Prologue:  Ale with the Rider

The Breeland was a densely inhabited townland in the north of the Reunited Kingdom, sitting astride the roads that crisscrossed the land.  The Great Road ran east to west, and the ancient Greenway ran roughly north to south. Dominated by the chief village of Bree, which was situated at the foot of Bree-hill, there was also the smaller hamlets of Staddle on the other side of the hill, Combe which lay in a deep valley to the east, and Archet on the edge of the Chetwood.  Circling Bree was a large and deep dike and hedge, with two stout gates on the west and southern walls.  And in the center of the village, at the crossing of the roads stood the large and well-known inn, the Prancing Pony, famous in story and song both far and wide.

This evening, a pleasant April twilight that was cool without chill, the Pony boasted a packed common room with many visitors and patrons, laughter and loud talk filling every corner.  Business was not only good, it was downright prosperous, as compared to the lean times of five years past, during the times of the ruffians and the bad troubles from the South.  There was now much coming and going up the old Greenway from the lands to the South, where the stories and songs being passed up the road were a wonder to hear.

There was, first and foremost, the return of the King of old, the chief of the Rangers who had come into his own.  The Rangers, it turned out, were in fact the remnant of the Great People, the Kings of Men out of the West, and they were now regarded with different eyes as defenders of the land.  Word was sent that the King’s messengers would ride north to survey the lands and set the wilderness to order in his name, and to reassure the Breelanders that, by the King’s wish, their lot would only get better.  That turned out to be a promise kept.

And the stories of the great war!  The Rangers who had gone away to fight were gone for more than six months, gone in the spring and returning in the fall, reduced in number but not in glory.  They told of the terrible battles, the daring stands against the foe, and not a few told of the horns of the Horse-lords blowing in the morning, and the banner of the King on the winds of the dawn. 

But the Breelanders also heard a story that was closer to home.  For during the troubles, just east of their town at the Forsaken Inn, the Rangers had gathered all their folk and fled overland on the Great East Road across the waste to the hidden valley of Rivendell.  Led by the few Rangers who had stayed behind, they fought the cold and their foes, and had come back stronger than ever.

Tonight, a merry company sat by the hearth sharing the talk they heard and the speculation running wide through Breeland.  There were three Men; Darcy Heathertoes, Tom Thistlewool, and Magnus Appledore.  Also, with them were two Hobbits, Rowly Mugwort and his friend, Aldegard Sandheaver, whom everyone called Al for short.  

“It’s all to hope for the future, for Bree at any rate,” Rowly was saying as he drank his ale while swinging his feet.  “Young Nick, who is my sister Angelica’s oldest boy, was just offered to be apprenticed to Bobbin Bullrush, the carpenter in Archet! A fine start to a fine trade, and that you can tie to.”

“Nar, that’s nothin’”, Tom drawled, “I meself just had to add a second barn to me yard, what with all the meal we’ve been grindin’.  Why, I’ve even had to hire two new hands to manage the work, and I’ve been able to pay them smart wages an’ all.  These last years’ve been wonderful harvests, especially that summer after the Rangers came back, remember how golden everything was?”

“Aye, that was the year of all those weddings, too.” Al Sandheaver recalled.  “And then the year after, with all the birthing and christenings, too.  Even the livestock were busy.  The mares foaled, the cows birthed, not a stillborn at all for anything.  Truly a golden year.”

“And the ale’s been golden, too!” Magnus said, and everyone chuckled in agreement.  No one could remember the beer at the Pony being this good before the bad times; rumor had it that a wandering wizard had laid a blessing on the beer for seven years, and it would not run out soon.  “But, what of you there, Darcy?  Is naught good to your lot?”

Darcy shifted uncomfortably, then said, “well, you see lads, it’s like this:  Rosamund said yes.  We’re getting married.”

