Mirkwood, no one feeling particularly comfortable meeting in Laurelindórenan considering the emptiness of Khazad-dûm with its unknown resident horror.

            “And you cannot describe the thing?” demanded Saruman.

            “None who has seen it has lived to describe it,” Celeborn said simply.  “The Dwarves refer to it simply as Dúrin’s Bane, and speak of intense heat and smoke.”

            “A fire-drake, then,” Saruman suggested.

            “Perhaps,” Gandalf answered with a troubled shrug.  “Although I have no memory of any reports of a great dragon being imprisoned under the pillars of the Middle Earth.”

            “Nor do we remember such a thing,” Galadriel said.  “Some demon creatures of Morgoth’s were said to have been so imprisoned by the Valar and their greatest servants….”

            Saruman was shaking his head.  “I ask you,” he said, “would Celebrimbor have settled himself so close to any demon of Morgoth?  He was born in the Blessed Lands, after all, and was trained to recognize such evil creatures from a young age.”

            “Yet he failed to recognize Sauron when he came in the guise of Annatar,” Celeborn pointed out.  “Ereinion Gil-galad, Círdan, and Elrond would not treat with Annatar, but Celebrimbor accepted him as he presented himself.”

            “Although we detected that Annatar was not truly wholesome, yet we did not speak out effectively against him either, my husband,” Galadriel pointed out.

            Elrond spoke up.  “You avoided him at all costs as I remember it, and counseled against allowing him to take part in the government of Ost-in-Edhil or to wander throughout the realm unattended.”

            “For as much good as it did,” sighed Celeborn.  “In spite of the great love we held for Celebrimbor, yet he remained one given most to the study of crafting.  When offered special training in the forging of tokens of power he was easily tempted to ignore the warnings of his own heart as well as that of his friends and counselors.  The desire to perhaps become as great as had been Fëanor overwhelmed his caution.”

            Thranduil eyed the Lady Galadriel with eyes that did not fully approve of her presence in his halls.  “This lady was also born in the Blessed Lands, as was her kinsman Celebrimbor.  I would expect that she should have been just as sensitive—or insensitive--to the presence of imprisoned evil as would be he who founded Eregion, yet neither did she demure from the placing of his capitol where he built it, near the doors to what has become the Black Pit.”

            “Evil is close to one’s doors no matter where one is within the Mortal Lands,” Galadriel sniffed.  “Your land here now boasts neighbors surely as terrible as whatever creature hides within the darkness of Moria, if not worse.  Is it not said that Khamûl appears to spend most of his time within Dol Guldur, debasing himself before the Necromancer, serving him even as he once served Sauron?  It is true that these did not dwell there when your father founded his realm, but where in this marred world can we find any place free from the presence of evil creatures willing to ravage our lands?”

            “Most likely not even within the Hobbits’ Shire,” noted Gandalf. 

            “I must agree that there are few evils that reach that land,” noted Gildor Inglorion.  “The Dúnedain of Arnor do well at protecting the borders of the settled lands within Eriador, and especially those of the Breelands and those of the Periannath.  But nonetheless evil lies ready to enslave even those relative innocents, should the watch on their lands ever fail.”

            “The evil creatures spawned by Dol Guldur and the deeps beneath the mountains certainly make their way north of Thranduil’s realm,” Radagast said.  “The skin changers fight them as they must, although they have little enough to do with other peoples.  And those of the Éothéod are too oft assaulted by those both from north and west, and from the south as well, and on occasion even by those from the east.  There are nomadic folk from the northeast who on occasion will stray into the ranges of the horsemen, stealing horses and taking slaves and captives, often seeking to steal maidens and younger mothers with small children, apparently to take them forcibly as wives.  As for the woodmen who dwell near me on the northern ranges of the great forest, they are perhaps less troubled than many others, protected as they are by the Elves to the south and hidden in single homes and small villages amongst the trees where they are easily missed by passing raiders.  Only the Dwarves of the Iron Hills seem to have little trouble at this time from orcs and mannish raiders.”

            “What news do you hear from the Men east and south of your forest?” Saruman asked Thranduil.

            “For the most part they are able to maintain a wary peace with those from Rhûn, although now and then smaller settlements on the eastern shores of the Long Lake will suffer raids.  The town of Esgaroth appears to prosper, however, and there are some who trade with merchants and craftsmen from Rhûn and even on occasion from Khand as well as with Gondor.  And now that Thráin has settled under Erebor where he rules as the King under the Mountain a new settlement of Men is growing on the western side of the mountain.  These Men trade mostly with the Dwarves, but also will deal with those from Esgaroth and with my own agents.  Rarely are these threatened by anyone, or so it appears for now.”

            “Dol Guldur does not send its creatures so far?” the White Wizard asked.

            “No, the orcs, spiders, and other evil beings seem to prefer building strongholds in the shadows of the forest.  We destroy these as we discover them, but we find we can never quite keep up with their proliferation.”

            Saruman looked from face to face before looking to Galdor from Mithlond for whatever report he might have to make.

            “More have come to the Havens seeking passage to Eressëa since the victory over Angmar by the Dúnedain of Arnor,” the Elf told them all.  “This should not be, with such a lessening of the Shadow in the north.  Our Lord Círdan advises that the identity of the Master of Dol Guldur should be ascertained.  He grows in power, and too much evil seems to come from his fell hands and halls.  The Nazgûl appear to answer to him and to aid him at his will, and Khamûl has served as his primary lieutenant there in his keep.”

            “Then Círdan sees that the Necromancer is most likely yet another guise taken on by Sauron?” asked Gandalf.

            Saruman made a derisive noise.  “Why must all look upon the Necromancer and imagine him the Dark Lord come again?” he demanded.  “Do you think that only Sauron is capable of such evil?”

            “Then who else might it be?” asked Celeborn.  “Whosoever he might be, he remains apparently unchanged for many lives of Men, even taking into consideration the longer lives granted to the descendants of Númenor.  He hides himself ever from the view of others, but draws to himself what evil creatures he can, then sends them out to trouble all others.  He breeds orcs of new kinds, apparently twisting all he can capture of the Children of Ilúvatar to follow his will.”

            “Do you think that no others besides Sauron could breed orcs?” asked Saruman, his voice reasonable.  “He was not the first to do so, after all.”

            “An art perfected by Morgoth,” admitted Thranduil.  “But how many other than Sauron has ever followed such a program, think you?  And who other than Sauron was close enough to the Dark Enemy to learn such skills?”

            “And you think that no one could learn to do such a thing untutored by Morgoth?” Saruman asked, leaning back in his seat.

            “And how should they learn such arts if not at the feet of Morgoth?” asked Thranduil.  “Who else has studied such things?”

            “I think I should look into such studies,” Saruman said.  “Perhaps if we can learn how it was done, we can find a manner of undoing such evil.”

            “If such study does not twist the student to evil in and of itself,” noted Radagast disapprovingly.

            “And how,” Saruman asked, reaching for his goblet of wine, “shall those of good will be turned to evil?”

            “All too easily,” Galadriel said, cradling her own drink between her hands.  “Fëanor was not always given to the idea that the Valar sought to hold our people in thrall, after all.”

            Gandalf added, “Even Sauron did not begin as an evil being, not in the days he studied at the feet of Aulë with so many of his brothers.  Only after he gave over his fealty to Morgoth did he fall.”

            “And was not Morgoth himself equal to Manwë Súlimo there in the beginning?” asked Celeborn.

            “If he was not superior,” agreed his wife.   

            Saruman shrugged eloquently as he sipped at his goblet.  “Perhaps,” he murmured noncommittally, wiping his mouth with sleeve.  “But even if the Necromancer should prove to be Sauron in yet another guise as has happened before, yet he can do little more than harry the peace of others unless his Ring should somehow come into his hands again.”

            “Which is always a possibility,” Gandalf observed practically.  “Rivers change their courses, and coastlines rise and fall, as has been said before.  If any of his creatures should happen upon the Ring, imagine how swiftly It would return to his hand, and what evil he should bring to bear upon the rest of Middle Earth.”

            Saruman was shaking his head.  “That will not happen,” he pronounced with authority.  “The Ring cannot have remained within Middle Earth, not with the floods known upon the Anduin again and again over the ennin since It was cut from his hand.  Do you think I have not studied upon this?  Not all of my time I have spent outside the realm of Gondor has been passed in Rhûn and those lands beyond it.  I have spent time on the banks of the Great River, watching its patterns, learning its rhythms.  I tell you that the Ring has passed to the depths of the Sea and so cannot return to trouble Middle Earth again.”

            Radagast fixed the chief of his order with a considering examination.  “How is it that you failed to tell us of this before?” he asked.

            Saruman glared at his brown fellow.  “And since when must I answer to others, or speak of all I have learned or come to know to such as you?”

            “If we are to work together to strengthen Middle Earth against the wiles of the dark enemies…” began Radagast.

            But the White Wizard interrupted him.  “Do you question my wisdom?”  His voice was imperious.

            Radagast’s eyes dropped to his own wine, and he gave no answer.

            Gandalf’s eyes went between one of his fellows and the other before he turned his gaze to the carvings upon the wall beyond Saruman’s shoulder.  He took a deep draft of his own wine and kept his own counsel.

            Galadriel stretched her neck before stating, “But we cannot be certain that this happened.  Lord Ulmo would not be pleased to guard such a token within his realm.”

            “Yet he holds at least a Silmaril and several Palantirí in his keeping.  Why should he refuse to commit such a thing as the Ring to his treasuries at the bottom of the Sea?”  Saruman’s voice was utterly reasonable, and none could think of any counter to his argument.

            “So, how is it that we could think to learn just who it is that is known as the Necromancer?” asked Galdor.

            “The only manner in which I can see that his identity can be confirmed would be if someone should slip into his keep to spy beneath his mask,” Gandalf said.

            Celeborn gave a decided snort.  “As if anyone should agree to do such a thing, much less could think to succeed in such an enterprise.”

            “I could not do so,” agreed his wife.

            Celeborn smiled at her, reaching out to toy with one of her golden tresses.  “No one could fail to notice you should you attempt to approach the doors to his fortress, Vanimelda.”

            Radagast was shuddering.  “I would not dare to even come within sight of the windows of Dol Guldur.”

            Thranduil was nodding.  “Our people can come only so close and no closer to the empty land around the tower before orcs and wargs come forth from its doors to assail them.  I fear that he is too aware of the nature of Elves to allow us to approach him in secret.”

            “Then perhaps someone who is not an Elf should seek to enter the precincts of Dol Guldur,” Saruman pronounced, one brow cocked in challenge.

            The council went on for some time longer with no decisions made.  After three days those who had come dispersed, Elrond and Gandalf accompanying the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien back across the Anduin to the Golden Wood.  The Grey Wizard had been quiet for the last few days.  “And of what do you think so assiduously, my friend?” asked Galadriel as they climbed at last to the level on which the talan for their home had been built.

            “I am wondering just how I should manage to enter Dol Guldur undetected,” was Gandalf’s answer.

            Elrond raised a single brow.  “You would think to try such a ploy?”

            “Someone must do so,” the Wizard answered.  “And I am no Elf.  Never has Sauron—or whoever the Necromancer might prove to be—faced one of us of the Wizards directly, or so it is to be hoped.  I would think that I had some chance of at least approaching the doors, and perhaps might have the best chance to enter the place.”

            “And if he recognizes the Ring you wear?” asked Elrond.

            Galadriel was shaking her head.  “He never touched them, and we refused to wear them during the years he ruled Mordor ere Isildur robbed him of his own Ring.  He does not have their feel, or he would know for certain where each is kept and who keeps it.  I suspect that the reason that he built his keep upon the ruins of Oropher’s first home was because he believed that Thranduil possibly received one of the three, and that it was to protect it that he had his new refuge excavated in the stone hill in the midst of the forest.  He has searched for that supposed Ring for some time, or for signs that it is being used.  But he has never been certain where the third Elven Ring has been kept.  If he is Sauron, the Necromancer most likely realizes by now that one is within Laurelindórenan and that the second is within Imladris, since evil creatures have a difficult time even approaching either place.  But the third—Círdan has never sought to hide his realm, nor has Thranduil.  Nor has Edhellond ever been hidden from anyone.  And I suspect he would find the thought that one of the wandering tribes such as Gildor Inglorion rules should shelter the third would be laughable.  I think that he should have divined by this time that Thranduil does not hold the third Ring, and he suspects that either Celeborn and I are each Ringbearers, or that the third is worn perhaps by Glorfindel or Erestor in Imladris.  I do not doubt he accepts that Elrond wears one of them, and that he suspects I carry the second.”

            “I do not think I would dare to use Narya within the Necromancer’s own grounds,” Gandalf said, “although it could prove helpful in approaching the place undetected.  Rarely have I invoked its power to conceal its bearer, but I might just try it this time.  But Saruman is right—we will not know for certain who our enemy is if no one seeks to peer behind his disguise.”

 *******

            He remained within the Golden Wood as a guest long after Elrond departed northward with his wife and daughter, planning his campaign with Galadriel’s help, practicing concealment, and working on a disguise of his own.  But once he left the protective girdle of Nenya’s power he did not go directly eastward, choosing to go south first to see how things ran in Gondor, then passing through what remained of Rhovanion and visiting for a time in Thráin’s new realm of Erebor.

            “It is a good place,” Thráin told him, “and the Mountain has been most hospitable to us.  There are gold, silver, and gemstones to be found as well as iron of exceptional quality.  And it was here that I found the greatest gem that any of our people has ever discovered.  I have worked upon it, faceting it with the greatest of care, so that it catches the least amount of light no matter which face one sees, and reflects it with great splendor.  I have named it the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, and it holds the luck of the people of Erebor.”

            “You and your people are content here?” the Wizard asked.

            Thráin shrugged.  “We are, Tharkûn, or at least for the most part.  My wife does not like it particularly here, for as yet there are few enough women who dwell here, and not all of the amenities have been finished.  She says she is happier when she stays with our kinfolk in the Iron Hills, which is where her sister lives.  She is there now, having left a few weeks ago accompanied by our son Thorin.  She will return before the winter comes, should she not choose to stay through until the spring thaws.

            “Ah, enough of that—come and see what we are doing!  The great hall where we intend to hold our markets is now under construction.  It will not rival the great second hall of the Dwarrowdelf in Khazad-dûm, but it shall be finer than anything in the Iron Hills.”

            Gandalf had to agree that what he saw was particularly fine and beautifully finished.  Much of the matrix of the stone of the Lonely Mountain had a greenish cast that gave the caverns a feeling of liveliness and that accepted carving well.  Many of the pillars of the great hall were carved to resemble tree trunks with lamps set amidst branching limbs, again adding to the feeling that one was out under a canopy of trees in full leaf.  The ceilings were not as high as had been true in much of Khazad-dûm, but this somehow made the spaces more comfortable and intimate.

            “When the women and children were sent away to safety after that thing that killed my father was found, we sent with them stores of mithril and other precious metals as well as ingots of steel.  Our shares of these have been brought here, and we have been crafting fine corslets of mithril for the greatest warriors in Thranduil’s court, for they insist that these are far better to wear when they must fight spiders and wargs than normal chain mail or boiled leather.  They pay dearly for them, but feel they are well worth the price, considering how light they are and yet how well they withstand teeth, stings, and edged weapons.  We are becoming famous for such articles now, and it adds to our prestige wonderfully.

            “Oh, and one other thing that will interest you in particular—we have found one section of the Mountain that is rich in mineral salts and rare metals such as magnesium and manganese and so on that you have ever favored for your colored fires.  Come and see!  We will be pleased to have you as one of our steady customers, Tharkûn!”

            Gandalf was indeed pleased to find a source for such items.  One cavern had a number of mineral springs where such mineral salts as he particularly prized could be easily obtained, and he was able to ascertain that they were of excellent quality.

            Suddenly he had an idea—perhaps he could use certain fireworks in order to distract or even possibly frighten the denizens of Dol Guldur!  The Nazgûl were known to fear fire, and at least Khamûl was known to reside within the Necromancer’s fortress much of the time.  There were a few simple items that could emit brilliant light and sparks that could be used to ward off any assault by the wraith or any of his fellows that might be encountered.  And he thought of a few ideas for possibly clearing out whatever orcs that might be housed in the deeper halls or that might lie in wait for him.

            “If I might have the use of a space where I could work on some fireworks, I would be much obliged,” the Wizard told the King under the Mountain, and quickly a bargain was struck.

 *******

            It was quite some time before Gandalf had his fireworks precisely as he wanted them.  Thráin’s wife did choose to stay in the Iron Hills until the spring thaw, at which time Thráin himself went to fetch her and their son home again.  Gandalf had just begun packing his creations into his satchels preparatory to leaving when the royal party returned, Thráin’s wife well pleased by expansions to their living quarters finished during her absence, but still enthusing about her visit with her sister’s family in the Iron Hills; and their son Thorin dreamy-eyed over a maiden he’d met during his stay in the north.

            During Thráin’s absence the Wizard had managed to open an entrance to a new gallery that the Dwarves had found particularly troublesome, as the earth in this part of the Mountain had proved unstable and the stone especially flawed.  But the gemstones to be found there were of high quality, so in spite of some initial grumbling about outside interference all ended up pleased by Gandalf’s aid.

            Still, it was with mutual relief that the Wizard took his leave, intending at last to find his way into Dol Guldur and, if he could, unmask the Necromancer.

 *******

            “My Lord Theron,” murmured one of Thranduil’s scouts to the Elven King’s dark-haired son who was leading the patrol toward Dol Guldur, “I can see no one, but I will swear that we are being followed.  I sense eyes watching us, and at times I hear a twig break as if under boots, or note vines or branches swinging back into place behind me as if someone else walked in my footsteps.”

            Theron’s eyes swept the shadows beneath the trees, and he focused his attention on those nearby them, asking them quietly for what they sensed.  “The forest,” he whispered finally, “agrees that someone walks unseen hereabouts, but they speak with assurance that there is no ill intent—or not toward us.”

            Still it was unsettling to carry on their patrol with whatever presence it was that traveled near them that somehow concealed its identity so very well.

            They surprised some of the sentries that kept the further watch upon the way that led toward the Necromancer’s abode, and were able to remove them without setting off any hue and cry.  Closer they crept, but now the trees were no longer friendly, being either dead or twisted by the foul magics that seeped from the very walls of the place.  One of the great spiders they found lying dead, decapitated by none of their number; and two orcs and a Man also felled by the hand of the unseen addition to their party.  The Man was merely stunned, an Easterling by his apparel and weaponry.  This one they made a prisoner, for whatever intelligence he might give to Thranduil’s warriors would be welcome.

            They went still just inside the tree line, watching closely.  At last new sentries came out to take the place of those already on duty, and they were able to see where it was that those they’d not yet incapacitated were stationed.  Those that approached to take the place of the sentries they or their unknown ally had slain they sought to kill as quietly as had been their predecessors, and four were felled before the next one spotted the warrior who lay in wait for him and raised the alarm.

            More orcs and fell Men issued from the gates, and as the Elves rose up to attack them Prince Theron sensed their invisible companion breaking away, heading for the great doors to the fell keep.  He signaled his warriors to fall away to the left, drawing the fight and the gaze of the guard who still stood on sentry at the entrance itself away.  He had no idea who it was that was taking advantage of their patrol or why he might wish to enter the Necromancer’s cursed place, but he would do all he could to see to it that whoever it was succeeded, if that was what was desired.  When orcs riding wargs emerged from a stable-like structure further to the left he had no further leisure to focus any attention on the one apparently intent on spying out the secrets of Dol Guldur, not while he fought for the lives of himself and his companions.

            When some time later the patrol was able to retreat back into more friendly climes he’d lost two of his warriors to the eight Men, one score and seven orcs, and six wargs they’d slain, and they carried with them the Easterling to be questioned.  But whoever it was who had followed after them was no longer to be sensed.  Theron looked over his shoulder, through the trees, toward the barely glimpsed clouds that roiled over the Necromancer’s keep, and breathed a prayer to the Belain and the One that whoever it was who’d entered into Dol Guldur would manage to come out of it again yet alive.

 *******

            Khamûl listened to the report of the Rhûni Man who captained the guard about Dol Guldur as he described the encounter with the Elven patrol. 

            “They grow over bold,” the wraith hissed, at which the Man shuddered involuntarily.  “We must increase the number of sentries.  Thou shalt see to it.”

            “Yes, lord,” answered the Easterling, who accepted the wave of dismissal then offered him with distinct relief.

            Khamûl thought on the report.  The loss of the orcs was not so troubling, for they had such creatures in plenty, after all.  But the Men who’d been killed or taken were more worrisome.  Those Men who served the Master here in his current tower were uncomfortable if their numbers fell too quickly, and were prone to grow restive when more than one or two died in an encounter with the Elves of Mirkwood.  Yet orcs had proved less than satisfactory in most positions of command, as they rarely could react as swiftly to unexpected circumstances as might be wished.  Few orcs, after all, were particularly intelligent, and they were easily distracted by what might appear to be an easy target from the awareness of those who lay in ambush for them.  They were most effective in open warfare, for they would continue to seek to kill and maim even when seriously injured, and their sheer viciousness was enough to cow most who faced them.

            But here in the environs of the forest where any single tree might hold a number of Elven warriors and archers unseen by those on the ground, Men were often preferable, for they could imagine that danger might lurk above and would be looking all ways for enemies, not merely ahead of them along their line of march.

            To lose nine Men in one day, however, was not good—not good at all!  There was the need for swift retribution if those who served in Dol Guldur were to be deterred from returning to Rhûn.  He was considering just how this retribution might be exacted when the first boom! was heard in a hallway near the entrance to the tower.

            He left the chamber where he’d received the report and accosted one of the Rhûnim.  “What is it?” he demanded.

            The Man’s face was white.  “We know not—we are going now to see what might have caused such a din!”  With that he pulled away from the Nazgûl’s grip. 

            “What was it that has happened?”  The Nazgûl turned to find himself face-to-face with the Mouth of Sauron, who had apparently come from his dinner, wine staining his face from the corner of his mouth to the tip of his chin.

            “They go to learn what it is,” Khamûl answered, resenting the preemptory tone that the twisted mortal had displayed.  “Perhaps,” he hissed, “they might be more diligent in finding out what goes forward should you go yourself to oversee matters.”

            The Mouth gave a wordless snarl, but went anyway.  He had not got far down the passage, however, when a bang! was heard from somewhere near the back of the edifice, and all stopped in confusion.  When a third explosion occurred near the western outer walls panic began to ensue.  Men gave cries of alarm, while orcs growled and howled with frustration, uncertain as to which way they should go.  When still another crash shook the tower, a uruk fell against three smaller snagas, sparking a fight that swiftly spread in at least three directions.  Men were raising swords in defense of themselves, and one of the werewolves that tended to follow the Master about gave a piercing howl, and began turning its head from side to side, its fangs and jowls shiny with its slavering.  Both Men and orcs pulled away from it.

            What is this? demanded the Master from the Altar Room, where preparations were being made to harvest more life force for his benefit.  Men and orcs pressed themselves against the walls, none seeking to draw their lord’s attention to himself lest he find himself being placed upon that altar, knowing that soon his body would be burning and the Master given just that much more power, enabling him to influence at least one more slave from afar….

            Khamûl and the Mouth drew closer to one another.  It was never a good thing to allow the Master’s attention to be distracted at such a time.  “We must find out who or what it is that is causing these disturbances,” the wraith insisted.  “Let the keep be searched, hall by hall, passage by passage, room by room!”

            There was a rolling roar much like thunder across grasslands that echoed amidst the dank stonework of the tower, impossible to locate as to its source.  It was possible to see the hairs on the back of the necks of the Men bristling much as did the hackles of the werewolf, and the whole place was filled with the fluttering through a growing reek of sour smoke of the great bats that dwelt there, distressed at being awakened from their daylight sleep.  Cries of mingled terror and something else could be heard from those kept in the deep dungeons and the various workrooms about the place where the wraith and their Master worked on yet more diseases and distresses to be set loose across the lands of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

            “The Hall of the Master’s Throne!” the Mouth suggested, and soon many were pouring into that room, but all were halted in dismay. 

            Before the Master’s throne was a line of shimmering fountains of fire in harsh reds and threatening greens, with sparks of purest white amongst them; and upon the Obsidian Throne itself appeared the shape of an enormous head, limned with flame.  A great voice boomed through the room, declaring, “Nányë Ozimandus, iTúra Rúcimayë!”  The dire words echoed from the spike-studded walls, and many of the orcs threw themselves upon the ground, their hands covering their ears, even their faces unnaturally pale grey in shock and terror as the face alternately darkened and then shone out the brighter and as colored smokes filled the place and seeped out into the passageways leading into and out of it.  Then in Sindarin was declared, “Look upon me and despair!  Look upon me and know that justice will be visited upon you!”

            The Mouth and the Nazgûl both stared at this manifestation of a magic they did not recognize in utter horror, having no idea at all as to what had led to its presence on the Master’s own seat or what threat it might pose to their Master or themselves.  “Nányë Ozimandus, iTúra Rúcimayë!” filled the hall once more.  The light intensified, and a dull roar could be heard, a roar that increased by the instant as a brilliant light pulsed behind the great face, and suddenly with a deafening crash! the head exploded into glistening shards, shards that formed into smaller images of the same head and that spread out throughout the chamber while a brilliant shower of white and gold sparks seemed to fill the middle airs of the place.

            Orcs and Men scrambled for the doors, knocking one another to the floor and stumbling over the bodies of those who’d already been felled, and were pursued by flocks of the smaller faces as they sought to escape.  The werewolf, now fully in canine shape, gave a shriek of terror as it tore through the crowd with its tail between its legs and headed for a particular tapestry depicting Ungoliant draining the Light and Life out of Telperion, and which hid the passage to the Altar Room.  The Mouth and Khamûl followed it closely, bursting into the presence of their dread Master with a lack of ceremony that ordinarily would not have been tolerated.

            A victim lay helpless upon the altar, the Umbari priest employed to carry out the sacrifice paused, black blade raised and the youth who held the fire intended to immolate the victim both turned toward the source of the tumult that could be heard even here. 

            The Necromancer himself rose from the black seat above and behind the altar with the werewolf crouched at his feet, his black shadow surrounded by the dark Fire that reflected his deepest nature.  What is the meaning of this? demanded the Dark Lord of Dol Guldur.

            “We must flee!” insisted the Mouth.  “Oh, Master—we must flee!  Ozimandus is here and threatens us with judgment!”

            Such was the impact of his terror that the priest dropped his blade, and did not even notice that its edge had glanced off his sandaled foot and had removed his two least toes as he unceremoniously fled the room, while the fire-bearing acolyte dropped his basin of flaming resins and oil upon the floor, where the fire swiftly spread across its black and blood-reddened surface before following the other Man toward the safety of the priests’ close.  Suddenly the room was empty save for the Man, once a merchant from the city upon the Long Lake, who lay upon the altar.  Unexpectedly finding himself no longer under the direct threat of the knife, he struggled to roll himself off of the cold, blackened stone on which he’d lain onto the floor on the opposite side from the flames.  He managed to stagger somehow to his feet, and stumbled toward the passage through which had come the three horrors who’d interrupted his intended death.  A bright light filtered down the narrow way, one that somehow heartened him, as it brought a memory of true sunlight into this room in which blood and reeking flames and greasy smoke had held sway for so long.  Even if death might await him in the heart of such brilliance, it had to be preferable to that which had threatened him in the presence of the Necromancer!  A sudden song of gladness filled him, and he brushed by the now-smoldering tapestry, following the hope of freedom….

-~0~-

With apologies and thanks to those who made the film of The Wizard of Oz.

“Nányë Ozimandus, iTúra Rúcimayë!”   "I am Ozimandus, the Great and Terrible!"  (Quenya)

The Watchful Peace

            Galadriel looked at the Grey Wizard amazed, her eyes wide with surprise and growing humor.  “You had the head made of fireworks pronounce what?”

            “I’ve repeated it twice—I filled the room with the pronouncement, ‘Nányë Ozimandus, iTúra Rúcimayë!’ and followed that with talk of judgment.”

            Galadriel and her daughter exchanged looks and burst into peals of laughter, leading Arwen to peer into the chamber where her grandparents and parents sat with Gandalf in curiosity.  “And what is so funny?” she asked.

            Elrond’s eyes were fixed on Gandalf with wonder and approval.  “Mithrandir here managed to frighten those who dwelt in Dol Guldur out of their hiding with what has to have been the most daring trick possible,” he explained.

            “But who—or what—is Ozimandus the Great and Terrible?” questioned Celeborn.  “And why should the Necromancer be sufficiently frightened of him to flee eastward as he did?”

            Gandalf’s smile was rueful.  “I have no idea—the name just came to me along with the idea of filling his primary hall with lines of fountains of colored sparks and smokes and the great floating head.  I doubt that any within Dol Guldur had any knowledge of such a person, but it was sufficiently alarming to convince them that this Ozimandus must be someone capable of causing them great harm.  I’ve never felt so much relief as I did when those of evil intent within the place unceremoniously departed, and all headed eastward at speed.”

            “And the Necromancer—were you able to satisfy yourself as to his identity?”  Galadriel was leaning forward intently.

            But the Wizard shook his head.  “No, I could not.  Nor could I get into his lower dungeons or the room where he practices the harvesting of the life forces of others—as he fled, the Necromancer appears to have uttered a spell that blocked all such places.  A single Man, dazed and naked, managed to come into the throne room of the tower, able to state only that those who had been in the room with him and who had intended to kill him for purposes of their own had fled away at the reports of the disturbances elsewhere.  Then he fainted as the shock of his narrow escape hit him.  I left him in Thranduil’s care for the time.

            “I was able to release the spell binding the doors to some of his work rooms, however, and it is definite that he was working on the means to cause more plagues intended to kill many people.  At least some four score individuals were found, of whom perhaps thirty have survived.  But their lungs are weakened, and I fear they shall all die of wasting conditions within one to two years of the Sun.”

            This news sobered them all, and the discussion turned for some time to descriptions of the symptoms seen in these victims and the progression of the disease as it led to their deaths, and what the Wizard had noted that might be the means of passing the disease from one to another.

            Gandalf had found Celeborn and Galadriel visiting in Imladris with their daughter and her family, and so did not need to travel to Laurelindórenan to make a report separately to them.

            “Has Curunír been advised as to what you found?” asked Celeborn.

            “Not as yet.  When I left Dol Guldur I went back to Minas Tirith to see if he was in residence, but he left word for me that he had gone to Umbar to examine the situation there.  I was loth to leave a written report, and so I will do my best to be there in Gondor when he returns.”

            They spoke of the situation in Dunland and lower Rhudaur, and of the drought that had left much of the population of those lands nearest the base of the southern Misty Mountains and just north of the White Mountains in need of aid.  Gandalf explained, “I will be speaking with Aranarth and Mardil about what help each might be able to extend, not that Aranarth has that many resources at hand to share with those who have ever been his enemies.  But it is to be hoped that those who may be moved to accept whatever bounty the northern Dúnedain might share will find their traditional animosity somewhat lessened.”

***

            Gandalf stayed in Elrond’s house for some weeks before he headed into the Angle where most of the remaining Dúnedain had their settlements and hidden strongholds.  Aranarth could not afford to share a great deal, but still he was able to send seven wagonloads of food south with Gandalf, where it helped save at least five villages.

            Mardil, now the Ruling Steward of Gondor, was able to send substantially more northward into Calenhardorn and Dunland, and it was enough to lessen the threat of invasions by the inhabitants of the Brown Lands into Gondor’s territories at least for the moment.

            It was three years before Saruman crossed the Poros into Gondor’s territories again.  He’d heard reports that some practiced blood and death magics in the chief city, but had not been able to identify more than three families where this might be true.  There was no question that Umbar had alliances with both Harad and Rhûn, but that with Harad was, for the moment, uncertain, and Umbar had recently sent its fleet to block Harad’s greatest harbor after a series of incursions by Haradri barks into what Umbar considered its waters.

            “They are so involved in each seeking to prove its naval superiority to the other that they are quite ignoring Gondor,” he finished smugly.  “And I have heard no reports of the Necromancer for at least the last three years.”

            It was at that that Gandalf described his foray into Dol Guldur itself, omitting only the manner by which he’d managed to approach the doors unseen. 

            Saruman was alarmed.  “That was a most dangerous and perhaps a foolish thing to do, my friend!  What if you had been caught?  When first I arrived in Umbar the word was that the Necromancer had issued a bounty for the capture and delivery to one of his agents of one of the Istari.  To simply walk in through his gates and possibly right into his grasp was as close to true folly as I have ever heard of you committing!”

            Gandalf felt stung.  “Yet did you not remain within Umbar after learning this, brother?  Was that not perhaps as equally foolish as entering Dol Guldur alone?  Yet it was you who suggested that the one to slip within the Necromancer’s keep should not be an Elf.  You, Radagast, and I were the only ones attending the council in Mirkwood who were not Elves—that did not leave much room for picking and choosing.”

            Saruman gave a one-shouldered shrug.  “And Radagast is certainly not likely to have volunteered,” he admitted.

            “And with you away, who did that leave?” continued Gandalf.  “I did what I could.”

            “And you invoked the name of Ozimandus?  Just who is Ozimandus?”

            “I haven’t the faintest idea—the name just came to me, and it certainly sounds portentous, does it not?”

            After a moment’s thought Saruman admitted, somewhat grudgingly, “You did well enough, I must suppose.  It was enough to send the Necromancer scampering away as would a naughty child!”

            Gandalf smiled openly.  “It was most amusing, I must admit.”  He sobered.  “But I failed in my purpose—I did not establish for certain who he is—or was.  We still cannot say with certainty either that he is or is not Sauron.”

            “And you did not see him?”

            “No.  He was in a shielded room beyond his throne room, where they were seeking to kill a Man to harvest his life force.  I could not tell on entering the tower where exactly he was, only that he was within it somewhere, before my—diversion—worked so as to send him scurrying out the back way.  And I could not sense enough of his essence to tell whether or not I recognized it from when we served together in Aulë’s forge.”

            Saruman appeared confused.  “And just when did you and Sauron serve together in Aulë’s forge?”

            Gandalf was surprised at this question.  “It was not just Aulendil and I who served together under the tutelage of the Smith, my friend.  Or have you forgotten that you, too, served him?”

            Saruman went utterly still, his face losing all color.  He had indeed forgotten this!  Was he beginning to lose himself into this body he inhabited?

            Rapidly he changed the subject, vowing to himself that he would begin a regular practice of sifting through the memories stored within his staff at more regular intervals!

*** 

            There was leisure for study now, the two Wizards agreed, with the Necromancer fled so far away.  Saruman was seeking information once more on the manner in which the Rings of Power had been created, and had added all he could find on the nature of orcs.  Gandalf, on the other hand, had begun a study of Words of Power, and began visiting various peoples to learn which Words of Power and lesser spells each was willing to share.

            “One never knows when such knowledge might prove useful,” he commented to his superior.

            Saruman had to agree, and left Gandalf to it.

            When Gandalf went off into Rhovanion to question people there, Saruman began ferreting into obscure corners of the Great Archive in Minas Tirith.  One day he found, quite forgotten, a text in a somehow familiar hand that appeared promising, and he found himself intent on possessing it.  He finally slipped it within his robes and brought it to his rooms in the guesthouse where he and Gandalf stayed so frequently, and secreted himself in the large study on the lower floor that was his.  There were many volumes here that he had acquired over the years, and once again he was grateful that Gandalf was sufficiently honorable to grant him this room for his own and did not visit it unless specifically invited to do so, something that had not happened now for over two hundred or so years.

            He opened the new volume and began reading.  It was a copy of a description by Lord Celeborn of the time he and his wife lived within the kingdom of Ost-in-Edhil as advisors and courtiers to Celebrimbor, and especially dealt with the period during which the being known as Annatar dwelt there as well, teaching Celebrimbor and his most closely associated smiths the secrets of forging Rings of Power.

            Saruman was ecstatic!  Perhaps he might now find the specific information he sought!  He began to read assiduously.

            “Woefully inadequate and incomplete!” the White Wizard complained a few hours later.  There had been much about the suspicions that Celeborn and Artanis Galadriel had developed about the nature of Celebrimbor’s mentor, and indications on the capabilities of some of the lesser Rings that had come from the forge, but little if anything about how it was that any of the Rings crafted in Eregion was empowered.  Disappointed, he closed the volume and took it to the shelves that held his personal library, knowing automatically just where it should lie within the system he had developed to indicate just how useful a particular volume or scroll might be.  As he pulled out a tome already upon the shelf to confirm that he wished to place the new book beside it, however, he paused, his eyes widening.  The faded title worked into the leather of its binding was identical to that on the volume he had just taken from the Great Archive that day!

            “How is this?” Saruman demanded of the Fates, who did not deign to respond to him.  He opened this book, and inside the cover he saw the name of the lord from whom he’d taken it centuries ago.  He began comparing the texts and found them identical, until he came to the ending of his newer prize.  There was the signature of the scribe who’d copied this volume, with the indication that it had been copied at the behest of Curunír from a book from his own collection with the intention of gifting it to the people of Gondor.  He recognized the name of the scribe, a Man he’d employed to copy several works to gift to a long dead King. 

            He cursed in Adûnaic.  How in Middle Earth had he managed not to recognize a book he himself had gifted to this benighted realm?  “Now I must go to the trouble of returning it!” he growled.  He had no use for the newer volume, as until he should ever find a place in which he might dwell permanently he could not afford to possibly carry about duplicates of books that might well prove needful of being moved on an irregular basis.  He considered merely burning it, but found that he could not do so.  Books were not for burning, after all.  Had not he himself gone to the trouble of getting the thing copied?  And, should anything untoward happen to his own library, at least now he knew where he could find another copy of it!

            He set the book aside to return as best he could the next day, and went upstairs to his bedroom to retire and ponder the vagaries he was finding in his memory!  Had he held this form too long?  Was that why he was finding himself not recognizing his own past actions?  He did not wish to lose himself, after all.

            His dreams were troubled….

*******

            Gandalf examined Thráin’s son Thorin, not certain why he felt such unease.  “And why are you leaving the halls your father founded?” he asked.

            Thorin shrugged, obviously offended by the Wizard’s question.  “What does it matter to you where Dúrin’s people should dwell, Tharkûn?” he responded querulously.  He glared at Gandalf for a moment before giving a huff, finally explaining, “Not all of our folk from Khazad-dûm chose to follow my father here, although they honored him as their King during his lifetime.  My wife’s people dwell with my mother’s in the Iron Hills, but most are gathering in the Grey Mountains.  They wish to have their King live among them, and so I have chosen to go where they would have me.  A few may remain here—it is a rich place, after all.  But most of us will remove to the Grey Mountains for as long as they can support us.”  He added, with a rather sly sideways glance, “If it is merely a matter of the availability of the mineral salts that you have purchased from my people, well, are they of that much value to you?”

            “You would change your plans should I offer to pay you enough to remain here in Erebor?” Gandalf sniffed.  “No?  I rather thought not.  I have appreciated being able to obtain such salts and other materials from you as needed, although that has been a rare enough occurrence in the past century or so.  But I am not without other sources for what I might need in the future.  You need not worry as to whether or not I want for rare metals and mineral salts merely because you do not dwell here any longer.”

            He did barter for a supply of magnesium, however, and set off first eastward, having learned a few useful spells that were commonly used by those of the line of Dúrin—and that without Thorin’s knowledge.

*******

            In company with Thranduil and both his sons, Gandalf looked upon the tower of Dol Guldur.  The Elven King said in a low voice, “There have been no signs of the Nazgûl or troops of the Rhûnim since you brought out of that foul place the foreign Men who were ill, nor any hint that the Necromancer himself might have returned.  It was a marvelous deed, to slip somehow around my warriors unseen and enter that accursed fortress and so roust him.”

            The Wizard shrugged.  “But I failed to see the Necromancer with my own eyes and so tell who or what he might be.”

            “He did not capture you—that was a victory in and of itself!”

            “I still wish to know,” his darker haired son murmured, “how it was that we did not see you or identify you.”

            Gandalf merely gave him an enigmatic smile, and stared once more at the keep. 

            Legolas Thranduilion gave the Wizard’s face a swift examination before noting softly, “A Wizard is not likely to give up his secrets lightly, my brother.”  His own expression hardened as he looked back at the shadowed keep before them.  “I doubt I will ever find it within myself to forgive the Necromancer for the condition of those you brought out to us the last time, though, Mithrandir.  I can only rejoice that eight did manage to survive and to return home, although their lives are not likely to have proved either long or comfortable, considering how difficult it was for them to draw breath once they’d recovered.”

            The Wizard gave a sober nod to that.  “I did not know how well any of them might be able to recover, much less whether any might,” he admitted.  “But if it was within them to do so, I believed that your people might be best suited to help them, as it was too far to seek to take them to Elrond’s care.  I doubt any of them would have survived the trail up to the High Pass.  If your healers will be willing to give me a report on how they aided those Men, and perhaps more details on how their conditions appeared to progress ere they left you, I would be willing to bear the information to Elrond to add to his store of knowledge on how to fight such illness should it suddenly become common here in the western lands.”

            Thranduil gave a single nod.  “Willingly, friend.”  He gave one last examination of the not quite deserted fortress.  “Orcs still dwell there and guard the place, as do wargs, werewolves, and many of the great bats that drink blood.  I do not believe that the Necromancer will stay away forever, although we are making the most of his absence.”  He straightened some and turned away.  “I, for one, have seen enough today.  Come, let us return home, and I will have the healers speak with you.”

*******

            Radagast served him an herbal tea sweetened with honey that had been stored in oaken barrels.  “I came south to Thranduil’s palace to see the former prisoners, and helped arrange for their return to their own homes, far to the east, beyond Rhûn.  Tatars, they called themselves.  They did not have any word of our brothers in blue, although one elderly woman did recall a legend of two who, although they called themselves brethren, still did not look to have come from the same peoples.  In ancient times, she said, they came from the west, each bearing a long staff, Men of great power and wisdom who sought ever to heal rifts between brethren.  But they disappeared further east, many, many lifetimes ago, she said.”

            “It is more knowledge of our brothers than we have heard since our arrival,” Gandalf noted.  “I will speak of this with Saruman and see if he has heard more.  Have none of your birds or beasts brought you any word of them?”

            “When first I chose this as my home I would on occasion hear rumors of them from some of the far-ranging swallows and finches.  But long years have passed since I last heard anything.  One sought to dwell far to the east, in a land watered by a river the color of goldenrod, or so the birds told me.  He aided a worthy Man to reign over a large nation.  But the Wainriders swept through that land, and none can tell what became of our brother, who appears to have been Alatar.  Of Pallando I have heard nothing save the words of the old woman, which offer no details that we did not know already.

            “Now, tell me, Gandalf, of what word has been circulating regarding the lord of Dol Guldur?”

*******

            He saw what appeared to be the ruins of an abandoned smial in the valley of the Anduin, but nothing more of the Hobbits reported to have returned to the region.  What might have led to this smial being abandoned he could not tell.  Nor could those of the Éothéod tell him what might have happened to those who had lived in that bank.

            “We would leave gifts of milk or tanned hides in a niche cut into the rocks near the confluence of the Great River and its tributary that entered it from the mountains, and in return we would find many cunningly worked items, such as leathern bags of fine and intricate workmanship, lengths of linen cloth, closely woven baskets often filled with recently harvested berries, or turned wooden bowls etched with images of sheaves of wheat or wreaths of flowers or fruits.  But two years past our gifts went uncollected, with only a length of fine rope to be found when we went first that way.”  The Rider with whom he spoke shook his head in regret.

            But whether illness, a natural disaster, or assault from the Enemy’s creatures had led to the emptying of that smial the Wizard never learned.

*******

            Elrond listened to Gandalf’s report of what he’d found and learned since their last meeting, his expression sober.  “So, it appears that those of the Periain who returned eastward have not prospered as have those who dwell now in the Breelands and the Shire,” he mused.  “And the Necromancer has not yet returned from wherever it is he hides in the east?  What is Thranduil’s response to that?”

            “He says that his people seek to take advantage of their fell neighbor’s absence while they may.  The forest is nowhere as forbidding as it was during the Necromancer’s presence in Dol Guldur, and none of the great spiders has been seen in several years.  Although they have found a few nurseries where egg sacs had been suspended, but with all of the spiderlings already hatched and dispersed.

            “There have been a few children born in Lasgalen in the last few years, but less than ten in all.  Most couples refuse to bring children into this world when the future is so much in question.”

            Elrond nodded his agreement with this decision.  “The Dúnedain have increased in number for the first time in many ennin,” he said.  “But they do not seek to rebuild their cities or dwell openly as yet, for it is murmured among them that the signs are not proper to allow them to come fully out of hiding.  The threats to the heirs to Isildur have ever been too common to ignore.  Now, what more has been learned of the illness with which those you rescued from Dol Guldur had been infected?”

            What had been reported to the Wizard by Thranduil’s healers and by Radagast was recorded now by Elrond, who indicated he would discuss the information with his fellow healers within Imladris and his sons, and that he would share it with the Dúnedain as well.  “Aranarth’s grandson Aranuir is here now, studying the lore of his house and the arts of rule as has been true of all his forebears since the days of Valandil.  He is a competent healer, as has been true of all within his line, although he is not as dedicated to healing as have been many of his ancestors.  Perhaps if you will speak with him about what you found within Dol Guldur he will be inspired to take more of his lessons to heart….”

***

            In Eriador there were reports of sightings of dragons to the north, up near the borders with Angmar.  The red dragon had been seen a few times, but now there were two more, each a different shade of green, and neither of them as large as the red one.  No one could say whether either of these was a female.  One of these sought to raid Dwarf holdings in the mountainous country north of the ruins of Fornost, but was driven back, one of its wings now torn by arrow wounds.

            Gandalf remained in the north for some years, going between Imladris and the Dúnedain settlements for the most part, occasionally entering the Dwarven halls in the Blue Mountains and the region north of Fornost, sometimes going east over the mountains and back, and now and then straying through the Shire….

*******

            Gorhendad Oldbuck, heir to the Thain, stood by his older sister’s husband Isumbras Took, looking across the Brandywine at the land that lay there between the river and the Old Forest, eyeing the ridge his family had desired to delve a proper smial into for generations, ever since the coming of Modoc to the Shire.  Gorhendad had dwelt amongst the Tooks for a time, and had become fast friends with Isumbras, who was much of an age with him, and in time they had married one another’s sister. 

            The Oldbuck had loved staying in the Green Hills where many families lived close by one another, in many cases in rambling smials shared by families of siblings or multiple generations, and he wished to build a large smial of his own for all of the children he and his new bride Beryl hoped to produce.  But here in the Marish there was little land suitable for the digging of proper holes.  Much of the Marish was floodplain, its soil rich for crops mostly due to the fact that many springs saw it covered by the waters of the river.  Houses were built mostly on what higher ground could be found, and the few smials to be seen were small, contained within isolated hillocks here and there, or near the top of the few larger hills that lay between the fields.

            The Oldbuck home was definitely comfortable, but it simply wasn’t large enough to house all who wanted to dwell near to one another for the comfort of family, much less to properly house the records for the Shire.  There had been repeated attempts to enlarge it, but all had failed in the end as only a certain amount of land stood high enough above potential floods to be suitable for building.

            “I tell you, Isumbras, that I refuse to stay this side of the Brandywine any longer,” he declared.  “I know the King didn’t give us that land, but does he or any of his live there?  Of course not!  I’ve explored there more times than I can count, and there’s rich land for farms well above the level of the river, as well as some hillier country to the south where there’s signs of good iron for tools, and plenty of timber for use by carpenters and joiners as well as for the construction of sturdy homes, and supports needed in delving proper smials.”

            “Your father’s not going to like the idea of you crossing the river,” cautioned his friend and brother-in-love.  “Nor will most of the folks of the Shire appreciate knowing our Thain is living on the wrong side of the Brandywine.”

            Gorhendad snorted.  “Let them make of it what they will,” he said.  “I’ll tell you this—I’ve never wanted to be Thain.  If they want to strip me of the title, it’s no skin off my nose.  You’re far better at administration than I’ve ever proved—you be Thain instead of me!”

            “But you’re the proper heir to Bucca—” began Isumbras.

            “But you, too, are one of his descendants,” Gorhendad interrupted.  “We Oldbucks and Tooks have intermarried so many times we’re basically the same family anyway.  If the Hobbits of the Shire insist that the Thain reside west of the Brandywine, then I say let them turn to the Tooklands.  Besides, the Tooklands there in the Green Hills country are more central anyway.  People won’t have to travel so far to have the Thain sort out their business for them!”

            “But what about the Shire Moot and Muster?”

            “What about them?  The Tooks are the best archers in the whole of the Shire and usually make up the bulk of our Hobbitry-at-arms anyway—we all know that.  And most of the time when the Thains call for a moot we meet in the Tooks’ holdings, or near Hobbiton, those being easier for most Hobbits to get to than here in the Marish.  So, tell me it doesn’t make sense to change the family for the Thain!”

            “But people want the Thain to come through the proper heir….”

            The Oldbuck threw up his hands.  “Amaranth is older than me, Brassie.  Why can’t the Thainship pass through her to you?  She became as much the Took as you when you married her, right?  Just as Beryl will be as much family head for the Oldbucks as I am when A’da gives over the responsibility to me.  Why can’t you and Amaranth share the Thainship in the same way?  But I’ll tell you this—I want a proper smial, dug right into the earth, and I aim to get it, no matter the cost.”

            On one of his journeys from the Blue Mountains and Mithlond back to consult with the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Gandalf found the bulk of the family heads for the Shire meeting under a large pavilion that had been set up in a field across the West Road from the Green Hills.  Curious as to what was going on, he stopped where he could look through one of the open sides and hear what was being discussed.

            “And why should we wish as the Thain after you t’be Isumbras Took rather’n one of the Oldbucks as has been our Thains since the King went away?” an older Hobbit with thinning grey curls was demanding.

            “Do you wish the Thain to be living the wrong side of the Brandywine?” retorted the one who appeared to be chairing the meeting.  “My son has made it clear to me that he will be living in that smial he’s having dug into the great ridge to be seen across the river from the Marish.  And he’s also made it plain that he doesn’t wish to follow me as Thain to the Shire.  What am I to do?  He’s a Hobbit grown, after all, and as stubborn as any Took I’ve ever seen!”

            He rose to his feet and paced back and forth behind the table at which he’d been sitting.  The Wizard could see he was a powerfully built Hobbit, his hair almost white with age but still thick, his face indicating long experience with life even if filled with annoyance at the moment.  “He’s pointed out that his sister is older than he is, and perhaps ought to be Thain instead of him.”

            There were general cries of outrage at this.  “But the Thain’s never been a lass!” was the most common objection.

            “I know!” agreed the current Thain.  “I’ve pointed this out to Gorhendad again and again, and he just keeps asking, why not?  Or, if not him, then why not her sharing with Isumbras as her husband?  After all, we Hobbits have always shared the duties of the family heads between husband and wife—why not the same for the Thain?”

            There was much discussion on this, and the debate raged for hours, through at least three meals that Gandalf counted.

            It was after late supper, with torches and lanterns lighting the pavilion, that two younger Hobbits appeared, each with his wife by his side.  Gandalf suspected they’d stood aside from the meeting so as to allow their fellows to discuss their concerns more openly, but had come now to hear the decisions made by those gathered.

            “The Thain recognizes Bungo Baggins to speak for the family heads,” the Thain intoned.

            A taller, somewhat slenderer Hobbit than one usually saw within the Shire rose to face one of the two who’d just arrived.  “Do you mean it, Gorhendad Oldbuck, that you don’t really want to be Thain after your dad?” he asked with more understanding than most of the other Hobbits had shown during the hours Gandalf had spent observing the moot.