The company roared with laughter and thumps on the shoulder for their companion.  Unknown to the five there, a pair of grey eyes watched them from the gloom of an unlit corner, a mug of ale in a gloved hand and a smile beneath the eyes.  The face lit by the light of the common room was young but worn, framed by dark hair.

“Yes, laugh on, good people,” the man said to himself, “and it will all only get better, you wait and see.”  And the man rose up to an imposing height, his cloak pinned over his shoulder by a silver six-rayed star.  As he walked toward the door of the Inn, he touched the arm of a passing barmaid, and whispered in her ear.  She looked up at the man with a little gasp on her lips and smiled wide. 

The laughter at the table had died away, and glasses raised around, when the barmaid appeared and laid down fresh ale for all five there.

“Here, lass, we didn’t order no more ale, we’re still drinking these!”  Magnus said.

“You didn’t order them, masters,” the maid replied.  “This round is a gift, in honor of the one of you just getting married.”

“And who ordered it, so that we might thank him proper?” Al asked.

“All he’d say is, ‘The Rider drinks with you tonight’.” She said, glancing at the figure stepping out the door with a swirl of his cloak.

All five there looked at each other, then jumped up from their seats and burst out the door, little Al blurting out to the barmaid “We’ll be right back!”  They were standing outside in the street looking this way and that, not sure what they were looking for, when around the corner from the direction of the stables there came the steady, heavy beat of huge hooves.  As the three men and two hobbits watched there came a horse, gigantic in size and power, black as the night sky; and riding him was a tall figure, cloaked in black with a rayed star on his breast, riding off into the night.

“Horseman, please hold up”, Darcy cried out, and the rider halted in the middle of the street.  “Were you inside the Prancing Pony just now, and did you order a round of ale for a party of five?”

The rider pulled his hood down, and answered, “That I did, for it seems there is a wedding in the offing, perhaps?”

The party there seemed to have lost their voices, but little Al piped up, “Then you’re he, Halrohir the Rider.  We would be so honored to have you at our table, to drink with us properly.  If you are on some errand, I understand, but to meet you at last – “

“My errand is not pressing, so I might stay at least one round in your company”, Halrohir smiled as he jumped from the saddle to the ground.  He tethered the black stallion to a post, then whispered something in a strange tongue to the beast, who blew out a great “Whuff!”  Turning to the company with a grin, he let them lead him back inside the lighted tavern hall.

The six went right back to their places, the barmaid hovering over the table as if just about to clear it away.  Halrohir signaled the barmaid to bring six fresh ales, including one for himself, and handed her two gold coins; one for the fare, and one for her.  She took the order and the coins and left, looking at Halrohir with barely disguised devotion.

“So, friends, shall we make that toast?” Halrohir asked, “To Darcy and, her name was -Rosamund, yes – to the new family and your house!  Good years in times to come!”  And all six there took a pull of their mugs in salute.

But Darcy raised his ale once more, “And to our guest, Halrohir the Ranger, the great dark rider of the North:  where he rides, life is good!”  Halrohir smiled and pulled his ale in salute.

“But what brings you here to Bree tonight, Ranger?” Rowly asked.

Halrohir smiled, “Even I like to enjoy a warm fire and hot food, and the company of others.  And there’s news to be had, and stories, and people to meet, like you.  I like to hear of the doings of folk inside the hedgerows and farms, for each of you have stories to tell, you know.”

“Oh, come now, Ranger, you’ve seen it an’ done it, haven’t ya?” Tom asked.  “I mean, what’s the likes of Breeland to you, that’s seen all the wide lands of the North clear down to Dunland and beyond?  And what’s fought in battles, mind?  Not that there wasn’t that some scrap right here in Breeland, mind…”

“True enough, though that never should have happened,” Halrohir said, “but battle and war are the province of men who are willing to face death, or at least cause it.  The first time I…killed, there was no time to think, there was only time to act. But after the killing was done, then your mind and heart go to war with each other.  And that, I wasn’t prepared for.”  Halrohir went quiet, sipping his ale thoughtfully.