            “Yes, Cousin Bungo, I mean it,” declared Gorhendad.  Gorhendad was a younger version of his father, the Wizard noted, his hair so dark a brown it was almost black.  He wasn’t yet quite so broad as was the Thain, but was certainly as muscular, and his face was set with determination.  “I’ve always been for crossing the river, as you know well enough.  There’s good land and timber there to be had, and our smial, that for Beryl and me and what family we’ll get, is already under construction.  And we’ll have room for our family to be easily to hand, if they want to be by us, and with small worry of being flooded out as happens every few years there in the Marish.”

            “And you’re full willing to pass the office of the Thain to your sister and her husband for them to share between them as happens with the rule of the families?” persisted the Baggins.

            “Yes.”

            At that simple but definite response, those gathered exchanged glances and a few muffled comments with one another.

            At last Bungo Baggins looked to meet the eyes of the other couple who’d just come.  “How about you two, Isumbras and Amaranth?  Are you two willing to take on such responsibility toward the whole of the Shire?”

            Husband and wife’s eyes met, then turned back to meet those of the Baggins.  “Yes—we’ve discussed it between us,” Amaranth said.  “My brother’s never made no bones about his disinterest in becoming Thain once our father is gone, and with Mum already in her grave and our younger brother not even of age yet as well as being simple, there’s no question that if it becomes necessary we’ll take up the office between us.  Although I must say I’ll probably let him do most of the work—after all, I’m expecting now, and will undoubtedly wish to spend most of my time taking care of our children.  And I’m already taking part in many of the duties expected of the family head for the Tooks.  Why not let my Brassie do most of the work as the Thain?   Does anyone here question his integrity or his ability to sort out problems for the folk of the Shire?”  She looked about the tent, noting the occasional nod of agreement.  “I thought not.”

            When Bungo Baggins focused his attention on the Took, Isumbras cleared his throat.  “I’ll admit that I wasn’t prepared for this role, but I’ll accept it if that’s what the family heads want.  And I vow I’ll do as well by the Shire as I can.”

            There was a final vote, and when it proved to be overwhelmingly in favor of the compromise proposed by Gorhendad Oldbuck, that worthy soul gave a whoop of relief.  “Yes!  Thank you all!  I know none of you will be disappointed to see the Thainship come toward the center of the Shire, and Isumbras Took and my sister here will do us all proud!”

            Afterwards many of those gathered began to leave, some who lived in the region of the Hill or the Tooklands toward home and others to accommodations offered by local relatives or inns.  Bungo Baggins was one of those who’d lingered, and now he approached Gorhendad and his wife.  “So, you two are indeed leaving the Shire proper?”

            “We’ll never consider ourselves anything but Shire Hobbits, in spite of living the other side of the Brandywine,” Gorhendad insisted.  “I know that many in the family take exception to it, but we’re going to change the name of those who go east of the river to Brandybuck, to show we’re the ones who’ve chosen to take over Buckland.”  Here he turned to face his father.  “And there’s this. A’da—even though I’ll not be the Thain I’ll still be the Master of Buckland.  Old Bucca himself wanted to live there, across the river in what he always called Buckland, and I’m the one to see his dream made real.”

            One of the Hobbits who stood nearby the Thain tugged at Gorhendad’s sleeve.  “But what of us as will stay in the Marish?” he demanded.  “When yer dad’s dead and gone, who’ll be for us?  Them as lives in Frogmorton?  What do them know of what it’s like to live by the Brandywine?  Our loyalty’s always been give to the Oldbucks, you know.  Or will ye have yer li’l brother be the one as watches over us in the Marish?  Him’s a simple one, as yer knows for true.  That’s the only reason as the other family heads voted fer yer sister and Master Isumbras t’succeed your father, after all.”

            Others who’d remained gave a murmur of agreement, and Gorhendad and his wife exchanged looks with one another and his father.  At last the Thain growled, “Well, lad, out with it!  Are you willing to stand for those of the Marish as well as those who’ll follow you east of the river, watching over them as he asks?”

            Gorhendad swallowed, and at last straightened, turning to face his father straight on, his head held high.  “If they wish it of me, I will, A’da.  As long as they’re willing to deal across the river, I’ll stand by them as I will those of our family.”

            The Thain appeared relieved.  “Well, that’s settled, then.  I was worried for that, you know, son.  We’ve always been there for those of the Marish, those of us come down from old Bucca.  And I’d not wish to see our family desert our own folk completely, what with your sister moved off here to the Tooklands.”

            The last Gandalf saw before he entered the village of Kingsbridge, built on the Shire end of the Bridge of Stone Bows, was the rise of the ridge on which the Kings of Cardolan had built their keep, where the descendant of Modoc and Bucca of the Marish was looking to found his own small realm, and he smiled.  Both Modoc and Bucca would be proud of Gorhendad, he was certain.

*******

            He found Araglas, fifth in descent from Aranarth and the sixth Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain, camped near the ruins of Fornost with a number of his closest kindred.  “We’ve been driving out a number of the great wolves that have been making incursions into the Breelands,” he told Gandalf.  “And now that they are gone north into Angmar, we returned here, where we’ve been going through the ruins of the fortress.  I found this,” he added, holding out a mithril tube such as was commonly used to keep safe ancient documents.  “It was hidden in a niche in what must have been my ancestors’ throne room, one whose significance the Witch-king’s people appear to have failed to appreciate, the panel covering it marked as it was with the eight-rayed star of Eärendil.  They sought to eradicate the star, but never realized there was a storage space behind it.”

            Gandalf opened the tube carefully, and pulled out the scroll that it contained.  “It’s in marvelous condition!” he exclaimed in delight.

            “That it is,” agreed the Man.  “It appears to contain many of the prophecies made regarding Arnor by such as Malbeth the Seer, and earlier by Ozimandus.”

            Gandalf’s attention was drawn immediately to focus on the face of Araglas.  “Ozimandus?” he said sharply.

            “Yes, Ozimandus.  He was one of the companions and primary advisors to Amandil, according to our family traditions, one who had more frequent communication with the Elves of Eressëa.  It was reported that he was originally keeper of the palantir that is said to remain in the Elven Towers near Mithlond, and that he saw the seeing stone placed there after the arrival of Elendil’s ships on the shores of these lands.  He was a seer in his own right, and made many of the prophecies early in our history.  It was he, for example, who foresaw that we should ever fight the evil intentions of the Enemy, and that one day we should most likely become a secret people, hiding in the Angle and watching over our former vassals unremarked.  I understand that the Witch-king was confronted by Ozimandus more than once, and was rather in awe of him.  It is said that he had a commanding personality, for all that he bowed to Elendil as King once Amandil was gone and all had come here.  Or so it is written in those of our annals we took with us into our exile in the Angle.”

            The Wizard found himself taut with surprise and a growing confusion.  He carefully unwound the roll, finding the text to be upside down.  Carefully he turned the scroll, realizing it was written in Adûnaic, but in Tengwar script.  It took a few moments to puzzle out the words.

            “And it is there, on the banks of the Baranduin, that he who shall one day see the Dark Lord brought low for the final time shall live during his childhood.  Lo, but it shall be one long overlooked from among those who dwell hidden as if within the earth itself who shall find his way to the Enemy’s most ancient stronghold to cast within it that which will rob the Deceiver ever of his power!  Beware, servants of evil, for you shall not triumph forever as you purpose!”

            Gandalf felt the hair upon his scalp and the nape of his neck contract, and a shiver of anticipation ran through him.  What could this mean?  After all, those who’d dwelt near the Baranduin were no more, all slain long ago as a result of Angmar’s machinations.  And now it was Hobbits who intended to dwell there!

            He shook his head, rolled the scroll taut between its two rollers, and slipped it back into the mithril carrier.  “Most interesting,” he commented as he returned it to Araglas.

            But for some reason he kept finding the words he’d read ringing in his mind for some time afterwards, and often he seemed to hear them uttered within his dreams….

The Return of the Shadow

            “Thou hast well earned the Master’s promised reward,” the Mouth of Sauron assured the Man who stood before him.  “He would have me assure thee that he is well pleased by thee and thine efforts on his behalf.”  The creature indicated the Dark Lord’s servants who stood on either side, and the chest of treasure that lay at the black-booted feet of one of them.  “Three fine horses there are, also, awaiting thee out beyond the entrance to this place, along with the weapons that thou hast--requested.  Take them with our thanks!”

            The Man was rather small compared to the Men of the western lands, although he was yet powerfully built.  He wore clothing of felted animal hair, and boots and a hat of the same with a circle of grey fox fur around the rims.  His coloring was more yellow than one saw in the west of Middle Earth, his eyes as dark a brown as his nearly black hair and mustaches, tilted slightly upward.  He looked uncertainly at the being that stood guard over the chest of treasure, sensing the evil nature of the robed and hooded figure, wondering if it was safe to approach him to take the chest.  “You have him,” he said, hoping to distract those facing him.  “What will you do with him?”

            “That is no matter to thee,” sniffed the Mouth.  “It is enough that thou didst find him and bring him to us.  The Master shall get from him what information he wishes to know—that is all that shouldst concern thee.”

            “Those with whom he dwelt—they believed him to be a god.”

            The Mouth cocked his head.  “Do they, then?  And why is this?”

            The Man shrugged uncertainly.  “He has dwelt among them for many, many lives of Men, and has wrought great wonders amongst them.  Or, so they told me.”

            “And thou didst find him in the land known as Hinya?”

            “No—he lived in that land, it appears, for many, many years, perhaps past counting.  But when he heard the rumor of our coming he left that place, heading south and east into lands thick with trees and swamps.  It was there that I found him.”

            “And there thou didst take him prisoner?”

            A cruel look crossed the Man’s face.  “He came to me, offering himself in exchange for a child I had taken as a hostage.”

            “And thou didst return the child to its people?”

            The Man shook his head.  “Once I had this one, my men slew them all.  We did not come there to merely enslave such weak ones, but to cleanse the earth of them.”

            Those gathered about the chamber examined him with more consideration than they had shown him before.  The Mouth finally asked, “And what shalt thou do with thy reward?”

            “I will arm my men with better weapons than those who serve my brother carry, and we shall unseat him as Ghan, and I shall take his place.  When he succeeded our father, he took my woman from my yurt into his own bed.  I will have her back again, and all of the others he has gathered to him also.”

            The faceless guardians examined him for some time before the Mouth asked, “How long didst thou hold him as thy prisoner?”

            “Some eight cycles of the moon have passed during our journey here to claim your reward.”

            “Tell me this—dost thou think him a god?”

            Again the Man shrugged, although this time he also shook his head.  “Nay, I do not.  Not when he bleeds as do all Men.”  With that he came forward and hefted the chest upon his shoulder in defiance of its black-garbed guardian, and proudly walked away with it, although his back felt naked until he managed to quit the building in which the Dark Lord’s people had met with him.  The sooner he collected now the horses and weapons promised him, the happier he would be!

******* 

            Pallando.

            The ragged form before him raised dark eyes to examine what could be seen of his former brother.  “Aulendil,” he acknowledged in a rough whisper through cracked lips.  His bruised face managed a humorless smile.  “So, this is what you have sunk to.  A shadow of yourself indeed!”

            At least I am not bound to the seeming of a mere Man.

            “No—not any more, not since as Zigûr you were caught in the ruins of your own temple.  You cannot even assume that form again, can you?”

            The Mouth of Sauron raised his fist and struck the Blue Wizard across the face.  Indeed, as the Wainrider who’d captured him had said, Pallando did bleed as do all Men, a stream of blood erupting from his broken nose.

            Who sent you, and why?

            It took a time before Pallando could answer.  “Our Masters—to teach the citizens of Middle Earth to stand up against you.”

            Why?

            “Is it not true that you wish to render the entire world subject to your will?  Why do you think?  You are no god.  You are not even as great as our Masters.”

            Another blow was administered.  The Blue Wizard fell to the floor, unable to stir for some time.  At last he struggled up on an elbow, shaking his head as if to clear it.

            There are those, we are told, who have considered you to be a god.

            Pallando struggled to speak, finally managing, “I never--never told them I was such.”

            Why not?  Do you not have powers no Man, Elf, or Dwarf can equal?

            The painful grimace the Mannish shape before him gave was apparently intended to be a rueful grin.  “I—I did have.  But no longer.  We bound—bound ourselves—bound ourselves to a Man’s estate—when we accepted—this mission.  Oh, we age—age slowly, and do not die.  But we are—Men—in all but nature.”  One eye was swiftly swelling shut as Pallando gave his adversary a searching look before continuing more strongly, “I gave over the—the greater part of my power here, ere I gave myself into that Man’s keeping.  He did not know what I laid aside.  He did not know the purpose of that which I laid aside.  He took it, once his people slew those—those who had harbored me, and cast it into the flames.  I have no extra powers now.  I am not certain why I linger yet.  Alatar did not remain, not once his was taken from him and—and broken.  I do not understand why I continue, but he did not.  I doubt I will remain much longer.”  He smiled more clearly.  “You have not won, brother that you were to us.”  Then he stopped, his body spasming, blood flowing suddenly from his mouth.  “You have not won—can not win.  Lost too—too much….”

            His body died, his fëa quitting the form that had held it so long.  The body withered away, and a silver ash lit from within by an intense blue glow rose up from it and formed into a rough bodily shape that turned toward the West.  A breeze sprang up and lifted the shape, drew it out of the room and dispersed the silver ashes, and the blue light flew West with a speed that shocked those observing it.

            The dark fires that limned the shadow that Sauron had come to be shrank in on themselves in his uncertainty.  The Blue Wizard was no more.  But there were others of the Istari, there in the West, at least three he knew of.  Alatar had been one of the others bound into bodies that appeared to be those of Men?  But he was no more, either?  What had been broken—what cast into fire—that had caused these two to lose the integrity of the bodies they’d worn?

            He’d not been able to gain by the Wizard’s death, or to learn the answers he truly needed to know.  Perhaps it was time to return to the western lands, back to his stronghold at the edge of Thranduil’s realm.  There he might be able to learn more.  Those who had traffic with the Istari would stray there from time to time.  He could possibly learn what he needed to know from them, now that he knew they had been of the Maiar.  Yes—time to return to face his enemies more directly again….

 *******

            She was matriarch for one of the few clans of her people remaining in the valley of the Anduin.  It was told in the most ancient of tales that once their people had been numerous here, east of the great Mountains, with most of the Stoors delving their smials into the banks overlooking the great river and its tributaries, fishing the waters and scavenging the banks, occasionally trading with Men; the Harfoots built villages up in the folds of the mountains where they grew their crops and traded with and learned from the Dwarves; and the Fallohides wandered the woodlands, hunting and learning from Elves, then sharing what they’d learned with other Hobbits.

            Almost all of the Hobbits in the valley of the Anduin had migrated west of the mountains during the long years of drought and wildfires, but a very few had remained in their original homeland.  Then, after a long absence there had been a return of Hobbits back from the lands they called Eriador, but they were few in number, bringing with them tales of assaults on their villages by Men, orcs, and wolves, and of battles between Men and monsters from the north that were waged in the fields, and the thefts of a year’s harvest to feed the armies of both protectors and invaders.

            These returnees had not prospered for long after their return, and now she could count on one hand the number of communities of Hobbits within a five-days’ journey, and still had a finger left over.

            Her own clan had managed to hold a steady population until she and her husband had reached the age of sixty.  Seven children they’d had, but now only one daughter was left to her.  The catarrh had swept the community, and not just the oldest and the youngest were lost, but also many who normally would have been little troubled by such illnesses.  Five of her children were lost at that time along with her husband, her so wise Buccol.  That left two daughters, her oldest and her youngest, and their husbands, none of whom was ready to take on the responsibilities inherent in being Master—or Mistress—of the clan.  So the position had remained on her shoulders.  Then the husband of her oldest daughter had been captured by orcs, taken by them while he’d been shelving his boat wrought of reeds on the riverbank near the place where the foul things had been denning during the daylight.  The signs had been unmistakable.  Her daughter, who’d been seven months pregnant, had been inconsolable, and she’d gone into labor early.  She’d not survived the birth of this, her second child; and a mere hour after she’d taken her first breath the infant took her last one, having whimpered piteously the whole time of her brief life.  Her first child, Sméagol, could not understand what had happened to his parents or the delicate baby sister whom he’d held so briefly.

            Sméagol had come to cling to his cousin Déagol, who was only a year older than he, and often the two children appeared inseparable.  But the younger lad’s curiosity disturbed Déagol’s father, who felt this was an objectionable trait for one of their children, and the companionship between the two lads usually ended at the entrance to the rooms Déagol and his father inhabited.  So the Grandmother did her best to make it up to the younger child, calling him her precious one in memory of her beautiful daughter who’d given birth to him, and whom she’d loved so dearly.

            She found herself worrying about the lad, and she had to admit that she tended to spoil him somewhat.  As he grew, he seemed to take so strongly after his Grandfather Buccol, and there were so many times she would look after him as he went out of the door and could swear it was her beloved husband she was watching after.

            She could not shake the feeling that this precious grandson of hers was intended to do great things, although she had no idea quite what.

 *******

            Eight Hobbits went to visit the Bylode Clan, some way south of their own smial, which lay near what Men called the Gladden Fields.  But once they reached the region where the Bylodes had lived it was plain that there were no Hobbits living there any longer.  The fields the Bylodes tended beyond the bank where their interlaced holes had been dug had been trampled and were filled with weeds that Hobbits would never have allowed to take root. 

            But it was Sméagol who found the fire pit, a pit into which the fine bones of Hobbit children had been thrown after a feast.

            “Goblins!  Orcses!” Déagol’s father had exclaimed with dismay.  “Orcses have been here, and have slain the Bylodes!”

            So it had proved, although they managed at last to find one older lass who’d escaped with her little brother and who’d taken refuge in a bolthole beyond the bank, dug into the mountain’s flanks far the other side of the fields.  Both were filthy, and stared at them with wide, unbelieving eyes.  Neither would willingly speak, and all the Grandmother could think was that they’d had to depend on silence to hide themselves from the orcs to the point they’d stopped talking at all for fear they’d be found and eaten, also.

            The small community of smials had been broken into, and almost everything of any value—certainly all edged tools and the jewelry the Bylodes had possessed—had been taken.  Some ornaments had remained, but the kiln had been smashed, and the small smithy the Bylodes had kept had been robbed of its anvil and its store of iron and most of the smith’s tools and hammers.

            Furniture had been overturned and cushions and featherbeds torn apart and stuffing scattered and trampled upon with muddy boots.  Blood could still be seen spattered upon walls and the remains of curtains and carpets.

            They’d been unable to get the lass to leave until she’d gone out into the remains of the small apple orchard and found a particular tree, where she dug into the ground, eventually using the remains of a broken plate brought her by someone who’d found it in the shambles of a kitchen in place of a spade, until at last she found a leather bag, filthy with dirt, that she wrested from the earth.  This she’d held close to her chest, not allowing anyone else to look at its contents.  They brought the two children and the very few items they’d found that were worth salvaging, along with a store of wood appropriate to the making of bows and arrows, and returned to their own valley.  Now there were perhaps only three other communities of Hobbits within five days’ journey of their own smial. 

            The Grandmother shivered to think this, and did her best to hug the young lass and her little brother to her to reassure them they’d never be in such danger again.

            When they returned at last to their home, all of the menfolk were sent out to find good flints with which to tip arrows, and all of their residents old enough to bend a bow or heft a stone were set to practicing so that if they were attacked they might at least defend themselves.

 *******

            One day she could find Déagol but not Sméagol when she came in from the fields.  “And where’s your mate?” she asked, concerned for the younger lad’s safety.

            “Gone with Uncle Jace,” he said around a mouth filled with flat bread.  “Gone to cut the peat.”

            Jace was her own uncle, really, and as hardy a Hobbit as he’d ever been in spite of his age.  He loved the peat bog where they obtained the bulk of their fuel, and was the most knowledgeable of the whole of the great smial in the ways and history of the river as it passed through the Gladden Fields and by the valley of the tributary along which they’d delved their own home.  Now and then he would find objects within the peat that he would bring home, objects lost untold years ago by others who’d crossed the water or who’d wandered within the bog land that edged the fields, and each object he’d found had been examined as closely by Sméagol as it was by his great uncle.

            “Too curious by half, the both of them!” she muttered, then summoned one of her sons-in-love to send to search them out and bring her word.

            “They’ve found the bones of a great Man,” he told her worriedly when at last he returned from his errand.  “Neither Jace nor Sméagol will come away until they find the whole of him!  Jace wishes me to bring back to him the skin of the bullock we got in trade from the Men of Horses.”

            It was after dark before those who’d gone out to the place where Jace and Sméagol had been digging returned, their finds wrapped in the bullock’s hide.  The Grandmother could see the excitement, barely held in check, in her precious Sméagol’s eyes, as he followed the grownups into the smial and down the hall to the room closest to the river where she’d set up the great slab of wood kept there on two trestles to receive their burden.

            “He were more’n any Man, he were,” Jace insisted to her as they walked down the passage.  “Had to’ve been a giant!  Tall?  Won’t b’lieve as how tall him was!”

            The Grandmother held her own peace until they were in the room, then sent some of the menfolk to fetch more lanterns, which she hung from the ceiling around the chamber so as to light up all that had been found.

            Most of the bones were loose, but a goodly portion of the spine was still intact, as were one hand and a foot, the sinews still leathery.  Some scraps of cloth and part of a boot were there, as well as one finely tanned belt purse that even now bore traces of what must have originally been a brilliant blue dye, its cords wrapped with silver thread.  As for the sword brought in with the body—it was a marvel, its hilt wrapped with silvery wire with no hint of tarnish to it.  The blade was pitted, with what appeared to be images of a rising Moon on one side and a Sun setting over what must be the Sea on the other; there was a circle of stars, six of which remained visible, around the Moon; and a tree flowered in front of the Sun’s disk.  There was also a long knife, its tip broken off, and a notch further down the blade; but still the edges of both weapons were surprisingly sharp.  The sword belt had been the same royal blue as the belt pouch, and the ring buckle had been embossed again with seven stars.  The belt was in far worse shape than the belt pouch, however, and the sword’s sheath was so far gone little could be told of its original decorations, save for the shape of a silver crescent moon inlaid into the leather, about which it could be seen that the sheath was again that deep royal blue.

            Jace produced a ring he said Sméagol had found about one of the finger bones, again of the untarnished silvery metal seen elsewhere.  Its face showed a crescent moon with a single great star caught in the midst of the crescent, a brilliant clear stone set in the center of the star.  About the crescent again were seven embossed stars, each set with a tiny faceted stone.  He also produced a blackened iron arrow point such as the goblins used, telling how one of his nephews had found it in the center of the rib cage.  And this same nephew handed her a golden chain and locket he’d found, one that apparently had been worn about the great warrior’s neck.   The locket had a single great star and the image of a flowering tree upon it, and as if at a distance a great boat upon silver water.  The locket was empty, but from the internal structure it appeared that it had held something like a ring, although the ring found by Sméagol could not fit within it, having too large a boss. 

            “We must see of what kind this one was,” the Grandmother said.  With that pronouncement, she nodded at Jace, and the two of them began setting the bones in order, starting with the skull and jawbone.

            It took two days to finish the job.  Most of the bones had been found, and most of those were yet whole.  Where now and then a bone had been broken in the recovery, the shards were gently laid with the broken ends bound together with red yarn.  Throughout the whole process Sméagol watched avidly, helping as he could, soon recognizing which bone must come next in the process and handily finding it amidst those still lying on the hide. 

            Once the bones were finally in place, it could be easily seen they were from one of the tallest of Men.  “A giant of a Man it was, fer certain,” pronounced Jace with authority.  “Easily thrice the height of the tallest of us Hobbits!”

            “Indeed,” agreed the Grandmother as she used the rest of her skein of red yarn to measure the length of the array of bones.  “No question of that.”

            “How’d he end up in the river?” asked the one who’d found the locket.

            The Grandmother shrugged, looking at the iron arrow point.  “I’d say as him was shot by a goblin archer.  Whether him was in the river first, or him fell in after, I couldn’t say.  But when the current brought him to the spit where him fetched up, his body caught there.  If’n it were in spring, it might of been in flood, and the flood could of left it all covered in mud.  Buried by the river itself, or so it seems.”

            Jace nodded.  “And then, when the river changed its bed as it does, all that area where him was buried went to bog land, and the peat filled it all in.  Mud’n’ water, it kept the bones together and mostly whole, an’ the peat, it helped preserve some o’ the leather’n’ flesh.”

            “What’s in the bag?” asked one of the older cousins, voicing the question Sméagol had desired so much to ask but hadn’t dared as yet.

            The Grandmother worked carefully on the knot that closed the bag.  One of the uncles offered her the use of his small belt knife, but she waved it off, explaining,  “Mustn’t damage it.            What’s inside might need containin’.”  Finally, with the help of one of the pins she used to hold her hair away from her face, she managed to loosen the knot and undo the ties, and with a grunt of satisfaction she worked free the drawstrings and pulled open the mouth of the bag.  As she looked inside, however, her face went still with awe and wonder, and carefully she reached into it.

            What she pulled forth was a wonder to all who’d crowded into the room.  “A silver ribbon!” exclaimed an older lass.

            “Not made of any cloth,” the Grandmother breathed.  “No, this ain’t made of cloth at all.  It’s the finest silver wires as ye’ve ever seen!”  Yet, in spite of being made of silver wires as she’d said, the ribbon rolled from her fingers like the heaviest of fine linen (these Hobbits being totally unfamiliar with silk and its properties).  In the center of the ribbon shone the brightest and greatest of gems that any of them had ever beheld, reflecting and magnifying the light given by the lamps as if she held a perfectly white star suspended from the silvery ribbon.

            “What is it?” whispered one of the lads.

            One of the uncles asked, more practically, “It’s valuable, ain’t it?”

            But the Grandmother was already shaking her head.  “This is something not meant for the likes of us,” she said.  “There is power here--great power, but of a sort intended for the great ones as are honored by the stars, not for hole dwellers.  It would be dangerous for our folk.”