“Now, Ranger, what might we know from you about places you’ve seen?” Al asked, trying to break the mood.  “The word here in Bree is that there’s something queer going on away east, towards the Misty Mountains and all.”

Halrohir smiled, “Perhaps not the Mountains, but closer in to Breeland.  The word has come up the Greenway by way of the King’s Messengers, word of a great work to be begun.  The Tower of Amon Sul, which once stood upon Weathertop, is to be rebuilt, and made a fortress for the King here in the North.  So, all manner of craftsmen, artificers, architects, sculptors, carpenters,” he said, nodding to Rowly about his nephew Nick, “those who deal with supplies for men and beasts”, he nodded to Tom, “will have their skills and goods in demand; all paid for, by the King’s purse.  It will be a busy time, once the building starts.”

The Breelanders’ eyes were alight at the prospects.  “And just when is all this work supposin’ to start, eh?”  Tom asked.  "This is the first word we’ve heard tell, and though you’re a Ranger and all, you’re not a King’s Messenger from up the Greenway.”

“We have ways of hearing things, long before others, or we wouldn’t be Rangers, would we?”  Halrohir said slyly.  “Now, to be honest, the Messengers did come up the Greenway to speak with us about this, because the building site must be secured and watched, and that work falls to us.  And it will fall to you, worthies of the Breeland, to be ready when the orders for goods and skills come pouring in.”

There were nods around the table, and especially thoughtful looks from Tom and little Rowly, who stood to do quite well in such a situation.  But Al was hungry for more.  “What else can you tell us, Rider?  I mean, about where you’ve been, and where you’re bound to go?  You were leaving, but it’s late for a journey, unless you were sleeping under the stars tonight.”

Halrohir considered, then said, “You’re right, it is rather late to be starting out, but my errand is such that it can’t wait.  Which is why my mount is still saddled and ready outside.  So, with this, my friends,” he said as he drained his ale in one long pull, “I must bid you all a fond farewell.”  He rose, and the others rose as well.  “But know this, that I’ll be back in Bree from time to time, just to see how things are going along.  Goodnight!”  And he rose from his chair, all the others doing likewise.  Darcy held out his hand, and the Ranger took it.

“It was a fine thing to meet you, Ranger, no mistake”, Darcy said.  “You’ve given us all good news and thank you for your blessing on my up-and-coming.  I suppose that it’s too much to hope to see you there?”

“My errand will take me far afield, for many months to come”, Halrohir said, “but this I will say:  I shall look in afterward, to see how your new nest is building.  I will have business with Bree once this errand is done.  Until our next meeting, friends!”  He said to all as he turned and left the tavern, his cloak billowed behind him as he swirled out the door.  The others followed in his wake and reached the street just in time to see Halrohir in the saddle, wheeling the great stallion around and riding off.  As he passed them, the horse slowed his pace, looked at them and blew a snorting blast from his nostrils in token of greeting, and then off the two rode into the night.

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Halrohir and Morindal rode out of Bree by the southern gate, saluting the watchman as they walked past.  As the gate closed behind them, the great black sounded off with a thunderous neigh, and great gouts of earth flew from his hooves as he broke into a canter and sped down the road, turning onto the Greenway headed south.  He was twenty miles south of Bree, up on the South Downs, when he stopped to make camp in the dead of night.  A hasty pine-needle fire crackled brightly, and while he was brewing something hot to drink, he crossed to where Morindal stood close by.  He stroked the horse’s mane and nose gently, offering an apple which was quickly munched.

“They wanted nothing but to talk about me, you know,” Halrohir said to the horse, “little knowing that this errantry is all about you.  It will be a long, long ride, my great friend, but I will not push you, even to your massive limits; it will be an easy ride, just watch.”  Morindal nudged the Ranger as if in understanding, which Halrohir was certain he could.

It was now five years since the flight of the Dunedain and the ride of the Grey Company, five years since Halrohir and Morindal first met, and rode together into battle and fame.  Both were now heroes, the Rider who had no fear; and his mount, the mightiest horse in the North, who could cover all the lands in three days’ ride, it was said.  But it was a lonely life, this Ranger’s life, and he only hinted at it with the Breelanders tonight how lonely it was.  Halrohir longed for company many days, for his friends were far away and distant on errantry of their own.

One of his closest friends was the Elf, Cambeleg, who had fought at his side during the Flight, and they had ridden together across the lands for some time afterwards.  But on that fateful September day three years ago now, when Elrond and the Three Keepers, along with the last of the Eldar rode to the Grey Havens and took ship to the Undying Lands, Cambeleg left with them. 

Their parting was bitter, and Halrohir would never forget it.  Halrohir had been just near the woods of the Forsaken Inn, a day’s ride east of the Breeland, when he encountered the last ride of the Keepers.  He realized as he watched the procession pass, that so much beauty and wisdom was leaving, and the world was about to get a little dimmer.  But then he heard Cambeleg’s glad shout, and the two embraced as brothers. 

“Our time is over, that of the Deep-Elves, my friend”, Cambeleg had said then.  “All whom are left, you see here in this company.  There are still those in Middle-Earth with that blood, especially the royal house of the Telcontari, whom you serve.  But the Dark Elves and the Silvan Elves will still be here, though they will fade with the years, slowly forgetting and being forgotten.

“It will be left to the Kings of Men, such as yourself, to remember the Elder Days and recall the Dark Dangers to folk that the years will bring.  There is labor to be done, and still deeds for your hands and heart, so do not despair!”

“I still grieve for this parting, beyond the world’s end, so the Wise tell us”, Halrohir said with a tightness in his throat.  “I had hoped you would stay, but my head told me what my heart denied.  I feel lost at this, my friend.”

“I know your grief, but let it pass like the seasons will”, Cambeleg said.  “You must look to your people, and yourself.  For your life will now be a long and exciting span of years, filled with adventure and valor and yes, even love.  Remember from our meeting?  Those ‘eyes of bottle-green’ that were foretold to you?  Do not stop seeking for them, child of Numenor that you are.”

Halrohir remembered something then, “Recall what else was foretold, the warning of Morindal?  Every twenty years, he must drink of the Entwash again, to renew and restore his youth and strength.  How much longer before that time is upon us?”

“I would wait not at all,” Cambeleg said, “but set out as soon as you can.  But if you count the years of the founding of his strength, you have but four years from this season before you see the years suddenly catch that beloved behemoth.  Make haste, for his sake, and yours!”

And that was the reason for Halrohir’s errantry, this urgent ride across the lands: for the time of Morindal’s destiny was at hand, less than one year remained to the great heroes before the span of years expired.  And Halrohir would risk the lands, and anything at all, for his horse that he held dear to his spirit, as much as the horse held his master.

Halrohir looked drowsily into the dying embers of his campfire, the night-speech of the land around him lulling him to sleep.  “I will do this”, he said to himself, “for Morindal.  I swear it.”  And he cast himself down onto his bedroll and into a restless sleep.

Chapter One:  The Rider Goes South

Halrohir awoke the next day later than he had planned, the comfort of the wilderness lulling him deeply into slumber.  The fire had burned out in the night, not even a warm coal to reignite for a new fire.  Looking around him, even the morning mists had burned off in the bright sunlight, and Morindal stood nearby on his tether, contentedly cropping what little grass was left. 

Shaking off sleep, Halrohir rose and covered the fire in earth.  He rolled his bedroll into a tight tube and tied it across the back of the saddle.  In two saddle pouches on either side were the rest of his gear:  clothes and sundries, wrapped in wool stockings; food wrapped in cheesecloth, mainly biscuits and slips of cured meat, enough for one grown man for weeks with care; cooking gear, including a small pot with a kettle lid, spoon and fork, and some spices, all wrapped in a cloth so as not to clink together; and of course, a small supply of apples for Morindal, a gift from a Breeland farmer.  Smiling at the memory of the farmer’s gift, he took one and offered it to Morindal.