            She turned the gem on its fine ribbon so as to examine it more closely for a moment before returning her attention to the skeletal remains laid out upon the slab of wood.  “It is best to let this one lie with honor, this one the river took so long ago.  If we do not do so, his spirit might well walk amongst us and breathe illness into our children.  But if we treat his remains with honor, it is likely he will grant us good fortune.”

            So saying, she reverently replaced the ribbon with its great, starry gem back into the belt pouch and retied the knot, pulling the strings as tightly as she could, and set it aside.  She had one of the more responsible nieces fetch her the oil pressed from grain in which she often steeped healing herbs to use as a rub for sore muscles.  Using a fine brush, she carefully anointed the bones and remaining leathery flesh.  The locket was laid as it had been in life, the back of the chain tucked behind the skull and neck bones, the locket itself centered over the sternum.  The ring was replaced about the finger that Sméagol indicated it had circled before, and the iron point to the arrow laid within the rib cage as if it still pierced the no longer present heart of the great Man.  The remains of the belt encircled the waist as best it could, the ring buckle centered above the pelvis.  The notched knife she settled near his right hand, and the sword along his left side.  The belt pouch she set nestling against his right hip, and Sméagol eyed it and the ring longingly.  A right magpie him is, she thought worriedly as she caught the expression in the lad’s eyes.  But none of this is the business of us Hobbits.  No, it’s the business of the Star-Men.

            She had her remaining daughter fetch the length of white linen that had only recently been cut from the loom, and this the Grandmother laid over the great Man’s bones.  With that done, she removed all of the lanterns, having various of the menfolk carry each back to where they’d come from, and she settled four tall pillared candles upon the slab of wood and left them burning there as she and Jace shepherded the others out of the room.  Over the next two days a wall of stones was built to seal off entrance to the room, and once it was done she set the lasses to filling in the cracks with plaster so that none could tell that the room existed beyond it. 

            Good fortune did seem to surround the smial and its inhabitants afterward, so she was very glad they’d honored the great Man as they’d done.  Orcs and vagabond Men didn’t appear curious about what might be up their valley, the young trees they’d planted along the tributary to the Anduin to take the place of those lost in fires and to borer beetles grew quickly, they didn’t need to rely so heavily on the peat for fuel, and their trades with the Horse Men went well.  And when Dwarf traders chanced upon their valley they were moved to pay far more liberally than was usual for the foodstuff and cloth wrought by the Hobbits that the residents of the smial were willing to trade.

            Still, Sméagol’s imagination seemed fixed on the contents of the now hidden room, and more than once she found him working at the plastered wall with his belt knife, and she was forced at last to punish him for it.  “I told you,” she said sternly, “what’s in there’s not for the likes of us Hobbits.  Leave it be—what’s there is best left to itself.  We’ll disturb him no more—him died the death as was allotted him, and now him lies in peace, his own goods by his side.  Him was a warrior—never question that, and now if him’s moved to protect us as him can, we’ll accept it and be glad.  Now, you leave that wall alone!”

            A new coat of plaster was smoothed over the one he’d marred, and he didn’t work at it again, or at least not that he was ever caught at.

            *******

            A raven found the Grey Wizard near the top of the High Pass, and was so persistent that Gandalf realized Radagast had sent this to him.  It kept repeating “Dol Guldur, Dol Guldur!”  It was enough—that was where the Wizard headed at speed, arriving far sooner than was his wont.

            Apparently Thranduil had advised a patrol to be on the watch for the Grey Wizard’s arrival, for he was met by Prince Theron and his men within a day’s time of entering the southern reaches of the Elven King’s realm.  “The Necromancer is back,” was the blunt message Theron delivered, and together they made their way to a place from which the keep could be viewed—farther away from its walls than they’d come before.  “We became aware of more activity by wolves, wargs, and orcs perhaps two cycles of the moon past, and then a great party of evil Men arrived, accompanying one of the Nazgûl.  Two more of the Wraiths arrived by night, apparently accompanying their fell Master, four seven-days ago, along with a large platoon of orcs and two more companies of Men, and three wagons filled with Men, women, and children from a land somewhere to the east.  All were slender, with dark hair and eyes, and many appeared ill.  There is no question that all were prisoners.”

            Gandalf felt his heart grow cold within him.  “More subjects for his—experiments, then.”

            “So it would appear.  We cannot approach as near as we could before, and the large bats that drink blood are active in the night time, causing us to give the place even a wider berth when all is dark than we do when Anor shines upon the world.”

             The Wizard could feel the brooding evil, alert and filled with malice, that now directed the watch upon the place.  He was certain within his heart that the Necromancer was Sauron—how could he be mistaken when the awareness was so strong?  But he knew in the depths of his being that Saruman would continue to argue with him….

Galadriel Calls for a Council

            News of the return of the Necromancer to Dol Guldur spread quickly, and immediately Galadriel of Laurelindórenan called for a council to meet, sending word to Elrond and Thranduil, Círdan, Gildor Inglorion, and the three Wizards indicating that the matter of the Necromancer must be addressed.  Radagast offered his abode of Rhosgobel as a meeting place, suggesting that it would be seen as basically neutral ground, and all gathered there in the early autumn, Elrond accompanied by one of his sons, Glorfindel, and Erestor.

            In spite of his discomfort in visiting a home whose walls were formed of living trees and through which a variety of birds and animals might come and go at any time, still Saruman quickly took charge of the gathering.

            “You did not seek to summon representatives of other races here this time, my lady?” he asked Galadriel, a touch of irony in his voice.

            “And would they come?” she asked.  “Since the Necromancer disappeared into the east after Mithrandir’s visit to his keep four hundred years of the Sun past, there has been relative peace.  The memories of mortals are short, and each tends to believe that the future will follow the same pattern as his recent past and present.  Six Chieftains have succeeded Aranarth in the north, and nine Stewards have ruled Gondor since the days of Mardil, all since the Necromancer went into hiding in the east.  The Necromancer has been gone since Thorin’s day, and his great-grandson has never known our enemy’s attentions.  Náin the Second has responded to our offers of friendship with disdain, and evil stories are told in Gondor regarding the intentions of Elves and Dwarves.  Indeed, since Edhellond was abandoned once Mithrellas chose to leave ere her husband could accept the Gift to Mortals, Mithrandir tells me that in Gondor Elves and Dwarves are considered by most to be creatures of legend.  Do you think that the Steward Denethor would take an invitation to come to a council seriously when even those of his land who believe we exist look on us with suspicion and even fear?”

            “While those in the north look upon us with equal suspicion and full oft disbelief,” agreed Elrond.  “Only the remnant of the Dúnedain are friendly with us, and that mostly because my brother’s descendants spend time within my house, learning to use their gifts and skills wisely ere they take up the rule of their people and the guard of the northern lands against those who have ever served or been allied with the Dark Lords.  But now that the Necromancer has returned to Dol Guldur I doubt not that evil Men and creatures will begin to trouble all with more regularity.”

            “And do not ignore the likelihood that he will seek to spread plagues and disease everywhere once more as has been true in times past,” Gandalf warned.

            Thranduil leaned forward intently.  “Indeed this is likely, particularly as he has returned with prisoners from among Men who have appeared to be ill.  And remember what Mithrandir told us of the Enemy’s workrooms when he abandoned Dol Guldur before.  There are those on the borders of my realm who have suffered from conditions similar to those prisoners, whose lungs have gradually but inexorably failed them until they can no longer breathe, who cough up bloody phlegm and whose families often see the condition strike still more members into the second and third generations.”

            “Again the orc-kind seek out the hidden strongholds of Men, Dwarves, Periannath, and the wandering tribes of the Eldar to pillage and carry off prisoners to Dol Guldur,” Radagast said.  “My birds tell me that only two settlements of the Halflings remain in the valley of the Anduin, and those only because they are so well hidden along tributaries to the Great River.  How are these to prosper in the future when they have so little chance to find mates outside of their own settlements?”

            Gandalf shrugged, feeling an unexplained reluctance to speak of how Hobbits were yet prospering in the Shire and within the Breelands.  This news that only two settlements of these delightful but decidedly private people remained east of the Misty Mountains struck him as ominous.

            “Then shall we alone of the Wise think to constitute future councils?” asked Saruman.

            Galdor of the Havens shrugged, glancing between the White Wizard and his grey fellow.  “Such would appear preferable to seeking to coax Men and Dwarves to join us in the future,” he said.  “Rarely do mortals think to take thought for the days of their children’s children, much less beyond.”

            “Yet their day comes,” Gandalf cautioned.  “The number of Elves remaining here within Ennor decreases steadily as few of the Eldar trust to bring children into the world in times of uncertainty, and as many continue to sail West and others die of injury and attacks by evil creatures and other enemies.”

            “Many of whom are, after all, Men whose alliances have drawn them to worship the memory of the Dark Lords,” Saruman added dryly.  “And even among the descendants of Númenor too many fail to hold true to the ideals of the Faithful.  Ever in Umbar the Black Númenoreans have been evident, and within Gondor itself its lords are likely to be pragmatic at best.  Denethor has not the wisdom of Mardil, although I must suppose he is a sufficiently adequate leader of Men to hold the nation of Gondor together under the joint leadership of himself and the Prince of Dol Amroth.  But Calenhardorn is all but empty of Gondorians, with the people of Dunland ever encroaching on Gondor’s sovereignty there.  Arnor is becoming a backward area, its farmers barely offering any respect to the memory of the Star Isle and too often disbelieving in the histories of Tar-Minyatur, while those of Langstrand give little thought to the needs of those far to their east.  Not,” he added as an aside, “that those in the capitol of Minas Tirith think that often on the needs of their subjects far away in Langstrand.”

            “Do you still question whether the Necromancer is Sauron?” asked Celeborn of Saruman.

            “Yes, I do.  If he were Sauron, would he continue to dwell in exile in Dol Guldur with the borders of Mordor now basically unguarded?”  The White Wizard gave a sardonic laugh.  “I sincerely doubt it.”

            “He does not yet have sufficient strength to defy all openly,” warned Gandalf.  “But he has grown steadily, if slowly, stronger over the centuries he has dwelt in Dol Guldur.  Who knows how strong he has grown during his years of hiding in the east, where Sauron has always found his strongest allies among Men?  No, until he is certain he cannot be prematurely ousted from Mordor Sauron will not declare himself openly.”

            “And again you seek to name the Necromancer Sauron without proof!”  Saruman’s anger was unmistakable.

            “It is Sauron’s creatures who have begun to increase in numbers in the past fifty years of the Sun,” replied Gandalf, his own voice betraying his frustration with the chief of his order.  “He has ever been allied with the Nazgûl.  Orcs are beginning to multiply once more behind the mountainous walls of the Black Land as well as within the Misty Mountains, and trolls and wargs grow in numbers both in the north and in the southern lands.”

            Thranduil sighed as he admitted, “As do the great spiders throughout my forests.  Almost they were gone until ten years of the Sun past.  Now we hear almost daily of attacks on individuals who have strayed from settlements, and a month past there were two assaults on isolated talan.”

            “But this is not necessarily tied to the return of Sauron to these lands.”  Saruman’s voice was cold.  “We cannot be certain that the Necromancer is indeed Sauron until he has been seen.”

            Galadriel’s voice was calm and full of reason as she asked, “And how are we to do so when he comes and goes only under the darkest of nights?  Already Mithrandir has penetrated the keep of Dol Guldur, yet was unable to come within sight of him so as to determine whether or not he is indeed Sauron.  Yet I swear that it is Sauron I taste now upon the winds that blow from the east back to our home in Caras Galadhon.”

            Radagast looked from one to another, obviously wishing to keep an outright fight from breaking out amongst those gathered within his home.  “Until someone is able again to enter the Necromancer’s fortress we will not be able to tell for certain whether or not he is indeed Sauron.  We know now that it is possible for that to happen, as brother Gandalf has done so once.”

            “I doubt I could do so again by the same means, however,” Gandalf interrupted.  “He will be watching for another such assault on his wards.”

            “You still have not explained how it was that you entered the last time,” Saruman said.

            Gandalf shrugged.  “I do not believe it wise, even within this company, to disclose how it was done.”  Looking up as droppings from a crow perched in the overhanging branches that formed the roof for Radagast’s house splattered the table before him, he added, “We know that the Dark Lords have not been above twisting other creatures besides Men and Elves to do their will.”

            The Brown Wizard glanced up at the crow in distress.  “None of my birds have ever been turned to evil!” he objected.

            “And this you know for certain?” asked Celeborn.  “Ever have the Ravens been friends with the Dwarves, but there are some that fly from the direction of Dol Guldur that cannot pass through our protections into the Golden Woods, indicating that a few, at least, have become tools for the Necromancer.”

            All went quiet at that.  Certainly the Necromancer had drawn to himself regular wolves and bats as well as wargs and vampires, and Gandalf had seen a werewolf within his keep during his last visit.  And it had been Morgoth who’d persuaded many of the Maiar that had allied themselves with him to take on fell shapes and natures before….

            “Who shall seek to enter the Necromancer’s keep this time?” asked Elrond at last.

            Thranduil was shaking his head as he met the eyes of the lord of Imladris.  “I doubt that it could be done by an Elf.  Since his return my scouts cannot come anywhere as close to his walls as they did previously.  Theron and Legolas and my other captains all say the same--where there were no sentries a moment before, many will converge as soon as any Elf comes closer than half a league.”

            After another silence Saruman spoke.  “Then how the attempt to penetrate his wards shall be done must be thought upon.  The subject, perhaps, for the next of our meetings in this White Council of ours?”

            “And who shall call that meeting?” asked Glorfindel.

            “We should perhaps elect anew the one to lead this Council,” Gildor Inglorion suggested.

            “You, Master Elrond?” Thranduil eyed his fellow Elf consideringly.

            But Elrond was shaking his head.  “I have too many responsibilities among my own people.”

            Galadriel said, “Then I recommend Mithrandir to lead the Council.   He travels most widely of us all, and is best situated to know when matters are becoming serious in any part of the lands of the Free Peoples.”

            Saruman fixed her with a serious stare.  “You have not approved of my leadership in the past?” he demanded.

            She returned his look coolly.  “I know nothing wrong with your leadership, Curunír.  But we are not the only ones who are threatened by the activities of the Necromancer, and it is Mithrandir who has ever been sensitive to the concerns of all of Middle Earth.”

            “And how often has he sought to learn from those who dwell east or south of Gondor?  They, too, have a stake in what the White Council might learn or decide.”

            The tension within the room rose until Radagast said, “But it is Saruman who is the head of our order.  I will defer ever to him.”

            Saruman gave Gandalf a questioning look, and the Grey Wizard bowed his head.  “I do not question your primacy over me, brother.”

            As Saruman returned a triumphant gaze to the Lady of the Golden Wood, Galdor sighed.  “I have no criticism of the leadership he has shown in the past.  Perhaps it is best that Saruman should remain the head of the White Council.”

            Gandalf himself abstained from the voting, and in the end Saruman retained his position as chief of the White Council, although by a far narrower margin than before.  Círdan, who had also abstained from the voting, asked, “When we meet again, will we ever invite representatives from other races?  Anything that we decide, after all, will affect their welfare.”

            Saruman’s lip curled.  “As the Lady remarked when the discussion began, would they even deem to come?  And would their counsel have meaning when most cannot look beyond their own lifetimes either to consider the lessons of the past or the possibilities of the future?”

            Elrond leaned forward.  “But often, because they must live more in the present than do we, they might see more clearly what is happening in the here and now.  I know that you give little credence to foresight----”

            Saruman interrupted, “And why should we pay it overmuch attention?  Has it not proved chancy at best?”  He returned his attention to Galadriel.  “Have you not cautioned before that over-reliance on visions of the future can as oft lead one astray as to guide one’s footsteps rightly?”

            She looked down at the backs of her hands where they lay upon the tabletop.  “Indeed, that is true.  The Mirror may show what will be, or what will only happen if one seeks to forestall the specific possible future being shown.”  She looked up sharply to meet his eyes.  “But that does not mean that the vision should be ignored completely.”

            Elrond pressed his advantage.  “I will say this, Curunír—my foresight tells me that unless all peoples work together, we shall not be able to know supremacy over those who would force darkness upon all of Middle Earth.”

            “Then you would welcome Men and Dwarves into our counsels, Elrond?” Saruman asked.

            “Those of Gondor and Arnor are more discerning than are other Men, as they tend to pay more attention to the lessons of the past, and many share the gift of foresight bequeathed them by my brother.  And not all Dwarves are as self-centered as is Náin, the current heir to the line of Dúrin.  Give the Dwarves reason to cooperate with others, and they will do so.  You cannot ignore them when they offer those warnings they discern.  Aulë has been known in the past to warn them through the stone they work.”

            The White Wizard gave a disbelieving laugh, throwing up his hands.  “Next you shall insist on including the Pheriannath and the Onodrim!”

            Radagast unexpectedly answered, shaking his head.  “Oh, brother Saruman, you must not ignore them totally as if they had no part to play in the future of the world.”  He reached out suddenly toward a large insect that had just fluttered into a shaft of light sifting through the walls of his house, catching it in his cupped palm.  He then reached out toward a wall and allowed another insect to walk upon the finger of his other hand.  He held out the winged insect for them all to see.  “Behold the termite.  It is small, and with but one it seems no danger at all.  But such creatures, unwatched, can bring down great edifices of wood—houses, halls, or bridges.  One must only allow a queen and a few males to take up residence.  The same with the ant.”  He held out the finger on which a single ant, small and with a reddish body, stood still, its antennae moving questioningly.  “The single ant leaving with a grain of sand may appear harmless, but when it returns for a second, and a third, and its sisters join it to take away more—in the end nothing will be left of the mortar between stones or bricks, and great towers might fall.  Oh, it takes time; but what takes place over time when unwatched is just as devastating in the end as the strike of a bolt of lightning.”

            He turned to the window, speaking to the two insects he held.  “Now, go forth, and return here not, or it is likely my birds will eat you.”  So saying, he shook his hands free of the two insects, then returned to the table.

            Saruman’s expression was incredulous, but Gandalf’s was thoughtful as the Brown Wizard resumed his seat.

 *******

            The Grandmother returned to the smial long after nightfall, the flame in her lantern guttering as she set it upon the table in Sméagol’s chamber.  “I could not find him.  We have searched everywhere!  Are you certain that you’ve not seen him since you left him fishing upon the river?”

            Sméagol glanced at her sideways.  “I told you, I was looking for blue stones along the bank of the river.  I found five!”  He pointed to the line of stones that lay near where she’d placed the lantern.  “I didn’t see him since.”

            “But you left together!”

            “Yes, but we didn’t stay together.  Oh, no—we don’t always stay together, do we?  No, your precious one didn’t stay together with Déagol.  Déagol must have fallen into the river!”

            “But his boat was found tied to a tree, Precious.  He wouldn’t wander away from his boat, not with a fish already on his stringer, and not leaving his creel inside it.  He never leaves his creel behind—never!  He’s too avid a fisherman!  And he worked too long upon his boat.”  When all he did was to shake his head in denial, she leaned forward and shook him.  “What happened to Déagol, Sméagol?  Where did you go after you left the luncheon party?”

            He again looked at her sideways.  “We went to the river.  He wanted me to try the pole he’d made me, and the hooks he got from the horsemen.  But I wasn’t catching anything, was I?  No, your precious one wasn’t catching anything, anything at all.  So I asked to be put ashore to look for blue stones.  And him, Déagol was disgusted, wasn’t he?  Told me I wasn’t worth his time, trying to teach me to fish like him.  But we doesn’t like fishing as much as him, does we?  No, your precious one doesn’t like sitting still with poles in his hand, just waiting for a fish to come along.  We wanted to search for things instead.”

            “So he put you ashore?”

            “Yes—we told you that.  I told you that!  He put me ashore, and him, he went back out to fish.  And he caught a fish—a big one!  I heard him!  I heard him call, ‘Sméagol!  It’s Kreacher!  I’ve got Kreacher!’  And then there was a splash!  Kreacher, Kreacher pulled him out of the boat!”

            Kreacher was the name given to a large pike that had lived in the river for as long as the Grandmother was alive.  Every Hobbit, lad and grown, had sought to catch him for as long as she could remember.  And Déagol wasn’t the first Hobbit he’d pulled into the river—oh, no!  Her own brother had been lost when Kreacher pulled him into the river, long ago when she’d been but a little lass.  That was why she’d insisted that all of the Hobbits in the smial learn to swim—all of them, so that they wouldn’t just drown as had her brother.

            “Kreacher—he pulled Déagol into the water?  And he didn’t come up again?”

            “Déagol—come up?  Oh, yes, but he came up again!  It was shallow there, there where the fish pulled him in.  It wasn’t deep there, oh, no, it wasn’t.  It wasn’t!  Gollum, gollum!”

            “Sméagol, my precious, is there something wrong with your throat?”

            For a moment the lad rubbed at his throat questioningly, his eyes alarmed.  “My throat?  Something wrong with my throat?  Why would she ask that?”

            “I asked that, Precious, because you made that noise, as if your throat was sore.”

            Sméagol shook his head vehemently.  “There’s nothing wrong.  Oh, no, nothing wrong!  I swear!”

            “How did Déagol’s boat end up tied to the tree?”

            “He tied it there, he did, didn’t he?  When he came to shore, he was pulling the boat by its rope, and he tied it to the tree.  He was upset—Kreacher had pulled his pole away, it did, and he wanted it back.  Said he was going to go and find it.”

            That made sense.  Déagol had worked hard on that pole, seeking to make it the best he could—he would want to find it.  “And he didn’t come back?” she persisted.

            “No, he didn’t.  He must be hiding somewhere, Déagol must be.  He was disgusted I didn’t want to stay to fish, because I wanted to find blue stones instead.  He wanted me to like the pole he made me, and the steel hook he got from the horsemen.  But I like my hand line, and the bone hook he gave me last year.  He made it just for me, not like the steel hook—the others made that, and not even to use themselves!”  Through all this he sat still, his hands pressed against his blanket, his face slightly averted.  She wasn’t certain what to think.  It wasn’t like her precious Sméagol to avoid looking into her face like this.  But the idea of his cousin going off in search of his pole was so like Déagol.  Sméagol wouldn’t lie about what his cousin had done, would he?

            Later that night, once she was certain all had gone to bed and that the fires were all properly banked and that a candle was lit in the window toward the river to help Déagol find his way home—just in case, she was going past Sméagol’s room and heard him talking to himself.

            “He ought to have given it to me when I asked.  I asked nicely, I did.  He ought to have given it to me.  It’s my birthday, after all.  He should have just given it to me.  Thank you, Déagol.  Thank you for my birthday present.  But you should have just given it to me, not made me….”

            Was he crying?

Rumors of Evil Returning to the Deep Places

            The Grandmother turned away from the closed door to search the face of the grandson closest behind her beseechingly.  “You’re certain we must do this?” she asked.

            “We all agreed,” he said.  “We has to see what’s in there.”

            “But if there’s nothing----”

            “Then we just closes it again and says nothing about it.  But, if what we expect is in there….”  His expression was grim.

            Her face was bleak as she worked at the latch to open it.  She’d learned long ago how to unfasten Sméagol’s door without triggering an avalanche of items set to fall if anyone else opened it, although she’d not done so for quite some time.  She just didn’t understand why he felt it necessary to set such traps to begin with.

            At last the latch was free, and she carefully swung the door open.

            The stench was overwhelming, and all gathered behind her turned, covering their mouths and noses in revulsion.  The first of the lasses to recover herself enough to look through the doorway shuddered.  “Look at the bed—it’s worsen than if an animal lived in there.”

            “Those is bones!” exclaimed one of the great-grandsons.  “How come there’s bones in there?  Who keeps bones in the bedroom?”

            The grandson who’d been behind her pushed by her into the room and picked up a stick, using it to poke at the piles of rubbish on the floor.  After a moment he stopped, leaned down, and picked up a leather cord.  His expression hardened the more.  “It’s Delia’s,” he said accusingly as he displayed the carefully wrought brass bead threaded onto it.

            “She was wearin’ it afore she went missing,” the lass who’d spoken before said.  “I saw it on her.  She put it on special that morning—wanted Wallo to see it on her, let him know as she liked it.”

            “And there’s my knife, the one the Dwarves made!” said the great-grandson, lunging to pick up said item from where it lay by Sméagol’s pillow.

            There were other items that had been missed by this one or that, and some garments that had last been seen on the missing Delia.  And among the things stacked to fall had anyone unwary opened the door they found a mummified cat and a fox’s skull.  As for what was found in the chamber pot----

            The unfortunate Wallo swallowed hastily and fled out of the place, barely making it to the outside door before he became violently ill.

            “Well?” said the grandson.  The Grandmother noted that his face was exceptionally pale, and that there was a sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip.  As certain as he’d been that Sméagol had become a villain, still he’d not been fully prepared for all they’d found.

            “He goes,” she said simply, her voice toneless.  What more could be said?

            The smial was quiet when Sméagol returned from the river, and he paused uncertainly at the looks he received from his kinsmen.  Not that said looks were notably different from what they’d been for the last few years—Sméagol was not a particularly popular person any more, not since Déagol’s disappearance.  It was the way he was followed at a distinct distance, however, that indicated that something had happened while he’d been gone, something that most appeared to believe that the Grandmother would not be talked into overlooking this time.

            His oldest cousin stood inside the door, blocking the way toward the bedrooms.  There was no question that Sméagol was expected to go to the main common room.  There he found the Grandmother sitting in her chair, her back straight and her expression dispassionate.  Almost he didn’t recognize her, for he’d never seen such a look on her face when she’d looked at him before, as if he were a most importunate animal that had somehow managed to wander inside the smial.  On the floor by her feet was a woven pack that belonged to the cousin by the door, and it appeared to be full.  Nearby it stood the fishing pole that Déagol had made for his birthday that day so long ago, and a leather water bottle.