“It’s a late start to the day, my friend,” Halrohir said, as Morindal downed the apple in his usual crunching bite.  “This day will be just a ride until nightfall, then we’ll get back into the rhythm of day and dark.  As I said, we shall take our time, but there is a time to our journey that we cannot stray from, even if we wanted to.” 

With that, Halrohir finished checking the last of his gear, the gear of war:  his sword on a holster affixed to the left side of his saddle; two hunting knives, forged in Rivendell by Elven-smiths, a final parting gift from Cambeleg, knives which would hold their edge for a longer time than most; and a short bow of hawthorn, with a quiver of a score of arrows.  He knew how to make and fletch arrows, of course, from part of the Trials, but these would suffice for now.

Satisfied as to his gear and to how he left no trace of his camping place, Halrohir collected a few bits of kindling and some wood for their next camp, not knowing what may lie ahead.  He then heaved into the saddle and urged Morindal to a trot to start on their late morning trek.  They had stopped close to the Andrath, the pass between the South Downs and the Barrow Downs, the long high ground twenty miles south of Bree.  The Andrath split the long heights into two, with the Greenway running through it.  As they rode through, Halrohir reined up at the crest, the highest point where the road leapt over the downs. He looked back over his shoulder to the north, seeing green lands and just on the edge of sight.  If he squinted and looked long enough, shading his eyes with a hand, he could just discern the tilled lands and farm country of Breeland.  Turning forward, he looked south to see the Greenway and the lands beyond, the barren moors and lands of Eriador leading south. 

“A long and lonely ride we’ve picked for ourselves, Morindal mellon nin,” Halrohir said as he ran a hand through the horse’s mane, “but one that must start someplace.  Let’s be off.”  And they rode down the sloping road, the height of the South Downs giving way to the flats and unremarkable lands of southern Eriador.  Morindal’s pace was steady as a marching drumbeat, trotting then walking, then picking up a trot again, tirelessly pounding away the miles.  Even after the years he had spent with the great black horse, Halrohir always had wonder in the stallion’s seeming bottomless well of strength and endurance.  They made good time in the day remaining to them, having traveled by Halrohir’s reckoning about forty miles from the last camp, when he reined up near a tiny group of trees he had spied, just about a furlong off the road.  As the sun began to set and the light to fade, he had a small fire burning, boiling water in his kettle, and Morindal grazing nearby.  As his tea and broth were steeping, he ran over in his head the reckoning of the journey before them. 

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Before departing on this ride, Halrohir had devoured every map and every story, and talked especially to his father, Haladan, who had ridden with the Grey Company during the War of the Ring.  With all this knowledge, he mapped out his route and committed it to memory before riding out.  He planned to keep to the Greenway through Eriador, a three-day ride until the road crossed the Greyflood River at the ruined city of Tharbad, the only reliable crossing of the river for miles in any direction.  There through the ruined town ran an ancient causeway, built by the Kings of Men in the days of their might; but as the centuries passed and the town fell into ruin, the causeway became nothing but a broken ford, as treacherous to cross as the Greyflood itself.

Once the Greyflood was behind them, Halrohir reckoned it a further six days of steady riding, passing through the old lands called on the maps Enedwaith, the Middle-lands. This was of old the region that lay between the borders of the Two Kingdoms, Arnor and Gondor.  At the end of that leg awaited the Fords of Isen, the border of the kingdom of Rohan, the home of the Horse-Lords from where in years past, Morindal himself was foaled. 

This might be the first real obstacle on the journey; for the Rohirrim, he was told, did not suffer any to ride across their lands without leave.  And if there was one thing he could not get in advance of the journey, it was the leave of the Rohirrim to ride freely through their realm.  To that, Halrohir trusted to his name, his rank, his father’s name, and the name of the King.  And to this end, Haladan had given Halrohir one thing to aid his quest.  In his gear he bore a letter, with the seal of the King obtained from the King’s Messenger at Bree, declaring he himself to be a King’s Messenger, hopefully with leave to ride through Rohan without let or hindrance.  At least, that was the intent.    