            He raised his eyes to meet those of his Grandmother again, and she was trembling, he noted.  “Sméagol, we have tried to allow you to behave as is right and proper, but it appears that you have no desire to do so.  We entered your room today, and found evidence that somehow you had a hand in the disappearance of Delia as well as that of Déagol so long ago.  Plus we found many things that have been long missing, things belonging to all of us—all of us!”  He noted that she wore again the chain she’d had from her husband when they were married.  It had been in a bowl upon the kist in which he’d kept his extra clothing when he was younger.  She took a deep, tremulous breath before saying, “You must leave us, Sméagol.  No one will trust you here, not with what we found in your room.  You must leave us and never come back.”

            “You had no right----” he began.

            “We had every right.  We should have done so long ago.  It is you who had no right—no right to take things what isn’t yours, no right to hurt lasses like Delia, or Mugga’s cat!  You must leave us, Sméagol—now.  Take that pack and the fishing pole, and never come back!”

            He could not believe this was happening to him.  Some of those in the place had grumbled about him, suspecting him of somehow spying on them and taking many things that had gone missing, but no one had ever found proof—not until now. 

            He looked about him.  Somehow the room had filled with the whole population of their community, all of the aunts, uncle, cousins, younger cousins, and additions from elsewhere, and none of the eyes now fixed upon him were friendly, not even those of his grandmother.  He licked his lips as she rose heavily to her feet.  “We of the Stoors cast you out, Sméagol.  Again, go—now!—and never come back!”  She pointed at the door.

            “Murderer!” he heard the others mutter.  “Thief!”  “Spy!”

            He looked between her and the pack and the pole, and his mouth worked.  Then a fury took him and he leaned forward to grab up the pole, and he broke it violently across his bent knee!  With a wordless snarl he threw the broken parts to the floor, grabbed blindly for the pack and the water bottle, and he fled the place, the others melting to each side to let him go, then following after.  His oldest cousin, he saw, held a stout cudgel, as did several others, while one of those who had lighter hair held a strung bow with an arrow ready to put to the string.  No, he’d not be welcome here, never again.  He fled not toward the river, but away, back toward the mountains.  He would find a place to hide far away from these careless creatures who would no longer accept him as one of theirs.  A blind madness took him as he wended his way through the trees, past the place where he’d last seen the lass Delia—alive, at least—and further and further from what had been his home.  It was after dark, the blessed dark that hid the memories of the expressions of hatred his own had felt for him, that he heard a stream and headed for it.  He knelt and drank from it, ignoring the bottle he’d slung around his neck, and took thought of what the pack might hold.  A thin old blanket.  Two loaves of bread, neither fresh.  A round of cheese.  A half dozen eggs.  Dried meat.  A dull eating knife.  They didn’t even trust him with a sharp knife?

            He considered using the sharpening stone he’d taken long ago from his oldest cousin and that he carried with him always to sharpen the blade, then putting on his Precious and going back, back to slip into the smial and use it on all of them!  But it was perhaps his last shred of decency, backed by a sound fear of what might become of him should he be discovered, that stayed him from carrying out this plan.  He knew in that last decent place in his soul that what he’d done to Delia had been even worse than what he’d done so long ago to Déagol, and that he didn’t deserve to see the light of day again.  So, he’d hide from the Sun, which had after all seen what he’d done to both his cousin and the lass, so that she couldn’t judge him again!  He tore off a goodly portion of one of the loaves and ate it, sawed at the cheese until he had enough to satisfy him, and headed on until dawn neared, and he found a shelter of sorts, intending to wait out the daylight.  And who knew?  There just might be secrets, there where he was going, that were far more interesting than any he’d learned spying on his kindred!  He felt the hard weight of his Precious in the little bag he carried suspended from his rope belt, secured with the bone hook Déagol had carved for him so long ago, and was reassured—at least, in spite of the fact all of his kin had driven him away, he was not alone!

            *******

            Gandalf rode alongside Denethor son of Dior, who as the joint Heir to the Steward of Gondor and Captain General of its armies, led a large company of mounted knights across the Pelennor toward Osgiliath.  In the four centuries that comprised the Watchful Peace a new city had grown there over the ruins of the old, and Osgiliath had become again the trade center for the northern portion of the realm, but it had never regained its former status or beauty, and no attempt had been made to rebuild the Dome of Stars or to place more than a temporary residence for the Steward within its western portions.  The largest structure, however, was the garrison built on the western banks of the river, near the stone bridge that joined the two halves of the city.  There was a second garrison, now half the size of its fellow, near the road leading east toward the Crossroads and Minas Morgul, its soldiers now stationed in hiding in buildings and along the remains of the eastern defensive wall, watching for the approach of the enemy.  For it was reported that forces from Khand had joined with the Rhûnim and marched upon the entrances to Osgiliath, intending to take the eastern city and cross the Anduin at the bridge.

          “There have been so many threats to Gondor from the east throughout its history,” Gandalf reminded the Steward’s son.  “You must not allow the enemy to reach the western portion of the city.  Can you expect support from those stationed on Cair Andros?”

          “They were instructed a week ago to send two companies southward as secretly as possible, and both should be in position now,” the young Man assured him.  “One is supposed to be hidden in the woods north and west of the Crossroads, while the other was to come south along the western banks of the river and should be ready to follow us into the city should an assault be loosed upon the bridge.”

          The Wizard felt himself relax slightly.  So, the Men of Gondor were as ready as they could be, it appeared.

          Denethor continued, “We evacuated families and businesses from the eastern reaches of the city three days ago, so even if the worst is to happen it should not lead to the deaths of too many innocents.”

          “How many homes and businesses remain occupied along the western banks of the Anduin?” asked Gandalf.

          The Man shrugged.  “I am not certain.  Those living along the riverbank were advised to remove themselves further westward, or perhaps to take refuge in Minas Tirith or even Lossarnach or Lebennin.  Most of the buildings surrounding the city quays, however, have always been warehouses and headquarters for the merchants and their guild, not to mention the tariff and counting houses.  We have had most of the warehouses and stores for the city emptied and their contents moved further westward.”

          “What of the lesser harbor for pleasure boats near the northern edges of Osgiliath?” Gandalf asked.  “Is it protected?”

          For the first time Denethor frowned, as if he’d not thought of the possibility that this facility might prove particularly vulnerable.  “I’ve not sent any particular orders regarding it,” he admitted.  “If Mordred should have considered it at risk I am certain he would have so advised me.”

          “Are there still any craft harbored on the eastern side of the river?”

          Denethor’s face first paled, then flushed.  He paused in his riding and summoned an errand rider to his side.  “Fly, Narmuil, and tell Captain Mordred of the west garrison to send half a company to secure the pleasure havens in the north of the city.”

          “My lord,” murmured Narmuil as he gave his salute, and immediately he was off on his way at a gallop, and a second errand rider moved into his former position in the formation.

          Their arrival in the city was unremarkable.  Mordred reported that all was quiet east of the river from what anyone could tell, and that he’d followed Denethor’s orders and had sent the half company to the pleasure havens.  No reports had come from those garrisoned in the eastern portions of the city since early the previous day, and there had been the agreed signal that the troop come down the river from Cair Andros along the western bank was in place.  As for that set to come down the eastern bank—well, no one was certain.

          “Then all are as ready as they can be,” the Wizard muttered into his beard, and he set himself to watch the area across the main bridge alongside Mordred and Denethor’s Men.

 *******

          It was an hour ere sunset when the attack came against the eastern city, and all could hear the ferocity of the assault against those from the eastern garrison.  Fires sprang up in the distance, although none could tell for certain what had been set afire, much less by whom.  Finally a scurrying form could be seen approaching over the bridge.  It was a Man dressed in the manner of a soldier of Gondor, and as he reached the near end of the bridge he stumbled and fell forward, an arrow having caught him in the shoulder.

            “Orcs have joined them!” the Man gasped as Denethor and Gandalf together reached him to drag him to safety.  “And there is something more, something behind them, that causes all to fall back in terror, although we see nothing more than a darker shadow amongst our foes.”

            “Nazgûl!” breathed the Wizard.  “They are being helped by the Ring-wraiths!”

            Denethor took a deep breath and held it.  “Such have not been seen by our people in many generations,” he objected.

            “Well, they are being seen—or at least felt—now,” the Wizard snapped.  “Tell your Men to be on their guard!”

            They fought for many hours to keep those who would cross the bridge back.  As midnight approached many of Denethor’s soldiers began to shake uncontrollably.

            “What bedevils them, Mithrandir?” demanded Mordred.

            “The Nazgûl that has allied himself with your enemy approaches,” Gandalf replied.  “He will try to overcome your soldiers with his mere presence.  Courage and firebrands are your best defense against his evil nature!”

            Torches were called up, and soon Men armed with swords, spears, and flames guarded the bridge head with Gandalf, a flaming brand in one hand and his staff in the other standing upon the bridge itself.  Even their enemies began to fall back as the Wraith came closer and closer, until in the end it faced the Wizard across the width of the River.  All could hear the evil hiss that the creature gave as it realized who it was that faced it. 

            “Go back!” it cried.  “Give way, or thou shalt die betimes!”

            “Betimes?  And how should my death come betimes?” the Wizard asked.  “Nay, it is you who should return to whence you came.  This way is closed to you!”  A sphere of radiance began to build itself about him as he raised staff and torch together.

            “No!” the Wraith hissed.  “Get out of the way, Greybeard!”  And it raised its sword.

            The Nazgûl’s hand and Gandalf’s staff fell at the same time, and there was a terrible crash! of noise as the stonework between them suddenly gave way, the paving stones flying in all directions, out and down.  The creature gave a shriek of fury that seemed to freeze the very flames of the torches borne by the soldiers, not to mention their hearts as well.  But then it fell back and disappeared into the darkness on the eastern side of the city, and the flames sprang back the brighter, and hope flamed the surer in the hearts of the Men of Gondor.

            Filled with gladness, Denethor turned his attention to the Wizard, only to see that Gandalf was fallen to his knees and was beginning to pitch forward over the gap in the bridge.  “Mithrandir!” he called out, tossing his torch to the left into the river as he sprang forward, throwing his forearm about the Wizard’s chest and drawing him back from the fall he most assuredly would have known without the Man’s intervention.  “Here, Mithrandir—we’ll have none of that!”  Many were now reaching to draw both the Man and the Wizard back to safety on the western bank.

 *******

            It was noon the next day before they managed to make their way across the river, only to find most of those who’d been in the eastern garrison had been slaughtered, as appeared to be true of those sent from Cair Andros down the eastern side of the River to Osgiliath.  Mordred’s fellow captain from the eastern garrison was found still alive, but he’d been stabbed with what appeared to have been a sharp blade not far below his heart.  When he felt the coldness radiating out from the wound, up and down the Man’s left side, Gandalf shivered with horror, remembering the state of the Elf they’d found in the White Mountains after the assault on Nimrodel’s company.  “A Morgul blade!” he whispered, despair filling him.  “They seek to make a wraith of him!”

            “No!” exclaimed Denethor.  “They would not!”

            “Never underestimate the evil potential of the Enemy’s worst servants,” returned the Wizard.  But it took the passage of some half an hour, when it appeared that the shard of the blade still remaining in the wound was ready to enter his heart, for Denethor to agree that there was nothing else to be done, and he gave his friend the mercy stroke, then bent over the captain’s body weeping, his Men gathered near him, sharing in his mourning.

            “Look about us, my Lord Denethor.  There lie more bodies of orcs here than of the Rhûnim.  This is not just a matter of the Easterlings seeking more wealth, or needing grain or food in the wake of droughts or failed crops.  They have been provoked, and if Dol Guldur is not involved then at least Minas Morgul is.  Although I suspect both were complicit in provoking the Easterlings to attack now.  There is no question,” Gandalf said, filled with weariness, “that the Watchful Peace is definitely over!  Orcs breed again in the Mountains of Shadow and will issue forth at will to harry your lands and people at the sides of Gondor’s traditional enemies.  Gondor must increase its defensive forces, and must send warnings to its neighbors.  And look for more assaults of orcs issuing from both the White and the Misty Mountains as well.”

            By nightfall the survivors of the defenders of Osgiliath, having set fire to all the boats in the northern pleasure havens to deny their use to the enemy, set forth for Cair Andros in an attempt to deny the passage of the shallows to the Easterners.

 *******

            Azog glared at the leader of the mass of orcs who’d just arrived in what he now considered his own halls.  “And why have you come?” he demanded.  “We did not send out a call for more troops.”

            “The Master has returned to his place, and would see his enemies further beset,” answered the new orc.  “He sends reinforcements because he intends to harry the Elves and Dwarves and those Men who will not bow to his rule.  And he wishes women from among his enemies to be taken for his purposes in breeding more of us, particularly those from the Elves.  The closer the women taken are to those who rule amongst the Tarks or the High Elves or Dúrin’s spawn the better pleased he shall be.  He has plans, you see, to see us take control of the lands here along the mountains and to the west.  Death to all the Tarks!”

            “Death to all of the Dwarves!” returned Azog.  He would undoubtedly have to make a few heads roll before all of these newcomers accepted his rule, but he would welcome them in spite of his initial misgivings.  Did the goals of the Second Master not match his own, after all?  He gave an evil smile at the thought of it….

Evil in Ascendance

            Denethor, once he came to the Black Chair as Ruling Steward of Gondor, had western Osgiliath rebuilt once more and its great main bridge reconstructed, but no longer did the nation’s Rangers patrol Ithilien and the great roads leading south toward Harad, Khand, and Umbar or east to Minas Morgul.  Few chose to remain within Osgiliath, however, and many who had dwelt in Ithilien removed to Lebennin and Anórien, fleeing feared future incursions by the creatures of evil that seemed to breed in the Mountains of Shadow.

            Gandalf went north to the Great Wood to confer with Thranduil.  “More wagons have arrived at Dol Guldur, arriving this time from the south.  They carry Men with black skins, tall and heavily muscled, but with eyes grey as those of the Dúnedain.  With them are women as tall and bright eyed as their menfolk, but all were in heavy chains, their faces empty of hope.”

            The news depressed the Wizard, and he went further north to speak with Radagast.

            “There is darkness growing to the south,” Radagast reported.  “I cannot begin to  imagine what is happening there in the ruins of Oropher’s palace, but the few birds who have dared to fly near to it have come here in utter terror, refusing to tell what it is that they saw happen.  I fear he does unspeakable things to those he holds as captives.”

            Those of the Éothéod who had dwelt near the Gladden Fields had left their former lands, taking their horse herds up toward the headwaters of the Anduin, and those Men who dwelt now in that land spoke of their neighbor’s homes having been attacked and whole families disappearing in the night.  None would walk abroad in the darkness, and many gathered far closer to one another than they’d ever done.  Both Thranduil’s scouts and Radagast reported increases in the numbers of great spiders to be found in the darkest corners of the forest, and the Brown Wizard’s crows reported that wolves and wargs were gathering across the river upon the flanks of the mountains. 

            When he crossed the mountains into Eriador it was to learn that Araglas had passed out of this life, leaving his son Arahad as Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain.

            “We have had to abandon three of those villages we have maintained since the coming of our people to Middle Earth,” Arahad told Gandalf.  “The Men of Angmar and the Brown Lands to the south constantly seek out our strongholds, and in the past few decades they have taken as prisoners many of our young men and women who have not yet married.  Where they have taken them we know not as yet, but indications are that they were carried eastward over the mountains, and no offers to ransom them have been made.  Several have been those most closely related to my own line, including my kinswoman Richeled, whom I’d once thought to marry.  It is feared that they are wanted by unknown powers for fell purposes. And it is said that some of the Elves of Mithlond and Lindon have also gone missing as they have traveled eastward toward Imladris to consult with Elrond and Glorfindel.  What is it that the Dark Powers want with our people or with Elves?”

            Elrond spoke of similar disappearances, and the fears that somehow those missing had been taken eastward to the Necromancer.  “Ever he appears to have gained strength from the deaths of others,” he said sadly.  “As we have not been told of the losses until too long afterwards to recover them, all we can assume is that they have died to the purposes of that evil soul!”

            “If they were not intended to live to even more evil purposes,” the Wizard muttered, and all present at that interview between Gandalf and the Lord of Imladris shuddered at the thoughts engendered by such a possibility.

 *******

            Elrond accompanied Gandalf southward to Lothlórien.  Arwen and her brethren were to spend time with their grandparents, and he had no desire to see his children taken as had had happened recently to so many others.  So far none from Imladris had been abducted, and he did not intend to see such losses begin with his own children.

            Celeborn and Galadriel had already heard the rumors of Men, Elves, and even Dwarves disappearing from across Eriador and Rhovanion, and reported that those few of their people who had dwelt near the stream where the Lady Nimrodel had maintained her own flet had been driven eastwards toward the tongue of land between the Silverlode and Anduin the Great.  Caras Galadhon was now the only city left within the boundaries of the Golden Wood, for Cerin Amroth had been abandoned by almost all save a very few who clung to their love for their lost Lord and his Lady and maintained a presence in the more traditional portions of their land. 

            “The orcs have not yet crossed our borders, but they are far too active near to them.  None wish to dwell sufficiently close to the bounds that they might see those foul creatures perhaps underneath their very flets.”

            Elrond nodded his recognition of the rightness of the observations his wife’s father had uttered.  “Glorfindel and our patrols keep a careful watch on our borders as well, for the number of orcs in the High Pass has multiplied alarmingly.  Our people do not willingly leave the valley at this time, and the Dúnedain find themselves under siege.  Word from Mithlond is that at least five parties sent to us from there or Lindon have been assaulted and some Elves have been abducted and not seen again.”

            Gandalf found himself twisting his staff between his hands.  “And you have heard that Dwarves also have been attacked?  They must be furious!”

            “At least two trading parties from Erebor and the Iron Hills have been ambushed near the Gap of Calenhardorn, near the observatory tower built by Elendil’s people shortly after the founding of Gondor and Arnor,” Celeborn said.  “Until now the Dwarves have been unmolested as they have passed through Dunland, but no longer.  One of our patrols following a party of warg-riders southward found this particular troop attacking a Dwarf caravan that was heading eastward.  It had turned back after having been assaulted by Dunlanders as they sought to cross the Isen.  Two wagons had been cut off from the train by the Dunlanders, and what had become of those who traveled with them could not be determined.  Those said to have led the attackers were not themselves Men of Dunland, however.  They were taller, and wore masks over their faces, and they had an accent that the Dwarves swore was from lands far to the east.”

            “The Dwarves already avoid the pass over Caradhras,” Galadriel added.  “I fear that in the future the only pass they will use voluntarily will be the High Pass, there near Imladris.”

            Elrond was shaking his head with frustration.  “There, too, orcs are increasing again in number.  In these days it appears there are no safe paths either over or around the Misty Mountains.”

            Gandalf looked from Elrond to his wife’s mother and father.  “Then I would advise that Arwen and her brothers be encouraged to remain here until the numbers of orcs in the passes should be reduced substantially.  I do not like these reports that those abducted in Eriador tend to be from families descended from the lineage of Isildur, and that Dwarves of Dúrin’s line are being targeted.  For were Erebor and the Iron Hills not founded by Dwarves descended from Dúrin the Deathless?  Too much emphasis seems to have been given to acquiring individuals from the royalty amongst Men, Dwarves, and Elves.  Remember—those who assaulted Nimrodel’s party hounded her to her death, seeking in especial to take her as prisoner!”

            Elrond cocked an eyebrow.  “And do you think that my sons, seasoned warriors that they are, will agree to be kept here within their grandparents’ realm as if they were treasures too precious to be risked?  Nor will Arwen agree to avoid danger any more now than she ever has.”

            Gandalf merely shook his head.  “I like not the desire the Enemy, whomsoever he might prove to be, demonstrates to obtain specimens of those belonging to ruling families.  There is some purpose I discern to these specific attacks and abductions.  Among those taken from among the northern Dúnedain have been kinsmen and women to the Chieftains, and those Elves taken from Lindon and Mithlond have been those readily identified as closest advisors to Gildor Inglorion and Círdan himself.”

 *******

            The Wizard was still troubled as he headed southward toward Gondor once more.  Dale had been attacked, and two of the nieces and one nephew of the King of Dale had been stolen away and their guards slain outright.  A small kingdom just northeast of Gondor’s borders had been assaulted and almost all of its people slaughtered, but word was its leading families had again been abducted while yet alive.

            Nor was the news any better within Gondor itself.  One of the Prince of Dol Amroth’s sons had been abducted by slavers from Umbar, along with three of his cousins and a few other nobles who had been sailing off the coast of Belfalas in unarmed pleasure craft.  Two nobles from Lebennin had known the loss of their sons and daughters, and none offered to return the missing for any sort of ransom.  Several squadrons positioned between Osgiliath and Cair Andros had been attacked, and their captains had been taken alive.  And most recently Denethor’s sister and her daughters had been visiting friends along the eastern bounds of the Pelennor, and had been attacked as they walked along the banks of Anduin; two daughters had gone missing.

            Denethor’s son Boromir was now Captain General of Gondor’s forces, and he was determined to take back full control of Osgiliath both east and west, and to reestablish patrols within Ithilien.  He had agreed with his father’s decision to see the main stone bridge within Osgiliath rebuilt, but had insisted that it be fitted with weak points that could allow it to be brought down swiftly should those from Mordor appear likely to cross over it to assail those upon the Pelennor or within Minas Tirith.  However, he had put aside all other projects to lead forth a company to follow after those who had taken his cousins, hoping to retrieve the young women.

            He returned to the Citadel while Gandalf was there in council with Denethor, and he and his son Cirion came together to the Steward’s chambers to give his report.

            “We found five scouting parties from Mordor, two of them wearing the Moon and Skull of Minas Morgul, ranging about western Osgiliath and north along the river, and slew them to the last orc.  We have found several groups searching near the eastern ending to the tunnels that lead down into the sewer system, and we have destroyed them all that no one report back to the Witch-king how he might send his people under the river.  So far all we have found have clearly crossed the river using rough-hewn rafts and flat-bottomed boats intended to be poled right into the shallows.  At least two such rafts were used by those who attacked our aunt and her daughters.  We found both abandoned on the eastern banks of the river when we crossed after them.  The attackers, however, appear to have headed immediately at speed toward Minas Morgul with their prizes.”

            Gandalf felt his bowels twist within him.  “Minas Morgul!  The Powers be with them!” he murmured.  “And your people were not able to retrieve them?”

            Boromir shook his head.  “We could not follow more than a half a league past the Cross-roads.  They had at least five hundred orcs awaiting us.”  The muscles of his jaw tightened.  “I lost sixty Men.  Eighteen of us returned to Osgiliath.  Only eighteen, my Lord Father.  Only eighteen.  And we never saw any signs of my cousins.  How can we answer the pain in my aunt’s eyes?”

            A mark before sunset Gandalf left Denethor and the Citadel, intending to retire to the guesthouse where he and Saruman generally stayed during their visits to Minas Tirith, but he paused as he approached the head of the ramp down to the Sixth Circle at the sight of young Cirion, Boromir’s son, in conversation with one of the soldiers he’d seen by Boromir’s side earlier in the day.  Cirion was not particularly tall, not as were his father and grandfather, but there was no question he was a most perceptive young Man, his mind quick to see connections others might ignore, and able to read the hearts of Men with both accuracy and generosity.  Although at seventeen he was hopefully many years from following his grandfather on the Black Chair, the Grey Wizard had already determined that his career once he reached that state was likely to be particularly distinguished.

            Right now his posture was stiff as he looked up into the soldier’s face and listened to what he had to say, although his expression was studiously calm.  It was a most interesting contrast, and Gandalf paused just out of earshot, wondering just what disturbing news the soldier was sharing with the Steward’s grandson.

            At last the soldier straightened to a formal salute, which the younger Man returned with a level of distraction, already turning away to consider what he’d been told.  Gandalf carefully positioned himself to make certain that young Cirion would see him almost immediately, for his heart told him that this was information he needed to know, also.  “Lord Cirion?” he said with a respectful bow worthy of the youth’s father or grandfather.  “You are troubled?”

            Cirion glanced over his shoulder toward the retreating form of the soldier as he headed back toward the offices of the Captain of the Guard of the Citadel, then returned his attention back to the Wizard.  “Hirluin there is now my father’s primary aide, his former second having died along the road to the Morgul Vale,” he said.  “He wished for me to learn what my father did not tell my Lord Grandfather earlier in the day—that when their troop was attacked as they followed after those who attacked my kinswomen and stole our cousins, that the orcs who guarded the way were seeking in particular to separate my father from the rest, apparently intent on taking him alive if at all possible.  They had also targeted my father’s former aide, the son of Lord Mardon of Lossarnach, but when they could not properly lay hold of him they saw him stabbed with what all who saw it named a cold knife that sparkled as if it were overlaid with ice from the mountains.  As it happened, an arrow aimed at the orc that stabbed the Man was deflected by the orc’s movement and hit Mardónion instead, slaying him instantly.  Hirluin cannot say why, but he feels relief to know that whatever evil lay in that cold knife was denied its chance to work its mischief upon Mardónion, and he rejoices that they were able to bring my father home alive and yet whole.”  He searched Gandalf’s eyes.  “Why should they seek to take possession of members of our family and one such as the son of the Lord of Lossarnach, Mithrandir?”

            The Wizard’s imagination could think of far too many reasons for such actions, all of them cruel and vile.  But which was likely to be the right one?

 *******

            Saruman joined Gandalf in the guesthouse a few days afterward, and he brought troubling news from the south indicating that younger members of the ruling houses in Harad, Khand, and Umbar were known to have disappeared.  Assaults from Far Harad had been aimed at distant tribes along the southwestern coasts of the southern continent, and trains of muscular slaves, men, women, and children, had been brought to Umbar and Khand, and were thought to have been taken from there into Mordor itself.

            He’d not been into Rhûn this time, and so did not know what rumors there might be from those lands further east, from Catya or Hinya or Mundolië or other lands whose names were but a rumor of glamour and the exotic.  But it was likely that those who held sway in Sauron’s former lands were undertaking fell experiments with those who’d been sufficiently unlucky as to fall into their hands.