But once they passed over Isen and crossed into Rohan itself, came an obstacle that no letter or word could solve.  Halrohir had no clear idea, no matter who or where he searched, or any indication as to where or how he might find the source of the Entwash, where should be the origins of the waters that might restore Morindal to his vigor.  It couldn’t very well be any stream or rill running into the river itself, or there would be herds of giant horses running over the plains; it had to be a precise location where these waters might be found.  And for that, he only had one clue.

One of his recent rides took him over the borders of the Shire, the land of the hobbits west of the Brandywine River.  During his brief visit, he had heard tell of the Three Travelers who resided in the Shire, three valiant hobbits who had adventures in one year to last three lifetimes.  One was a Knight of Rohan and had ridden with the host of the Rohirrim at the great Battle of the Pellenor.  The second was a Knight of the Citadel of Minas Tirith, who had ridden with Mithrandir on his great horse hither and thither across the lands and was present at both the Siege of Gondor and the fight before the Black Gate.  The third, it was told, was the gardener of the Baggins of Bag End who had borne the Enemy’s treasure into the Black Land and set the Dark Tower to ruin.  Mighty stories, to be sure, and hardly to be believed, were it not for the accounts from the Grey Company who had seen it all come to pass.

But the most intriguing part of these tales, the part that interested Halrohir the most, was the account of the two warrior-hobbits who were uncommonly large and strong.  The secret to their size and strength, it was said, was they too had drunk of the same mysterious waters of the Entwash that had given Morindal his virtues.  Although he was not able to have an audience with the Travelers personally, Halrohir talked with every possible source he could find regarding the tales.  And he had pieced together his plan, based on the word gleaned from the loose accounts and vague reports.

Somehow, Halrohir had to make his way northeast across Rohan once he crossed Isen, over the trackless miles of open plains, until he struck the line of the Entwash itself; then follow the river north until he reached the southern eaves of Fangorn Forest.  From there, he had dark imaginings of having to enter the wood itself, to find within what he sought: the fantastic creatures from out of the Elder Days, the Ents themselves.  Halrohir had no illusions of confidence as to how that encounter might go, but it was Morindal’s life or death in the balance.  And that was all he needed to decide.

So, by his own calculation, and his being familiar with Morindal’s endurance, Halrohir reckoned on a journey of a fortnight in the saddle, barring any encounters with trouble of hardship along the way.  Weather might play into the trek, as every river he crossed might be a torrent; ruffians or worse might waylay him on his way.  He might even get turned back at the borders of Rohan by the march-wards, letters from the King notwithstanding.  Too many troubles, and too early in the journey for worry.  The first step was to cross the Greyflood safely, then all else would follow.

While Halrohir had been running all these thoughts through his mind, he absently watched the sun fade below the horizon and the twilight close in upon the lands.  It being April, many of the blooming trees and brush and field flowers had begun their season, and the lands of Eriador were fragrant with spring after winter.  Especially this last winter; for though the worthies of Breeland recalled the recent years of plenty, just this last winter was as harsh in any memory, with bitter cold winds and snow far down upon the mountains.  That did not bode well for the spring flooding of the rivers, and Halrohir realized this among his possible hazards.

Halrohir stood up and stretched, the fire dying slowly and all receding into shadow.  He walked past Morindal, letting the horse’s bulk block the firelight, and he stared up into the night sky.  A blanket of stars stretched overhead, pierced now and again by a shooting flicker as a star fell from the heavens.  All was incredibly quiet, not even the night breeze stirred the grasses.  He returned to the campfire, his blanket unrolled, his saddle a pillow.  He cast himself down onto the bedroll and slowly let sleep take him.