            Together the White and Grey Wizards offered what guidance and wisdom they could to the Steward, his son, and his grandson.  Boromir continued working toward his goal to retake full control of Ithilien and eastern Osgiliath once more, but his father appeared more concerned regarding the welfare of his sister than he did for the state of Gondor.  The Lady Míriel had been prostrated by the loss of her daughters, overwhelmed with the horrors her imagination saw being worked upon their persons.  Considering what he had seen during his visit to Dol Guldur, Gandalf feared that far worse than the terrible treatments Míriel imagined was actually being perpetrated against them, but there seemed nothing that could be done.  Small groups of volunteers had sought to enter the Morgul Vale to seek out news of those who’d been taken and possibly recover them, but they’d barely been able to come within sight of the bridge leading into the ruined city before they were laid upon by orcs and evil Men and had been forced to flee for their lives.  Some six had not returned now, one of them Túrin son of Belgardamir, the current Lord of Pelargir.  Gandalf now went with still another small company of scouts, this time coming close enough to look down on the ruined spectacle of the fouled meads and noisome river that guarded the Nazgûl’s stolen stronghold, but it was plain they would not be able to cross over to search out the missing or to discover their enemies’ secrets—a veritable army of orcs stood between them and the gates to Minas Morgul, patrolling on both sides of the poisoned stream.  They returned with downcast hearts to make their sad reports to the Steward, who quietly dismissed them before returning to his sister’s side.

            When messenger birds from Radagast arrived in Minas Tirith, Saruman agreed to travel to Thranduil’s home to meet with the Brown Wizard and the Elven King regarding his most recent tidings.  The Elves of what had been Greenwood the Great were definitely under siege from Dol Guldur, and the numbers of the great spiders within the forest had multiplied alarmingly.  Fighting against orcs and evil Men had become a daily occurrence, and three settlements south of the King’s Citadel had been emptied in recent attacks, all within them slain or taken prisoner and carried away.  Two children only had they been able to recover, and one of those was fading.  Neither spoke at all, while the child who was dying gibbered with fear if anyone touched the back of his head.  Gandalf sent for Elrond, who had returned to his home in the north, and the Peredhel arrived a few days after the child’s death.  Examining the body told little, however.  Between them he and Gandalf were able to settle the remaining child into a deep healing sleep, and Gandalf carefully probed the elfling’s memories and dreams.  What he gleaned from this examination he shared with their host, his fellow Wizards, and Elrond, grim with what he’d learned.

            “They have been treated in a manner designed to waken in them carnal awareness,” he said.  “Not that these two were of an age to be ready for such experiences, of course.  They saw their mother and other females repeatedly violated, and all male children were treated as they themselves were.  None were allowed to speak, and most were repeatedly struck on the back of the head.  At least five had been blinded when these two were rescued.  The two grown ellyn taken with them were forcibly blinded and their tongues cut from their heads, and both were kept bound and were abused in terrible ways each evening.  The indications are that they are being prepared for forcible breeding.”

            “But no one can force an Elf to conceive a child unwilling!” Thranduil objected.

            “No, not under normal circumstances,” agreed Gandalf.  “But these were being terribly abused and were being made to forget themselves, to lose touch with their very fëar.  Remember, my friend, that Morgoth himself took Elves and twisted and corrupted them through unspeakable torture into becoming the first orcs.”

            Radagast’s voice was hoarse with horror as he noted, “Then it would appear that the Necromancer seeks to—improve—his strains of orcs through infusion of new breeding stock.”

            Gandalf nodded.  “And it appears that similar practices are being pursued behind the walls of Mordor as well, perhaps overseen by the Witch-king himself.  They have been doing their best to capture alive those of the nobility of all of the Children of Ilúvatar, as if in doing so they hope to twist them the further and breed in the leadership inherent in their lineages.”

            All shuddered at the thought of such a terrible doom for those who had been captured.

 *******

            The three Wizards and Elrond joined with Thranduil’s captains and Council in strengthening the Elves’ protections, but although they were able to work some powerful magics, all agreed that this would undoubtedly prove in the end to have been too little too late.

            “We must learn for certain just who it is that rules from Dol Guldur,” Gandalf grumbled quietly to Radagast and Thranduil’s dark-haired son Theron one day.  Saruman was conveniently out of earshot, having gone out with Thranduil himself on a patrol intent on wiping out a recently discovered breeding ground for the spiders.  The White Wizard had continued to maintain that the Necromancer could not be Sauron, and to caution all to remain distant from his stronghold in the ruins of what had been Oropher’s palace in the days before the Last Alliance.  “Until we know for certain none will be safe.”

            Radagast shrugged ruefully.  “As if we would be any safer were we to be certain that it is Sauron returned,” he responded.  “It does not matter whether we know for certain or not.  Evil the Necromancer is, and he will not be any the less evil if we prove him to be the Deceiver wearing the Necromancer’s mask.”

            Gandalf had to agree.

            When they came away north, Gandalf and Saruman left behind one of the messenger birds that Radagast had sent for them so that they might be advised should any greater evil befall Gondor while they were away.  They’d been nearly two years engaged upon their labors in Thranduil’s realm when one day the bird fluttered down upon Radagast’s shoulder, clearly at the end of its strength as it held out its leg to which a message carrier had been affixed.

            Radagast removed the metal capsule and opened it, removing a tiny scroll.  He opened and read the message, and his eyes went dark with impotent fury.  “Here!” he said, handing the message on to Saruman.  “I’ll see to it that steeds are readied for you to make as swift a journey to Minas Tirith as is possible,” he said to Gandalf, before he turned to Elrond.  “I suggest you go with them.  I think they will require your healing skills, my Lord Elrond.”

            Saruman’s face had gone still with concern.  He raised his eyes to meet those of the Grey Wizard and the Master of Imladris.  “Boromir has retaken control of Ithilien, but all has since gone ill with him.  In retaliation an army was sent from the Morgul Vale to Osgiliath.  Boromir stood upon the bridge with his most valiant Men to hold off the attack long enough to see the bridge destroyed, and a terrible apparition came forward to face him.  A wraith-like being struck at Boromir with his weapon, but did not slay him.  The knife wielded by the apparition, said to have been perhaps Túrin of Pelargir, was a Morgul blade.  It is said that the Steward’s son fights with all of his will to hold himself from the blade’s fell magic, and Denethor begs us to return with all speed.”

            Gandalf, Saruman, and Elrond were riding southwest toward Gondor within an hour, and arrived at Cair Andros within record time.  Two days later they thundered across the Pelennor, and the gates to the capitol were opened to them.  All pulled aside as the three rode up through the city until they reached the stable at the foot of the ramp to the seventh level.

            Boromir was in the Houses of Healing, where the Warden himself had been attending him.  “The wound did not appear to be serious at first—merely a flesh wound to his upper right arm.  The skin knit rapidly enough!   When Lord Boromir told me he feared that a shard of the blade had remained within the wound, I did not believe him.  Ah, but if only I had listened and sought to remove it then!  There is definitely something within, and it seeks ever to work its way to his heart.  And what will happen should it reach that destination I fear to think!”

            Together Saruman, Elrond, and Gandalf worked to save the Steward’s son, and Denethor stood by them throughout most of their labors.  At last Elrond brought out a crystal pendant intended for use in scrying from his gear, and held it over the stricken Gondorian’s body.  Slowly he moved it across the Man’s chest, until he came to a position just to the right of the breast bone, at which point the crystal began circling rapidly over the skin, and the crystal went dark as if ink had been poured into it to mar its clarity.

            “The shard rests here now,” he murmured.  “We must remove it immediately if we are not to see him lost.”

            Saruman and Gandalf stood by singing as the one known to be the greatest healer in all of Middle Earth chose his finest blades to open Boromir’s flesh in search of the shard.  Three hours later, just as the Sun set behind Mindolluin, Elrond gave a cry of triumph and held up his fine tongs, a sliver of black metal held between the blades.  “Yé!  Utúvienyes!” he said.  “Here is the terrible thing that has troubled Lord Boromir for so many days of torture!”

            The shard was laid upon a wooden tray, wrapped in silk, and set aside under strict watch until Anor should be high in the sky on the following day, under whose light it could be destroyed utterly.  But although they washed the wound with water in which athelas and other healing herbs had been steeped, Boromir never recovered fully.  He was to know great pain for the remainder of his days, which did not last as long as a decade and a half, merely twelve years after he succeeded his father to the Black Chair and White Rod.

            The reports of those who had stood by Boromir in defense of the way into western Osgiliath were distressing.  Those who had led the assault upon the bridge had been orcs of a new sort, tall and black and utterly fearless.  Uruk-hai, so they were called; warrior orcs of terrible strength and cunning.  And accompanying them had been lesser wraiths whose features were familiar.  One had appeared to be the missing son of the Prince of Dol Amroth, while the one who’d wielded the Morgul knife that had pierced Boromir’s arm had seemed to be Túrin son of Belgardamir of Pelargir.  Two of Boromir’s companions upon the bridge had attacked the wraith who’d struck at their Captain, and one had managed to cut its head from its body, at which it appeared to lose the integrity of its form and fell to naught, its ragged clothing falling in upon itself.  So shocked were they at this small victory they forgot about its fellow, and one more had almost fallen to a second stroke from a cursed knife ere they managed to destroy it, too.  They’d borne the second knife away, wrapped in the tatters of Boromir’s cloak, but when they’d sought to show it to Denethor before the Citadel it had melted away as the Sun’s light struck it.

            “It is an end to Osgiliath,” declared the Steward once the reports had been shared with the two Wizards.  “I will not see more of my people lost to no good purpose there.  We will keep outposts in the ruins of the city, but no longer will we allow any of our private citizens to dwell there.  The great uruks have left it in utter ruins, and so it shall remain.”

            Gandalf reluctantly agreed that it appeared that Denethor had the right of it.

Claiming Wergild

            Léod found his son in the stable, once again brushing the coat of his new stallion into copper brilliance.  At fifteen Eorl considered himself to be already a Man grown, and the steed he’d chosen from the royal herd was intended to support that perception.  “You would shine out as brightly as the Sun herself, my son?” the father asked, a fond smile on his face.

            The youth shrugged, glancing briefly at his father before returning his attention to his steed.  “Wildefyr shall serve me well, Father.  And when we must take the field against our foes, our men shall easily see where I am within the press.”

            Léod shook his head.  “What attracts the eye of one’s followers is also capable of drawing the eye of one’s enemy.”

            Eorl gave another shrug as he finished with his task and set his brushes aside.  “That is true.  But I shall never be accounted a coward who hides in the midst of his men.”

            “Never that,” agreed his father.

            “When will you choose a new mount?” Eorl asked as he brought a light blanket to strap over Wildefyr’s back against possible chill in the autumn night.  “Windstar grows old now, and cannot run as fast as once he did.”

            “I have chosen, but as yet the horse has refused to answer to my mastery,” Léod answered. 

            The youth snorted.  “Whitmane is of the Mearas.  Yea, you captured him as a foal and gave him the Royal Herd as his own when he grew to maturity, and he may lead our horse herds but will allow none to ride him.  For all it is said that Lord Béma may have given the Mearas into our protection, although they may tolerate our presence among them and might suffer our taking from amongst their sons and daughters by our mares steeds for our riding, yet they will not allow any Man to take mastery over themselves.  Whitmane allows none to approach him or to lay hand upon him, not even to groom him.  How is it that you think to convince him to accept saddle or bridle?”

            Léod flushed, but kept his temper.  “I will keep at it until he has no choice but to submit to my will.”

            “One who is forced to accept the mastery of another is rarely a willing partner,” Eorl answered, quoting one of the proverbs of their people.

            “Then how would you bring the likes of Whitmane to bear you?” his father asked, only a trace of his impatience to be heard in his voice.

            Eorl shrugged, staring out the door to the stable to watch the horse herds far down the draw toward the river, Whitmane clear to be seen amongst his mares and their colts in the darkening twilight.  He was quiet for a time before he finally said, “I would woo him, I think.  He is not one to be won by force, but by persistent courtesy.”

            Léod shook his head and threw his hands up into the air, exclaiming, "Courtesy?  To a horse?”

            Eorl did not respond, instead filling Wildefyr’s manger.  Léod sighed.  In his heart he knew that his son was right.  There was none in all of their lands that was a better one for training the younger horses to bridle and saddle than Eorl, after all.  Why, the youth appeared able to speak in the tongue of the horse itself, and it was murmured behind hands by many that Lord Béma himself had touched him as an infant to give him that gift.  But rather than being frustrated that his son outstripped him when it came to the taming of horses, Léod was instead proud of Eorl, and was certain that great deeds lay in store for his son and heir.

            “Do ye ken ye the Holbytla with the hair on his feet?”  Eorl began singing under his breath a song that was commonly sung among children of their people, and as he finished his own rounds checking on the other horses housed within the stable, Léod joined with him.  Windesmare appeared to be comfortable, there within her stall, her belly swollen with the young she bore within her.  He judged that within the next four days she would be ready to deliver.  As they finished their song, he paused to watch her mouthing at her grain daintily.  Nay, no gorging for this one, so close to her time! 

            Finished at last with his own chores, Eorl joined his father, smiling at the mare.  “She will drop her get within the next few days,” Eorl assured him.

            Léod pretended offense.  “And do ye think me ignorant of the ways of horseflesh, my son?” he protested.  “I can see that with my own two eyes, you know!  You with your songs of the Holbytla and all!”  He took up the shuttered lantern and they headed for the door, where he blew out the lantern and hung it upon its proper peg.

            “Are there indeed Holbytla in this world of ours?” asked Eorl as the young man pushed the door shut and swung the bar across it to keep the cold off of the expectant mother and her fellows.

            His father shrugged, pulling his cloak more tightly about himself as they moved up the hill to the mead hall upon its peak.  “It is said that they lived in the valley of the great river and along the banks of its tributaries back in the days when we lived further south, before the evil creatures from the darkling woods and from the mountains beyond the golden ones swarmed over the grasslands to drive all who dwelt in those lands away.  As to whether the Holbytla remain anywhere along the valley of the great river—who could say?  Reports are that in the years of great fires and no rain most went west, up into the passes of the mountains, or south toward the lands held by the Lords of Stone and Sea.

            “It is said that we once lived near to the Lords of Stone and Sea, also, and that we have kindred amongst them, and that one of their Kings married the daughter to one of ours, so that we are kindred from afar.  If one can imagine any of our people reaching out to those who ply the Sea.”

            “Have you ever seen the Sea?” Eorl asked as they reached the doors of the hall and their guards pulled them open to allow the entrance of their Lord and his son.

            Léod gave a great shrug.  “And how am I to have done such a thing?  I have been only as far as the Iron Hills to treat with the Dwarves there for steel and bronze, although they told me that their far kindred west of the mountains dwell sufficiently close to the Sea to come there within a day or two’s journey further westward.  They are a strange people, the Dwarves, and they do not love us overmuch since the days of Fram, who insulted them by sending them the teeth of Scatha the Worm as a necklace when they sought to claim Scatha’s hoard as having been stolen from their treasuries.”  He had his cloak off by now, and one of his brother’s daughters reached to take it, along with that Eorl had just shed as well.  No cloak was needed here, with the fire in the central pit roaring high above its logs.

            Hands of their warriors reached out companionably from the tables to touch them as they went by, and there were greetings on all sides.  It was not until they reached the high table and all of the company was risen to stand with them that Eorl could ask any more questions.  Once his father had sat and all others within the hall followed suit, Eorl asked, “And why are there two woods, one darkling and one golden?”

            “What can I say?” his father responded.  “Have I ever seen either of them?  The Dwarves of the Iron Hills tell of them, but speak of them with disgust.  There is no great love either between the folk of the hills and those of the forests, after all.  They tell that some of their kind were once friendly with the King of the Elves Over-mountains, but that said King allowed the Lord of the Dark into his counsels until he at last betrayed the Elves of that land.  Since that day there has been but little commerce between the two peoples, and perhaps that is as it should be.  She who is accounted the Lady of the Golden Wood is uncanny and the mistress of many unwholesome magics as is told in all of the stories of her that I have ever heard.  Little good can be found in seeking word of the Fair Folk, or so it has long been said.  Those who do not die of age have but little to teach those of us who hope to know little more than three score and ten years upon this Middle Earth, after all.”

            And Eorl took these words to heart, repeating them oft to others even after he became King in his own right and led his people to new lands given them by others.

 *******

            Three days later Léod was awakened by a pounding upon the door to his bedchamber, he and his wife rousing to full awareness with a degree of alarm.  “My Lord!” cried a voice Léod recognized as that of one of those who kept watch in the stables overnight.  “My Lord!  Windesmare, she has come to her time, and struggles even now to drop her foal!”

            “Summon Eorl as well!” Léod called back, already rising from his bed and drawing on his breeks. 

            “But he is not here, my Lord!  He went out, called by one of the herdsmen who brought word of wolves being seen to the west!”

            This news left the King disheartened, for if there was none better amongst his people for taming young steeds, so Eorl was equally gifted in calming a straining mare.  Well, he could not fault Eorl for being abroad seeing to the welfare of their horse herds when wolves were reported!  He would have to do what he could with the help of his stablemen.

            But it was soon plain that this was to be no simple birth, for it appeared that Windesmare bore not a single foal but twins, and that the two creatures each impeded the birth of the other.  All of the morning and much of the afternoon Léod and his men labored over the struggling mare before Eorl, himself weary with many hours riding and tracking after but little sleep, returned bearing three wolf skins to show for his efforts.  Hearing the news, he took but a little time to wash before joining his father in Windesmare’s stall.  He managed to sort out hooves, and soon one of the colts was born, but they could not coax it to take a breath.  As for the mare, well, it was not good with her.  Realizing they were losing her, Eorl shook his head at his father, and he took his dagger to open the womb to draw forth the second foal.  Léod himself gave Windesmare the mercy stroke before turning his attention to the struggle over the second foal, who at last shuddered and took breath, raised its weary head, and sneezed out of its nose the last of the birth fluid.  Carefully they rubbed at it with rough but absorbent sacking, and soon it was struggling to its feet.  One of the other mares who’d recently given birth was coaxed to accept this second foal, although they’d have to watch her to make certain that she continued her reluctant welcome; and at last Léod and Eorl returned to the hall, both exhausted.

            Eorl was concerned, for his father’s response to the loss of the mare was not good.  Léod had helped in Windesmare’s own birth, and had held her in special regard since the day she was foaled.  To lose her so not only caused him great grief, but made him angry against the fates.  That night Léod ate little, even at his wife’s urging, and drank far too much.  Eorl at last gave up trying to reassure his father that all that could have been done for the mare had been given her, for his head swam with weariness and his own measure of grief.  At last he bade his father a farewell he doubted the older Man heard, and he sought his own bed.

            When he awoke shortly after dawn, it was to find that a few of his father’s closer companions were huddled together out of the draft from the doors to the hall, drinking watered ale and eating bread smeared with honey, discussing the fact that their Lord, obviously drunken, had gone forth in the night intending to find Whitmane and to force himself upon the stallion.

            “And you sought not to dissuade him?” chided the King’s son.

            “What were we to do?” asked the oldest of the four of them.  “Were we to bar our King from going out by holding him bodily?  You know how Léod would be likely to respond to that!”

            “Then why did you not go with him?” Eorl demanded.

            “He forbade it!”

            A second added, “Indeed, we sought to follow after him, but he turned upon us and threatened to show us the flat of his blade if we did not leave him to his own devices.”

            One of the doorwards confirmed this, and Eorl sighed, rubbing wearily at his temple.  Finally he called out for someone to bring him his sword and riding cloak, and once he was suitably attired for the grey weather to be seen outside the hall he went out in search of his father.

            He spotted Whitmane at midmorning leading his herd southward, the stallion’s eyes wide with fury as he nipped at the flanks of an older colt to force it to keep up with its dam.  The young Man watched after the horses with concern before turning Wyldefyr to follow the herd’s back trail, hoping against hope to find his father sitting upon the ground in an undignified manner, cursing perhaps a broken arm or cracked rib.  Instead, about an hour after he last saw Whitmane he heard a wail of grief that caused him to spur his steed onward.  He topped a slight rise, and found below him in a steep-sided gulley one of the herders kneeling over a broken shape lying in the shallows of one of the streams that watered their lands. 

            The King had been found, and it was obvious that he’d suffered more than a broken bone and wounded pride.  The scarred turf told its own tale.  It appeared that Léod had tried to take Whitmane by force without the benefit of saddle or bridle, and that he’d at last been thrown, striking his head against a water-scoured rock along the stream’s bed as he fell.  No longer would Léod rule as the King of the Éothéod in their current lands in the headwaters of the Anduin.  As young as he was, Eorl now must follow his father as Lord of their people and its horse herds!

 *******

            Eorl’s mother and cousins cried out in grief and loss when the King’s body was brought back to his mead hall, borne folded over the back of a young gelding that in turn was led by Eorl riding Wyldefyr.  The herdsman that Eorl had found huddled over Léod’s broken form told his tale of being rousted from his rest by the King and set to find the whereabouts of the Royal Herd.  They’d searched through the night, and had as the sky began to grey found Whitmane and those mares and colts he kept closest to himself running north, down in a gulley along the stream’s bed.   The herdsman was sent by Léod to head off Whitmane before he reached the next turn, where there was a place where the horses could climb up onto the flats; while the King dismounted, slithering down into the gulley to face the herd should it turn back along the way it had come.

            Whitmane stopped the herd’s career at the sight of the herder, and turned his mares and colts with an imperious neigh of challenge.  But the sight of Léod in their path, a looped rope in his hands, before they’d gone a full furlong back along their path appeared to infuriate the stallion.

            Whitmane and Léod faced one another while the rest of the herd drew back, sidling and snorting, caught between the two Men.  Finally Whitmane sought to push past the King, who managed to get his loop of rope around the stallion’s neck and set his feet. 

            According to the herder, the struggle had been arduous indeed, but finally the King had the horse almost wedged between a great boulder and the gulley’s wall, at which time he clambered swiftly atop the rock and from it leapt onto the stallion’s back.

            Whitmane had screamed his fury, and had bucked and kicked before taking off at a run, Léod crying out in triumph as he clung to the great animal’s back as tightly as a burr.  Down the course of the gulley the stallion fled, his eyes wide and his mouth foaming.  At last the horse sought to scrape the Man off his back by running close to an outcrop, and Léod quickly moved his leg up where it could not be caught on the rock.  Feeling the shift in the hated rider’s posture, Whitmane had suddenly begun again to buck, and this time he was successful in ridding himself of his burden.  Thrown sideways, Léod had fallen headfirst, and he’d not survived the fall.

            Eorl pondered the tale he was told, and he watched as the women of the Royal Dun prepared the old King’s body for burial.

 *******

            Three weeks after Léod’s body was sealed into its tomb the new King of the Éothéod stood up after finishing hearing disputes throughout the morning and indicated that he would be riding out that night with seven of his Men, and that they would be gone for perhaps two to three weeks.

            “And where do you go?” demanded the eldest of his advisors.

            “To claim wergild,” Eorl answered.

            The Men of his Council looked questioningly from one to another for several minutes before the eldest asked, “And from whom would you demand wergild?  And for whose loss?”

            Their young King examined the old Man’s face consideringly before at last answering, “I go to demand wergild for my father’s death.”

            “And from whom would you demand such payment?  In what kind?”

            Eorl’s expression did not change as again he considered the one questioning him, finally responding, “I will demand it from the one who killed him, of course.  As for what kind of payment I will demand—well, if you would learn that perhaps you should follow so that you can see for yourself.”

            In the end it seemed half the royal household followed Eorl and his Men out into the pasturelands where the horse herds roamed, where three herders awaited them to lead them to the area where Whitmane had led his mares and foals.  It took two days to catch up to the Royal Herd, at which time Eorl ordered the observers to stay well back and not to interfere, and then set his chosen companions to circle the herd at a distance that would not make the horses uncomfortable enough to bolt but to keep it from moving from its current feeding ground.  Once that was done, he began his slow but relentless wooing of the herd stallion, riding a mare among the horses but doing so slowly and in such a manner it was obvious that he had no intentions of molesting any of them, but always keeping within fifty rods of Whitmane.  After three days the mares and yearlings tolerated his presence, merely sidling out of his path as he cut through them.  He closed the distance between himself and the stallion to forty rods, and then thirty, and then twenty-five.  Within ten days he was riding at Whitmane’s shoulder, constantly speaking softly and gently to the great steed; on the twelfth day he suddenly dismounted and approached the stallion directly.

            He stood now some paces in front of the great white horse, and staring directly at its eyes he called in a voice of command, “Come hither, Mansbane, and get a new name!”

            The horse snorted and the muscles rippled under his hide, but then, to the surprise of all, he slowly approached the young Man, stopping only just beyond Eorl’s reach.

            Eorl gave but the slightest of nods, and said, “Felaróf I name you.  You have loved your freedom, and I do not blame you for that.  But now you owe me a great wergild, and you shall surrender your freedom to me until your life’s end.”  With that he stepped forward and laid his hand upon the great steed’s neck, and the newly renamed Felaróf bowed his head as if in surrender.  A strange smile on his face, the young King twined his hands in the horse’s mane, gave a great leap and then a scramble, and was astride.

            For a moment the horse appeared startled, but only took a few steps backwards before settling under Eorl’s weight.  At a slight kick to the ribs, Felaróf stepped forward, tentatively at first, and then more confidently, as Eorl directed the horse to the camp.

            Watching among those who’d accompanied their new ruler out into the horse runs was one that Eorl did not recognize—a tall, older Man with a long grey beard and clothed in grey robes with a tall hat upon his head.  Eorl slid off his mount and faced it, indicating one of his grooms.  “This is Belarus, who serves those horses that dwell in the royal stable.  When you must be near to me, he will serve you, too.  Go with him, and he will give you a hot mash and fresh water, and show you where you will spend the night.  Tomorrow you shall bear me home to the Royal Dun.  You will be allowed most times to continue to run with your mares, but there will be times when I will require that you bear me on trips about my lands, and perhaps on long journeys.  I shall never force you to wear bridle or saddle, but you shall bear me because you know that you owe me this service.  Do you understand?”

            The horse gave a deep nod of his great head, and thrust his muzzle hard against the Man’s chest, almost knocking him down.  But Eorl held his ground and fondled the great ears, then sent the horse on its way with a gentle slap to his shoulder.

            He was tired, for the wooing of his new mount had taken a good deal of concentration.  Food and drink were being thrust into his hands, and he realized that his belly was almost hollow.  He allowed himself to be led to the tent set up for his own use, and folded himself upon a highly carved stool to eat the meal prepared for him.  About him were the seven riders who’d accompanied him as well as one of his male cousins and two of his late father’s oldest Councilors.  “Who is that?” he asked around a mouthful of grouse, nodding his head toward the grey-clad stranger.

            One of the older Men gave the newcomer a sideways glance.  “I had not seen him for many years, but once he visited our people regularly, back before your father ruled us.  Gandalf Greyhame is he called.  It is said that he is a Wizard of great power, but mostly he is one who watches to see what we do, and he will oft tell us of news of other lands and offer counsel that usually has proved wise to consider.  It was told me by my grandsire that he delights to move Men to meet his will, but I have never seen him attempt to do so.  But, then I was still quite young when last he came amongst us.”

            Eorl examined the Wizard as well as he could in the fading daylight, considering the distance between them.  What did he know of the nature of such folk? he wondered.  Well, there was nothing he saw that he needed to do about the visitor this night.  No, this night he would sleep, and sleep deeply.  He had succeeded in winning the loyalty of the very horse that had been the death of his father, and he knew that the story would be told and retold—with suitable embellishments, of course—around their fires from now on, wherever their people found themselves.  He was happily tired when he finally thrust his now empty drinking horn and wooden trencher at his kinsman and went into the tent, falling onto his bedroll and into a deep sleep almost immediately.

 *******

            The following day Gandalf accompanied the party back to the Royal Dun, and took part in the feast thrown to celebrate Eorl’s first great victory as King of the people of the Éothéod.  He watched the young King intently.  His manner of winning the trust of his new mount had been of great interest to the Wizard, and he saw that he did similarly with his people, always listening, showing he paid attention, talking softly and to the point, and making it plain that he watched all and that he cared for each person who came into his presence.  Each one with whom he spoke received a gentle touch to the shoulder and a personal smile or a witty comment, and each gave his heart to the young Man in return. 

            “Now,” Gandalf commented softly to himself, “I would say that this people will be well, well served by their new King, and he will be well served by them.  Good---very, very good!”

            As the evening progressed, he heard one of those who’d accompanied the King out to tame the horse who’d been known as Whitmane but who was now known as Felaróf telling the story to some of the children who’d attended the feast.  “Oh, the King and his fellows trailed the great steed for many, many days.  Long they sought him, and long he avoided him.  But at last they came even with him, and the King called him forth, saying, ‘Come hither, Mansbane, and get a new name!”

            The children listened, entranced by the pictures painted in their imaginations by the tale they heard, and when the warrior told them of how the King then rode the horse back to his stronghold without benefit of saddle or bridle, all the children squealed with delight.  At last, the tale done, the children answered the calls of their parents to retire to their own places.

            Gandalf stood over the storyteller until the Man raised his brows inquiringly.  “That wasn’t precisely how it happened,” the Wizard said, carefully making certain that there was no tone of condemnation in his voice.

            The Man smiled.  “Perhaps not, but this makes for a better story, don’t you think?  You know, I think that I could do with another horn of mead!”

            And so the Grey Wizard joined Eorl’s warriors as they drank and competed for who could tell the most thrilling tale of their own or their forebears’ adventures.

Darkness beneath the Mountains

            Elrond could not say why the idea of his wife accompanying their children to her parents’ realm bothered him so.  It was not as if it were a new idea or a journey none of them were accustomed to.  Celebrían had even made the journey with but a small escort on at least three occasions, as was true of Arwen as well and even more often.  Elladan and Elrohir were accomplished warriors who fought often at the sides of the Lords of the Dúnedain as well as serving as scouts for Glorfindel’s warriors.  No one could take either of them unawares, and the two of them fought so well together that there were those among the orcs who referred to them as the Great Warrior in Two Bodies.  And both Celebrían and Arwen had trained with both blade and bow.

            With all of this true, why did the idea of the four of them traveling to Lothlórien at this time trouble him so?  If only he would have a clear vision to give him an idea as to what threat it was he sensed!

            Two days before the party was to leave the valley, Elrond found himself, while walking the path of dreams, looking down upon the Hithaeglir as if he were flying among the Great Eagles.  East of the mountains the land was brown and sere, for there had been repeated droughts for the past several summers.  Few Men could be seen upon the plains above the Celebrant, and even those animals native to them had withdrawn to the eaves of the great forest that was no longer referred to as Greenwood the Great.  Little traffic could be discerned anywhere, even in the passes of the mountains where usually parties of Dwarves and Men sought to bring trade from one side of the Misty Mountains to the other.

            West of the range there was more activity both near the feet of the mountains and in its high places.  That intrigued him, and he circled lower, trying to discern what it was the moved in the shadows beneath the rocky walls and in the darker valleys.

            Yrch!  There were thousands of orcs to be seen all along the westward slopes of the mountain where the height of the prominences protected them from the brilliance of the sunrise to the east.  All through the region between Imladris and the pass of Caradhras he could see the foul creatures teeming!  And he could sense the malevolence of their purpose as if it were a foul reek emanating from them.

            He roused to full awareness, for he believed he now knew what it was that had been causing his disquiet.

 *******

            “You must travel east of the mountains,” he told Celebrían as they broke their fast together, having disclosed his vision to her.  “The westward slopes are filled with yrch-kind and trolls, and I sense that their intent is to rend and destroy.”

            “You are certain of this, meldonya?” she asked.

            “As certain as I can be,” he answered her.

            She considered this for a time, and at last met his gaze, her own expression perplexed.  “You know what my naneth has said, that too oft in going out of one’s way in order to avoid bringing one future to be one without intent makes that particular future certain.”

            “I do not see a particular future, my beloved—I merely see that foul creatures mass on the western slopes of the Hithaeglir.”

            “Yet in your vision, you have indicated that you saw this when Anor had risen east of the mountains, but was not yet high enough to shine upon the lands of Eriador.  Had Anor been near setting rather than just rising, would it not be possible that the yrch-kind might have been more active east of the mountains rather than to the west, as at that time the shadows would have filled the eastern slopes?”

            What could he answer?  Certainly her reasoning was sound.  But, was it sound enough?  All he could do was to tell her that his heart told him that the eastern route, at this time, was most likely safer than to travel down the Greenway until they should turn off over the Redhorn Gate.

            Still, he also gave warnings to Elladan and Elrohir, Arwen, and to Curufil and his wife Celestië, who were chief guard to Celebrían and mistress of her handmaidens, and exacted promises that each would do his or her best to persuade Celebrían to take the eastward paths as much as possible.

            “I will do as I can,” promised Curufil.

            Celestië sighed.  “But if she should prove willful …” she began, but did not finish.

            “I ask only that you advise her,” Elrond assured the two of them.  “I cannot say why it is that I think of her as being in the most danger, but that is the warning I feel in my heart.”

            Curufil nodded his understanding, while Celestië murmured, “It shall be as you say.”  The warnings felt in the heart of Elrond Eärendilion were not to be taken lightly.

 *******

            Glorfindel led forth a large contingent of warriors to sweep the High Pass of possible enemies before Celebrían’s party left Imladris.  They checked all of the usual paths used by those traversing the pass as well as probing anywhere orcs or mountain trolls might lie concealed.  Several doors into goblin dens were sealed as effectively as possible, the blocked entrances marked for Curufil’s scouts to recognize as Elrond’s wife and children passed that way.  A mixed party of Men and Dwarves coming from the valley of the Anduin made their report on the state of the pass on the eastern slopes of the mountains.  They’d noted but one party of orcs north of the pass, which made off further northward at speed as soon as it was recognized it had been seen.

            Elrond, accompanied by Glorfindel and two other most trusted warriors, accompanied the party up the High Pass and halfway down the eastern way.  Seldom did the Lord of Imladris wear a sword in these latter days, but he did so during that journey, seeking to offer what protection he could to his family as they set off east and south to Lothlórien.  As he at last kissed his wife and children in a final farewell, he murmured, “Please, my best beloved, return safely to me, and keep to the eastern road.”

            “I shall do my best, meldonya,” Celebrían returned, but she would not promise more than that.

            Elrond watched after her with a heavy heart, and prayed that the Valar should watch over her and their children before he turned back westward to return to their home.

 *******

            She is here, and they all arrived safely, Elrond.

            Elrond straightened from where he’d been bending over a letter he’d been preparing for Círdan, surprised at this unexpected touch on his mind.  “Galadriel?” he asked, both aloud and using osanwë.  Few of the Elves within Middle Earth used osanwë at all, and no one throughout the Mortal Lands other than his wife’s naneth could—or would even attempt to—use it over such distances as Galadriel could project her thought.

            She has told us of your concerns.  I agree with them, and have told her so.  I will do what I can to convince her to return the same way as she came to us.  With that, Galadriel removed her attention, and he sighed with relief.

 *******

            Azog sat on the throne-like chair he’d taken for his own, glaring at the one who’d come from Dol Guldur, the one who had named himself the Mouth of Sauron.  “So,” the great orc growled.  “So, several of the she-Elves have come to the hidden wood.  What of it?”

            “The Master wishes one or more captured for his purposes.  Those that come from the north return there in the fullness of time.  Keep thou an eye upon the paths into and out of the forest of the Elf-witch, and when they come forth again, take one or more of them for thine own.  Thou knowest the manner in which Elves are forged into orcs—do what thou must to bring at least one of them to that estate.  Do this, and thou shalt be well rewarded for thine efforts.  In time another of the Master’s greater servants shall be sent to fetch her, and from her our Dark Lord shall bring forth other great ones to harry his enemies.”

            Azog straightened.  “Others to challenge the likes of me, you mean?  Others from whom he shall choose the one to supplant me here in this realm I have made my own?”

            His—guest’s—laughter made even the great Azog the Defiler to shudder.  “And for what reason would the Master seek to supplant thee?  Hast thou had designs upon other realms—say, perhaps thou seekest the rule of his fortress of Dol Guldur, or wouldst be the new Lord of Mordor itself once it is renewed?  Nay, neither of these posts dost thou desire?  Then there is no reason to believe that the Eye is upon thee with disfavor.  Nay, there are more dark realms under the earth than merely this one, and other places to send such orcs as he would see bred by such a one as he seeks.  And there are places where the Elves hide themselves that would tremble to see such orcs as the Master would see brought forth standing upon their doorsteps.  Thou hast been charged with this task ere this.  Why hast thou failed our Dread Lord up to this time?”

            And yet you say that I am not looked upon with disfavor, Azog thought resentfully.  “It is not without effort on our part,” he said, at last turning his eyes away from the ruined Man who stood before him.  “Yea, the Elves from the north come and go, but always with strong guards.  The Silver Queen and the Daughter of Night are those we see most, but not yet has any of our people been able to lay a single finger upon either, much less those who accompany them.”

            The Mouth leaned forward, and Azog turned to consider him suspiciously.  “Take one of them, however it must be done.  But one is all that the Master asks of you.”

            “How are we to do this?  It is not only those that travel with them that guard them, but also the Witch’s own soldiers, each one of them imbued with the power of her land.  How many times have we sought to enter the hidden paths into her woods only to have our orcs slain cruelly, left to die under the stark stare of the Sun itself?  And we may be many here upon the slopes of the Mountain, but the Elves are not easy to take unawares.  Usually they come and go by the western route, and this route have we watched as we have been charged to do.  But this last time they came down the valley of the Great River rather than over the pass of Caradhras.  We could have taken her upon the Stair----”

            “Then force them to go over the pass when they wouldst leave!”

            Azog paused.  “How would we force them to take the Stair and the Pass rather than to return as they came?”

            The smile given in answer was as hideous as any made by one of Azog’s people.  “Fire the woods along the river’s valley.  There has been drought, has there not?  The woods will not withstand flame, but would burst up in rage with but little provocation.  Why else hast thou thought that rain has been withheld for so long?  Nay, the Master has done what he can to see thee successful in winning him his desired prize.  Let them start north along either the feet of the mountains or the river, and then turn them back with fire once the Witch’s guard have returned to her side.  Force them to come to thee.  And attack them from above.  An Elf may be swift to evade a blade or arrow, but boulders from above when in a narrow place will crush an Elf as surely as it will an orc.”

            For the first time since the arrival of his fell visitor, Azog smiled.

 *******

            The goblin that led Azog into the cavern some three days’ journey north of the eastern doors to Moria bowed in a servile manner and indicated the rough walls of the place.  “We have this place in readiness as you have directed, Lord Azog.  Will it do for what’s to be done here?”

            The great Uruk grunted noncommittally, pushing past the smaller of his brethren so as to go through the whole series of rooms, torch in hand, examining every inch of the miserable place.  There were three chambers, the innermost of which was larger than the second but smaller than the outermost room.

            “These are natural?” Azog asked.

            The smaller orc shrugged.  “Partly natural, partly dug out.

            Azog returned from the central chamber to the innermost one, once again examining it closely, now paying greatest attention to the floor.  At last he looked up to meet the guide’s eyes.  “Clear the floor of all loose stones, even the smallest of pebbles.  And make a firepit—here.  Yes, here.  That raised place there—square it off that it may be used as a place of torture.  And set rings into the stone here, here, and here.  Bring chains heavy enough to burden an Elf, and bands to bind them to the floor.  Make certain that the chains are not long enough to allow our prisoners to stand comfortably.  Niches to hold oil there and there—not too much light for the room.  And this pillar----”  He stopped in front of a great pillar of living stone near the center of the chamber, measuring it up and down.  “Place three rings facing each a different direction, as high as can be managed.  Let those chained here strain to touch the floor!”

            His fellow grinned in evil delight.

            Leading the goblin back to the second chamber, Azog ordered, “Build a forge here, and let there be crucibles for the melting of lead and other metals.  Bring a rack of knives and irons and tongs apt to torture.  High chains there to hold up to five prisoners side by side.  A table there….”

            When he had finished with his orders, the smaller creature essayed, “Then we will know sport here.”

            His own smile cruel, Azog answered, “Oh, indeed we shall know sport—sport such as I have not seen in over an age.  We shall indeed know sport!”

 *******

            A group of six orcs and two Men sent from Dol Guldur were sent to dwell some ways north of the pass with orders to watch for a certain signal, at which time they were to set fire to the dry forests on the slopes of the mountains before retreating into their subterranean passages; westerly winds ought to spread the flames swiftly eastward to the banks of the river.  A path was prepared from the upper chambers of Moria to the heights over the pass of Caradhras that could be easily traversed by orcs even on the brightest of days, and chosen fighters, again both Men and orcs, practiced ascending and descending this route until it could be scaled with little thought.    Another passage was opened from the same chamber in Moria out to an area north of the expected fire zone from which they could more easily come to the caverns where the hoped for she-Elf and those who survived the initial assault were to be taken as soon as they were captured.  All of this was finished swiftly, and there was no sign that the Elves from the north had thought to emerge as yet from the Elf-witch’s domains to return to their own lands.

            Well and good, thought Azog.  He could wait—that he knew.  Now he set himself to do just that, having set watchers to look for anyone emerging from the haze that was all his kind could discern of the cursed Golden Woods.  Once the northern Elves came out from under the protection of the Witch, he would have them swiftly enough.

 *******

            “The two of you could help us, you know,” Arwen called to her brothers, who lounged nearby with a few of the march wardens who’d come in from the bounds of the Golden Wood with word that Celebrían and her party were on their way north, following the route along the eastern slopes of the Hithglaer.  She worked on the lawn at the foot of the mallorn in which her grandparents dwelt.  Her loom had been set up for her here, and she and her handmaiden and friend Celebfiniel, daughter to Celestië and Curufil, were in the process of stringing it with wool from the Shire that she’d brought with her from her father’s house.  She wished to weave a blanket for the child expected by the newest Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain and his wife, and planned to take it with her when she returned home at the beginning of the autumn months.

            “We leave the work of your loom to you, our sister,” Elladan returned.  “We have been helping in the twisting of bowstrings for the past several weeks, and have had our fill of fibers and twists for the moment.”

            Elrohir added, “It is enough for now to contemplate the stringing of a harp.  But one does not play music upon a loom.”

            “Ellyn!” murmured Celebfiniel.  “Too proud to help anyone with any task they feel is best left to others.”

            Arwen laughed and started to answer, but stopped, her eyes suddenly wide as a portion of her awareness was caught by surprise.  Someone, someone she loved dearly, was crying out for aid, but at that moment the output of pain and shock cut short the cry as suddenly as it came.

            “Naneth!” 

            Above her she heard the crash of glass and a terrible cry of grief from her daernaneth.  “Celebrían!” 

            Her brothers had straightened to their feet, their fair faces gone stark with shock and dismay.  “Our mother!  Someone has taken our mother!”

            The loom crashed to the ground, but no one noticed.  Celebfiniel stood stricken.  “My parents!” she whispered.  “My adar—I fear he is dead, and my naneth!  What are they doing with my naneth?”

            “But they are on their way north,” Arwen said.  “How is it they might have been taken by such surprise?”

            From the heights of the talan above them they could hear a quick exchange between Celeborn and Galadriel, and then a great gong was struck and Elves began dropping from their aerial dwellings to gather beneath the mallorn that housed their Lord and Lady, making certain swords and long knives and quivers were in place and stringing their great bows.  Celeborn descended from his talan with a swiftness and purpose Arwen had never seen in him before, calling for volunteers to go forth at his side and seek his daughter and her attendants.  Galadriel, meanwhile, called for Arwen to come up to her.  “Hurry, child!” she called.  “We must prepare things so that we might consult the Mirror!”

            Elladan and Elrohir flanked their daeradar as he began choosing those he would take with him.  Arwen gathered her skirts and began the ascent to her grandmother’s side, but paused at a cry from the path toward the western borders of their land.  A messenger was running toward them.  “There is a long curtain of fire along the eastern slopes of the mountains,” he cried, “starting some leagues north of our borders and stretching from the mountains themselves to the banks of the river!  None can go that way!”

            None can go that way?  But Celebrían, daughter to the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien and wife to Elrond of Imladris, had started that way early that morning from the banks of the Nimrodel accompanied by her guard Curufil, her friend and handmaiden Celestië as well as a few other ladies of her train, and a picked guard of warriors from both Lórien and Rivendell.  If none could follow either the path by the river or the one following the feet of the mountains northward, then where had they been driven?

            Galadriel looked westward toward the peak of Caradhras.  Her voice, little better than a murmur for her, yet carried to all gathered beneath the mallorn.  “They would have had to turn back to take the Stair….”

            Arwen felt as if the foundations of her world had fallen away beneath her.  She took a deep breath, focused her attention on her daernaneth’s face, and resumed her climb; but it was an automatic act, for her mind was reeling and her heart felt empty.

 *******

            Word that the assault on the northern Elves had begun reached Azog, and he ascended as swiftly as he could to the upper levels of his personal Dwarf kingdom just as those who’d taken part in the attack withdrew into the chamber with their prisoners.  There were four women, but one was already dead while he wasn’t certain that a second would survive even the beginning of the process that would bring her to his own estate. 

            He examined the two who appeared to be viable, and although with the swelling of their faces he could not be certain of their features, he was reasonably sure that one of them ought to be the Silver Queen.  Neither of the others was the Daughter of Night, and he was relieved that this was so.  Had he taken both of these high-born Elves and one of them was so badly damaged that she died, he was certain that the displeasure he’d suffer from Second Master would have been most harsh, and most likely fatal.  No, better to take one for certain than to deliver a corpse of one that Second Master desired as a possible prize, no matter that the other could be brought to the desired corruption.  As for the male Elves----

            Azog examined them closely.  One was unconscious, but his hair was silver, not the ebon of the foul Peredhel.  Of the two with darker hair, both were clearly of pure blood, and the rest all had hair of fairest gold.  Azog felt his belly clench at the sight of them.  Once, he knew, he had resembled them, but no longer.  Long ago had First Master brought him to his current appearance.  He was far stronger than these, and capable of greater feats than any Elf could achieve, and he had no desire to return to the nature he’d been born with, not that he could remember what that nature might have been.  He would show these, weakened by scruples he did not share, what orcs could do.  Once more he would bring Elves from their allegiance to the Light to depths they’d not realized resided deep within their beings.

            “From those who have been highest come the greatest of our kind,” he murmured to himself before he straightened to face his minions.  “Take them to the place of forging!” he commanded.  “I will follow.”

            He watched with satisfaction as the mixed party of his orcs and Second Master’s mannish servants bore those who’d survived the attack away.

            When it was dark he went out carefully to examine the area where the attack had taken place.  Eleven Elves had died there, and he was again relieved to find none was of such a kind that Second Master would desire.  He let those who accompanied them take the corpses—they deserved a good feed, he believed. 

            Before the Elf-witch’s folk could reach the place it had been scoured clean of all signs of the attack, save for the head of one of those who’d come from her own hidden realm, a fitting taunt left by Azog the Defiler.

Warning--this chapter contains descriptions of the effects of torture and rape.

Failure to Heal

            Gandalf and Saruman sat in a private audience chamber in the keep of the Prince of Dol Amroth, taking part in the questioning of a brother of the current holder of the title who’d recently been rescued from Harad.  There he’d apparently been held as a slave for much of the last seventeen years since his abduction from his pleasure yacht alongside several noble companions.

            “How on earth was he even recognized as the brother to the Prince?” demanded Saruman in a harsh whisper.

            The Grey Wizard could appreciate his White colleague’s apparent uncertainty.  Just looking at the Man before them one could not easily see any resemblance to Inruil, the Prince of Dol Amroth.  One side of his face was heavily scarred, with the eye missing as well as a good part of the corresponding ear.  The scalp was quite bald as well as badly discolored—it was unlikely that any hair could grow upon it now.  Teeth appeared to be missing, and the jaw was stiff and could not open in a normal manner.  It was obvious that speaking was difficult, and Gandalf found himself wondering if the poor creature could even think clearly any longer, much less eat properly.

            But when the Prince shifted in his seat, the remaining eye watched hungrily, and Gandalf was pleasantly surprised to realize that what had appeared to be a grimace of distaste was in reality a delighted—and relieved—smile of recognition.  As for that eye—it was clear enough, once one looked past the scar tissue that disfigured so much of the brow and nose alongside it.

            He could speak, although not clearly, and it took patience to make out all that was being said.

            “I—was struck—heavily—on the—the side—of the head.  I woke in chains.  In chains.  Chains.”  He was looking down now on his hands, which also were disfigured.  All of the fingers on the left hand had been crushed, and the other hand was also badly twisted, although apparently usable.  “We were in the hold—the hold of—a ship.  There was a harbor.  Umbar, I think.  We were brought off the ship in the night, and to a large building.  Several were taken away.  Most—most I—never saw again.  We heard—heard some—some—were given to Sauron.  Killed for him.

            “Evil Men took me.  There were Men, Men and orcs.  They brought three—three friends from—from my yacht.  The Men knew—knew my name, my father.  They wanted me.  Wanted to—to use me.”

            It took time to get the story out of him, but it appeared that the attempt had been made to destroy his identity and his will.  They tortured his friends in front of him, seeking to convince him that if he did what they wished of him they would spare the others.  They even forced him to take part in the torture of one youth of whom he’d been very fond.

            “They wanted—wanted to—taint me.”  He paused before looking intently at his brother.  “I killed him—killed him cleanly, a mercy thrust.  What they’d done to him—they wanted to destroy us all.  Destroy us.  All.”  Gandalf sensed the unspoken cry for understanding and forgiveness.  “They would not have—have let me stop, once they had me begin.  They were angry when they realized what I’d done.  They beat me.  Beat my head.  I almost died myself.  I didn’t—didn’t know myself—for a long time.”

            Once the two Wizards were allowed to return to the room given to their use, Saruman, having made certain that the door was secure and that no one lingered to overhear their discussion, turned upon Gandalf.  “Do you credit what he has told us?  Do you believe he is indeed the missing Anhuil?”

            “Yes.”

            Saruman examined the Grey Wizard’s face closely, his own expression incredulous.  “How can you be certain?” he demanded.  “After all, it has been long believed that one of the lesser wraiths seen amongst those who assailed Boromir in Osgiliath was this Anhuil.”

            Gandalf gave a small shake to his head, wondering how to explain himself in a manner in which his brother Wizard could understand.  “The song of the Sea as it is heard here in Dol Amroth, it is in the Man’s heart and blood.  He is calmed and strengthened by it as by nothing else.  He and his brother know one another, and a simple gesture from the one that no others would see significance to the other responds to—the goblet of wine presented, the hand held, the lifting of the head to listen mirrored.  No one who had not grown up with the Prince would recognize the intent of such gestures, and the same for those who did not grow up with Anhuil.  After all, it is said that Inruil and Anhuil were ever as close as if they’d been born at the same time.  Also, he knows Quenya as it has been spoken here in Dol Amroth.  That lullaby he was humming—I heard it sung by Mithrellas for her son Galador when he was yet an infant, and it is one she heard sung by the Lady Galadriel when Mithrellas was but a small child in her own turn, just after her parents died in Lindon and her uncle brought her to Laurelindórenan for the sake of safety.  Only here, in all of Gondor, is that cradle song commonly sung by parents to soothe a fractious child.”

            “He could be one of the missing companions to Anhuil.”

            But Gandalf’s shake of his head was more emphatic.  “You think that after what his brother has told us of his intimate knowledge of his bedroom and sitting room when first he arrived here from Harad?  And the message that was brought to the Prince that gave him hope that Anhuil was indeed in Harad—the mention of a detail shared by only the two of them would be hard to duplicate by anyone else, no matter how close that one might have been to Anhuil before the yacht and its passengers were taken.

            “Nay,” he continued, “it would appear that the wraith who was seen in Osgiliath was most likely one of Anhuil’s companions from his yacht.  After all, two of those taken with him were sons to their mother’s brother, and were said to resemble both Anhuil and Inruil closely.”

            “But why were those aboard that yacht taken, and why first to Umbar?” grumbled Saruman.

            The Grey Wizard shrugged.  “Many of those taken in the past few decades have been closely related to the rulers of Men, Elves and Dwarves.  In Eriador many who have been related to the Heirs of Isildur have been abducted, even Richeled, kinswoman to Araglas and Arahad, while members of the royal house of Dale and a son to the Lord of Pelargir have been abducted, not to mention two of Dior’s granddaughters, the children of Denethor’s sister.  What better means of causing those who would lead in the defense of their own realms to lose heart than by taking their kinsmen and kinswomen and turning them to evil purposes?”

            Saruman turned to lean upon the windowsill, looking out toward the town that lay beneath the walls of the keep.  “Perhaps more of those who have disappeared are to be found dwelling as slaves in Harad and Umbar, considering the manner in which this wretch was found.”

            “Perhaps,” agreed Gandalf, but what he might have said next was interrupted by a knock upon the door.  Saruman turned to look at him, one brow raised, and at a brief nod from his superior Gandalf went to open the door.  “My Prince?” he said inquiringly. 

            Inruil of Dol Amroth entered the room, followed by a second, older Man.  “This is Amandil, who has served as healer to our family for three decades now.  He watched Anhuil, our sister Lavriniel, and me grow up, and he agrees that this is—is indeed—my brother.”

            Saruman turned from the window to face the healer.  “You are certain of this?”

            The older Man nodded.  “I cannot question his identity.  Where his leg was broken when he was a child shows the place where the bones knit, complete with the small spur that developed once he was healed, and there is the wine stain upon the left side of his back that is as we all remember it, as well as that cluster of three moles on the right upper arm.  He also had his leg tattooed when he was sixteen, a tattoo that became infected and led to the formation of a marked raised scar on his left calf.  There is more scarring there now, but under it the tattoo and the original scarring, which is of a different nature from that caused by the beatings he’s suffered, can still be discerned.  And he asked me why I did not bring out the feathers.”

            Saruman’s lips tightened.  “What is this about feathers?”

            Amandil gave a crooked smile.  “When I deal with infants I often check the sensitivity of their skin by brushing it with a cluster of feathers, and Anhuil loved to play with this cluster, which I often carry with me in my healer’s bag, when I was called in to deal with whatever mishap he’d gotten himself into, not an uncommon occurrence when he was a child and youth.  He tended to take many chances he ought to have avoided while he was growing up.

            “No, my Lord Curunír, I do not question his identity any more than does Prince Inruil.”

            Gandalf asked, “What is it that you wish to share with us, Master Amandil?  Would the two of you wish to sit and be more comfortable?”

            Once Gandalf had brought two chairs for their visitors and they were seated, the healer cleared his throat.  “When the ship returned with Anhuil, Inruil here asked that I examine him and determine if I was assured this was indeed his brother.  As I have explained, I am convinced that this is indeed Anhuil of Dol Amroth.  But what has disturbed me most is what—they—did to him, and apparently from shortly after they took him.  He was—forced, forced many times.  It would appear that they sought to break him through degradation as well as through torture and through forcing him to join them in the tortures inflicted upon others.  When he killed Landhradal rather than allow the boy to continue to be tortured at length by their captors, depriving them of what they had been certain was their greatest hold over him as well as their best means to distort his nature, he raised their ire sufficiently that he was beaten into insensibility, almost to death, as I am certain that you yourselves have deduced.”

            At their indications of understanding, Amandil went on.  “The beating was apparently primarily inflicted by one individual who was prodigiously strong.  He may have been one of the more vicious of the uruks, or a giant of a Man.  The beating was markedly to the one side of his head, breaking his skull and the orbit of the eye and the nose, bursting his eye and costing him even his ear.  His shoulder and arm were both shattered and poorly set, and the kneecap was broken as well.  That he awoke from the injuries to his body and brain is a miracle; that he regained his sensibilities and his awareness of his identity is an even greater one.

            “Indications are, however, that at first they sought to strip him of both his will and his self control, perhaps even his identity, and that they were seeking to bring him to a point of carnal urgency that they could turn to their own purposes.  From what I can tell, they intended to use him—to use him—for breeding.  But the beating he suffered—well, let it be stated simply that what was done to him while he was unconscious made him totally unfit for such a purpose.  So, in the end they sold him into slavery in Harad instead.  And, once he was finally able to communicate fully through writing again, he managed to contrive the sending of a message indicating where he was so that he could be found and won free and brought home again.  He was always highly intelligent, and what he has been able to use of his intelligence has been enough to save him in the end. 

            “But when I went to inspect his manhood—well, they did not fully castrate him, but they did manage to unman him.  I do not believe he will be able to know the joys of congress with a woman ever again.  Nor, after what he has known, do I think him capable of knowing any pleasures of any sort from sexual tenderness.  Even the gentlest of touches evoked such—terror!”

            “He was forced?” murmured Gandalf.

            “Repeatedly,” Inruil affirmed.  “He shuddered terribly when I asked him about it, but at last admitted it.”

*******

            “Well, what do you think?” Gandalf asked his fellow once the healer and the Prince of Dol Amroth had left their quarters.  “It appears that Anhuil was intended to be used in the further breeding of orcs, but proved too resistant to the attempts to corrupt his nature properly.”

            “Is not such a conclusion strictly conjectural in nature?” Saruman responded.

            “What else are we to conclude?”  Gandalf felt extremely frustrated by the White Wizard’s apparent intent to be contrary.  “Think, my friend!  Elven children have been taken and have been exposed to experiences intended to rouse carnal appetites at an early age.  Many of the women known to have been taken to Dol Guldur have been seen to be pregnant, and what has become of them or their children is unknown.  Men, women, and children of all races have been abducted, and new strains of orcs have become more prevalent throughout Middle Earth.  And now we have Anhuil of Dol Amroth who was repeatedly brutalized in a sexual manner but was forced too far before his will was broken, damaged to the point he cannot hope to marry and cherish a wife as is intended for the Children of Ilúvatar.  Is it not plain he was intended to serve his masters as a breeder of more slaves at the very least?”

            “It is possible that this was their intent,” Saruman admitted, but grudgingly, considering his tone.  “But we cannot be certain of their full intent without being able to question those who took him.  However, the idea that all races are being included in programs to breed orcs and goblins is certainly intriguing.  I must study this further.”

 *******

            Gandalf left Dol Amroth a few days later headed northward again.  He wished to consult with Elrond, Glorfindel, Galadriel, and Celeborn once more, and perhaps with Radagast as well.  Too much evidence had been found indicating that the Nazgûl and the Necromancer were intent on developing new strains of orcs, and the mere thought that such creatures as Hobbits might have been included in such experiments for some reason particularly sickened him.  It was well known that the first orcs had been corrupted from Elves abducted by Melkor, and perhaps some of those who walked Middle Earth today had once awakened under the stars by the waters of Cuiviénen but did not truly remember their own beginnings.  And for many decades, if not centuries, those known for leadership had been singled out as victims of abductions and attacks involving Morgul blades.  He shuddered at the enormity of the apparent attempt to use the nobility of Men, Elves, and Dwarves to create more horrors for all of the Free Peoples to face as they sought to resist the evil that intended to subjugate them all.  As for the inclusion of Hobbits in such plans—such pure and light-hearted folk should never be touched by foul magics, much less twisted from the joys of honest day to the terrors of lightless dark. 

            Yes, it was time to seek out the rest of the Wise and take counsel on how they might counter such a program.

            He was far north in Lebennin when he heard a cry of pain beyond a low rise ahead of him.  “That sounds like a child!” he murmured aloud, and hurried forward.  He breasted the rise and saw a fallen standing stone lying upon its side by the bank of a river, near the river’s crossing.  A memory passed from the staff he clutched into his mind, and he saw again the day when that obelisk was raised, so long ago, to commemorate the victory of Eldacar over his traitorous and cruel cousin Castamir, when the Winged Crown again returned to the keeping of Valacar’s son.  “When did it fall?  Have those who live in this area allowed the memory of that time to so fade away?”

            Again there was an intense groan of pain, and he went forward again, searching for whomever it was who had been hurt.  Finally, just past the standing stone, which at its base had been eight feet wide, he found the crumpled figure of a boy of about eleven summers trying vainly to make it to his feet.

            “Now, what have we here?” the Wizard asked, coming to the child’s side to examine the situation.  He gently pushed the boy back to a seated position, and ran his hand over one leg, which appeared to pain the lad badly.  “Broken!” he breathed, after using all of his senses to examine the leg.  “Not broken through—more like a stick when it partly breaks because it is still green.  I would not suggest trying to walk upon it, not when you have someone such as I am to carry you home.  Let me lift you up, and you can direct me as to where you live, and we will summon a healer to deal with it.  However did you come to this pass, young Man?”

            The boy pointed up at the fallen stone.  “I jumped off that,” he explained.  “Oh!” he cried, “but it hurts!”

            “I am certain that it does, but it will be better quite soon.  Why were you jumping off that stone, and how in Middle Earth did you get up there to begin with?”

            “All of the boys jump off of it,” the child explained, “and they were saying I was—that I was a coward for refusing to do so, too.  But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, not when they were all watching me and calling out advice.  And I got up on it from down there at the tip—it’s easy to climb upon it from there and walk up it to this end.”

            “I see.  Which way should I go, then?  That way?  Very well.  So, you had to work up your courage to jump yourself, and did so when you were alone, did you?  Not that unusual in the children I have known during my time in Middle Earth.  Not that unusual, but not the wisest thing for you to have done in this case.  It is lucky that I came along when I did so that I could bring you home.  Ah, I see the village.  Which way should I go once I reach the main square?”

            He soon had the boy in his parents’ keeping, and the healer was fetched and the leg properly splinted and the child given a draught for the pain.  In thanks for his help, the child’s father gave him a leg of lamb and a basket of root vegetables as provisions for his further journey.  Gandalf refused further hospitality, explaining that he was journeying north and felt it necessary to keep upon his way as long as the daylight remained, and soon enough he returned to the crossing of the Erui, where he paused to examine the fallen obelisk once more.  “I wonder if Círion realizes that the obelisk has fallen.  I should mention it to him—encourage him to raise it up again.”

            He was about mid-stream in the river when the fabric of Arda began to shake unexpectedly, and he realized that something of terrible import had occurred to Elrond’s wife!

 *******

            At the next outpost of the army Gandalf stopped, begging the loan of a horse so as to arrive in Minas Tirith as soon as possible, promising to see it into the keeping of the Steward’s stablemen in the White City.  The captain of the outpost recognized him and granted his petition, and soon the Wizard was headed at speed toward Mount Mindolluin.

            He reached Minas Tirith within a few days.  He’d alternated between a gentle canter and an outright gallop, with rare stops to allow himself and the horse to rest and eat, and a few periods of a simple walk.  He’d done the last once he entered through the Rammas Echor into the fields of the Pelennor, entering the stable just inside the great gates at a sedate pace, his horse rested and ready to be groomed and placed in a stall with clean hay and a good feed with a pail of water for it to drink from; and with words of thanks to which the horse shook its head good-naturedly, he left the stable and climbed through the city as swiftly as he might, using a few of the shortcuts he’d learned through the years in order to reach the Citadel as swiftly as possible.

            “Our Lord Steward Círion is not within the White City at this time,” he was told by the Seneschal.  “He has gone out into Ithilien, near to the Black Gate, to assess the rumors that once again raiders in great wagons approach from the northeast.”

            Yet he was granted another horse with which to head north, and again with the promise that he would leave it with the garrison near the Gap of Orthanc, once again he set upon his way.

            In the end he did not get past Amon Dîn with his loaned steed.  “There are conflicts to the west,” he was told.  “You will not be able to continue that direction more than a few days at most before you will be forced back in this direction again.”

            After thinking on the situation, he decided to head northeast instead.  He could leave the horse with the garrison on Cair Andros easily enough, although it would undoubtedly take him far longer to reach Imladris via the eastern route north on foot.  But in the end he found companions for his return journey:  a pair of horsemen from the Eótheód, far north in the headwaters of the Anduin, having come south with a string of fine ponies and horses to sell and having successfully sold most of their stock, were returning home.  They were willing to allow him to ride with them, using one of the horses they’d intended to use as a pack animal in return for his services as a cook and another guard.  “You can cook?  And fight?” one asked.

            “Given proper ingredients I can cook as well as most who travel the roads,” he assured them.  “And at need you will find me useful in a fight.”

            So he left the horse he’d ridden from the White City there at the garrison at Amon Dîn, and rode north and east with his new companions.

 *******

            As he parted from the horsemen at the place where the West Road emerged from the High Pass, they gave him the horse he’d been riding.  “After the manner in which you defeated those who attacked us beneath the Redhorn, how else could we repay you?” asked one, his fellow nodding his agreement. 

            Gandalf thanked them, and gratefully headed west at last.  It was now late in the season, and the climb up through the pass would be dangerous, particularly if the orcs and mountain goblins were as agitated here as they’d been near the eastern end of the Redhorn Pass.  It was there, he believed, that Celebrían had been attacked, which would account for the increased presence of the foul creatures on the lower slopes of the mountains.  Undoubtedly her father, husband, sons, and their warriors had been searching intently for the place to which she’d been taken, and that would have roused probably every orc hold on the slopes of the Hithaeglir.

            Have they found her? he wondered as he directed his horse into the defile that marked the entrance to the pass.  I have not felt her leave her body behind, although I have sensed that other ellith have died.  How long is it that she has remained in captivity?  How much longer might she survive?  He had himself, using the power contained within his staff, sought for the place in which she was imprisoned, but although orcs had little in the way of magic to them, yet it was usually very difficult and in this case impossible to find their hidden places through the means open to him.  Those who hold her are being protected from afar, he thought, and immediately he saw in his mind the entrance to Dol Guldur as he remembered it from his last visit there.  For a moment he considered calling upon the power of the hidden Ring upon his finger, but then shook his head.  Not with the Enemy perhaps watching, he decided.

            The first day of his ascent was tense.  Dark clouds brooded overhead, and in the late afternoon they broke, drenching all with a pounding rain.  Somewhere to the south lightning flashed and thunder rolled through the alpine valleys between peaks.  He felt mighty anger all about him, and knew that Elrond’s ire was fully roused, as was that of Galadriel in her hidden wood at the foot of Caradhras.  Even Thranduil was focusing his own power upon the depths below the Mountains of Mist, and as he crouched for shelter with his horse beneath an overhang of stone Gandalf thrilled to realize just how mighty the Woodland King was, even without the kind of augmentation known by Elrond and the Lady of the Golden Wood—or himself.  As water from the downpour ran in a fierce rivulet past him, he realized that even Ulmo was taking part in the search for Elrond’s lady, and knew that Círdan also was seeking to add his own impetus to the attempt to find and rescue Celebrían.  The winds of Manwë shook the crowns of the pines above him on the slopes of the mountains, while Yavanna’s herbage sought to indicate the paths taken by the creatures who’d abducted Celebrían and her companions.  The earth shook beneath his feet, and Gandalf rejoiced to know that Aulë himself sought to reveal her prison….

 *******

            “Which way shall you search this time?” Celeborn asked his daughter’s sons.

            After studying the map before them for a few minutes, Elladan indicated one of the more dangerous passes that crossed the heights of the Hithaeglir, one that tended to be used only by the most reckless and desperate of travelers.  “We will search there.  So far none has gone that way, but the one tunnel we found running north from the western slopes of the pass of Caradhras seemed to have gone that direction, and the cave-in that blocked it was definitely very recent.”

            The Lord of Lothlórien examined his grandson’s face closely.  “Then you think that the cave-in within the tunnel was deliberate?”

            “I do,” Elrohir said.  “Particularly as once I’d removed a few of the blocks of stone that fell from the roof I found this underneath them.”  He held up a portion of a hair comb, one wrought of tortoise shell and set with a peridot.

            Celeborn took it and turned it in his hands.  “This was never anything worn by your mother,” he said.

            “No, it was not,” Elrohir agreed.  “But it was worn by Celestië, who was her handmaiden—and her friend.  I have seen it in Celestië’s hair too many times to be mistaken.”

            “As they appear to have been captured together,” Elladan added, “I would hazard that where one was carried the other was taken also.”

            “I will alert your adar, then,” Celeborn sighed.  “And I shall send warriors to await you in the lower slopes on the western side of the mountains.  The road is better and swifter on that side, should you indeed find her.”  He left unsaid but one word—alive.

 *******

            Two were able to scale the heights leading to the nearly inaccessible pass far more readily than could have a score of warriors, and two were better able to both find the entrance to the hidden caverns and to enter undetected than would have been a company of warriors.  And those two, fired by fury at the abduction of their mother and her party, managed to kill those in the outer chamber without letting those in the inner caverns know there was anything wrong.

            The twin sons of Elrond and Celebrían took cover on either side to the entrance to the next inner chamber, listening intently, hoping to learn how many enemies and of what kinds they might be that lay within, and whether or not the captives were likely to be found there or even deeper inside the mountain.

            “But how did she manage to kill her fellow?” demanded the voice of a Man in heavily accented Westron.

            “How can we say?”  That was an orc’s voice, one truculent with mixed fear and disgust at having to deal with a Man as an equal.

            “The one who is dead was intended to become a slave to the Nazgûl!” the first continued.  “Why else do you think that they would send a Morgul knife here?”

            “And we used it upon her!  Do you think that we would mistake the orders given us?”

            The two peredhil sought one another’s eyes, alarm growing within both of them.  Morgul knives and a dead prisoner?  Then what would they find within?

            Now! mouthed Elladan, and the two rushed through the entrance.  There were five orcs and two Men, both Easterlings, most likely from Rhûn.  The fight was swift and intense, but finally the orcs and one of the Men were dead, and only one Man, his face distorted by an older scar and a new wound down his left cheek from which the blood flowed copiously, remained yet alive.  While Elladan bound the yet-living Easterling, Elrohir checked at the door to the innermost room, almost afraid to go further.  Then he saw that one of the orcs had been drinking from a mug wrought from a skull—the skull of an Elf.  His heart froze within his breast, he took a deep breath, and entered the innermost room.  The headless body of a male Elf, long dead by the look and smell of it, hung from hooks just inside the door.  Curufil? he wondered.  He went further.  The room stank of long-spilt blood and urine.

            A squared stone had apparently been used by the orcs as a place of torture.  Spent torches stood in rough-hewn holes cut into the walls, torches that must have been used to illuminate the ministrations wrought upon the prisoners mutilated there.  On the walls, well out of the reach of those forced to watch the actions of their jailers, hung hooks, chains, rakes, knives, and other instruments of agony.  The body of what appeared to have been a woman, now partially desiccated, lay as if it had been thrown there at the foot of the wall nearby, and the chains that had held her in life hung limply from the walls, twisted by the violence with which they’d been pulled from the lifeless body.  The hair of the woman, what there was left of it, appeared like dried cobweb in the light of the one oil lamp that stood upon a high shelf delved into the wall. 

            He might have thought the other body that was in a huddled heap against the wall was dead, also, if it weren’t for the fact that the head twitched, first right and then left, paused, and then twitched again.  Elrohir went forward slowly and touched the nearly bald scalp, finally turning the face toward his own.  The nose was broken and the lip split, and new blood lay over other flows that had been allowed to dry in place over the eyes, which could barely open at all.  “She is safe,” a cracked voice whispered.  “I almost could not do it, but she is safe.”

            He barely recognized his naneth’s voice.  He gathered her up into his arms as gently as he could.  “It is I, Elladan and I, Nana,” he whispered.  “We have found you at last.  We will take you home!”  And weeping, he called for his brother to come to him, to help find the key to remove the chains still binding their mother to the walls.

 *******

            The storm passed in the night, and Gandalf set off in the grey of the false dawn, intent on crossing the High Pass as swiftly as might be done.  But on the third day afterward he had to accept that he could not take the horse further—there had been too much damage done in the storms and earthquakes three days earlier.  At last he removed the saddle and bridle, rubbed the horse down as best he might, and with a blessing on the beast’s head he sent it back down the mountain, having planted in its brain the picture of the lands in the headwaters of the Anduin from which it had come.  He hid the saddle as best he might—he could possibly come that way again, or perhaps direct others to the place where he’d left it—and filled his personal bag as best he could, fashioning the saddlebags into a pack of sorts ere he set off upwards again. 

            The rest of the journey was arduous, to say the least.  Twice he found places where the path had been totally blocked, and he had to go back to find other ways round and through.  Once he fought a troop of mountain goblins and drove them deep back down the cleft from which they’d emerged, blasting away the stone above to block the way so that they would be forced to stay within their own place, away from other travelers seeking to cross the mountains.

            It was three weeks later that he finally came to places where the pass was as he remembered it from earlier journeys, and three more days before he came to the boundaries of the Hidden Valley.  “At last!” he murmured as he began following the trek to the Ford of the Brúinen.  He ought to be within the Last Homely House East of the Sea by two hours after nightfall, he suspected.  Snow began to fall as he crossed the river, and was already inches deep by the time Elrond came to greet him as he approached the door.  But at last he had reached his goal, only four days after the arrival of Celeborn’s warriors escorting Elladan and Elrohir and their mother.

            “Where are they now?” Gandalf demanded as Elrond led him to the Healing Wing.

            “I sent them off with Celeborn’s people to meet the party coming now from Lórien,” Elrond said.  “I do not believe they realized the worst wound their mother had endured.”

            The Wizard felt it in his heart as he entered the room following its occupant’s husband—the Lady Celebrían was pregnant, and the child’s sire was not Elrond Eärendilion!

            “But how…” he began.

            “They drugged her, drugged her repeatedly, and forced her.  From what I can tell they forced both ellith and ellyn.  They were intent on—on breeding even more –more of their kind.  It was the greatest evil they could work upon her, they thought, although she feels she did worse.  They used a Morgul blade upon Celestië, and to release her ere the curse could take her and make of her a wraith under the rule of the Nazgûl, Celebrían was forced to give her the mercy stroke herself.  She used one of her needles, one of the mithril ones she had from Aman, one her mother gave her years ago.  She said that it burned away in her fingers once she removed it from Celestië’s heart, and she felt that the evil burned away with it.  Her fingers are badly burned, but the skin there is far healthier in its renewal of flesh than can be seen elsewhere.  She believed that it was I who came to her and embraced her and—and entered her.  So, she conceived a child.  And even now her body is trying to rid itself of the infant, now before its body is fully formed.  What do I do, Gandalf?  What do I, a healer, do?  Help her keep it?  Or, do I help her let—let it go?”   

 *******

            Never had the Wizard seen such an agonizing miscarriage, and he’d seen more than he’d wished to see in his years within Middle Earth.  But two hours before dawn the next day the body of Celebrían rid itself of its distorted burden.  It had almost begun to take on the form it would have known had it been born in its proper time, and there was no question that it was no Elf.  Gandalf found himself breathing a prayer of thanks that it had not survived, and immediately felt almost as if he’d somehow wronged Celebrían by it.

            As for the mother, she wept and raved, her mind wandering, knowing she’d lost a child and seeking for it, then rejoicing that this last sign of her tortures was gone, and then crying out against the Valar for the absence of a babe at her breast.

            It was over a fortnight before the twins returned with their sister, daeradar and daernaneth, and their escort from the Golden Wood, and they were all devastated to find that most of the time Celebrían was not within her right mind.  Galadriel and Gandalf took it in turn to be with her when Elrond must be about the business of the Lord of Imladris, and it was not long before Galadriel cornered the Wizard after leaving her daughter again in the keeping of Celebrían’s husband.

            “What was done with the child’s body?” she asked in a whisper.

            “We—cremated—it.  At sunrise.  We could not let it be seen by others, you know.  I am not certain that it would have survived to be born, here within this sheltered and blessed valley; it was not intended to be benign, after all.  But there was no question that it was not begotten by Elrond.”

            “The Necromancer has been breeding even fouler and baser orcs than did Morgoth,” she said, straightening to her full height.  “To have created another using my daughter and Elrond’s wife would have been a terrible victory for him to know.  Could it have survived, Mithrandir?”

            He was already shaking his head.  “No, it could not.  It was barely discernible as an infant, but it was not right.  You could feel how—twisted—it was even as what little life it knew fled its form.  But this has wounded her.  To be forced to kill Celestië and then to know this—it almost killed her.”

            “She is fading, my friend.  My beloved daughter—she is fading.  And I cannot hold her back.”

            And Gandalf had to recognize that the Lady of Lothlórien was right in this.

 *******

            Celebrían’s body began to recover, but she could not put on flesh.  Few saw the very few sparks of her old nature upon her.

            “They gave her a poisoned wound,” the denizens of Imladris told one another.  “They gave her a poisoned wound, and she will never be right again, not while she remains within Middle Earth.”

            And in the end she left Middle Earth on one of Círdan’s ships, accompanied by a number of those who’d loved her all of her life.  She’d not been able to accept her husband’s physical expressions of love and devotion, not after what had been done to her.  As he saw her situated in the cabin prepared for her, Elrond helped her prepare for bed, and once she was within her narrow berth he blessed her and put her into healing sleep.  The healer who would accompany her to Tol Eressëa agreed to stay by her and help her as she awoke, and to be by those who would greet them on the other side.

            As Elrond left the ship at last, Círdan took him aside.  “Lord Ulmo has told me that he will not allow harm to approach her, and once she is free of the pull of Middle Earth the rest of the Powers will be able to draw near to her for her strengthening.  They will see to it that she is healed, when she is able to abide that healing.  She will await your coming.”

            That seemed but little comfort as he watched the ship pull away from the quay, as he saw its sails unfurl and the ship sail off into the light of the setting Sun.

            And it felt only right that grey rain hid them from the eyes of most of the inhabitants of the Shire and the Breelands as his party returned eastward, returning to their place in the hidden valley at the feet of the High Pass through the Mountains of Mist.