Hours had hardly seemed to pass when Halrohir awoke, startled to see Morindal snuffling into his face.  He bolted sitting upright, his eyes focusing on a brightly blazing fire, and a figure sitting by, poking at the flames with a stick.  He had his hand on the hilt of his dagger out of habit in the Wild, and it flashed in the firelight.

“You give welcome to all the same, Dunadan?  Your friend has more sense than you, and he is a horse”, the newcomer said as he turned to face Halrohir.  Silver-gold hair framed a fair face and bright eyes and a smile of mischief that flickered in the firelight.

“Dorwin!?” Halrohir almost shouted in recognition.  “How can you be here?  I mean, what are you doing – “

“Ah, so now you know me,” Dorwin laughed.  “And you even hear my speech better, do you like it?  I took the time to learn your Common Tongue since our last meeting.  Years pass.  Seasons change.  Even words do.  But it was not hard.”

“All the same,” Halrohir said in surprise, “how came you here?  I left Bree but yesterday, although I’ve been planning this errand for a long time.”

“True enough,” Dorwin replied.  “But if you seek to find the reason for my joining you, look to your own father.  He it was who confided in me of your errand, and your reasons for abandoning the North on a ride of your own.  For that is what you are surely doing?  Putting aside the burden of the Ranger, and going forth to save your friend, this creature of wonder?”

Halrohir had to admit it.  “Yes, that’s true, as far as it goes.  Would you not do the same for a friend or brother?  For that is what Morindal has become to me.  My companion on the weary road, my brother in battle.  How can I look at myself if I let him become dead, or worse?”

Dorwin threw more wood onto the fire, and in the blazing light, his Elven features looked ethereal, but with a force of purpose behind those eyes now.  “Dunadan, others have shared your worry and your labor, though you might not have known until now.  You spoke with your father about Morindal.  And he spoke with me.  And I, in turn, spoke with lore masters in Imladris and elsewhere.  You wish to find the source of the Onodlo, and the Ent-draughts?  You need not seek it alone.  For I offer to come with you, and together we shall see this marvelous sight.  Will you have me, as a guide and companion?”  And smiling, he held out his hand. 

Halrohir was overwhelmed by Dorwin’s offer and candid honesty.  He also recognized the truth, and the wisdom, behind the Elf’s words.  With Dorwin as a guide, he stood a fighting chance of finding his goal and saving Morindal.  The choice was easy.  He took Dorwin’s hand in partnership.

“You are most welcome, Dorwin of Rivendell”, Halrohir said.  “May we both journey to good fortune, for Morindal’s sake.  But, how did you find me?  You’re not on foot, surely?  Have you a mount of your own?”

“I most surely do”, Dorwin said, “and there he is, my Forosul, my ‘Northwind’ in your tongue.  Look at them both, he and your Morindal, getting to know each other!”  Halrohir watched the two, Morindal and a smaller horse, circling each other beneath the stars, high whinnies from Forosul versus Morindal’s deeper snorts.

“Now, the dawn is not far off,” Dorwin said, “so let us both have a light meal, and for the horses as well.  Then we might have a long day to ride, and the miles shall fall behind us.  What say you, Dunadan?”

“An early breakfast, and an early start to the day both sound well,” Halrohir agreed, digging into his gear for food for them to share.  The ride had taken a turn for the better.

Chapter Two:  Hazards at the Ford

Halrohir and Dorwin spent the rest of the night awake and talking by the fireside, talking now merrily, now somber, about the past five years and each one’s comings and goings, always referring to the first time they met, during the flight of the Dunedain to Rivendell.  Halrohir marveled at Dorwin’s command of the Common Tongue, speaking it as easily as he spoke his native Elvish. 

One thing Halrohir did learn, was Dorwin’s penchant for mischief.  During the time that he was asleep, Dorwin had not only built the fire with wood he had brought, but braided Morindal’s mane into neat black rows of tight, thick cords.  The great black seemed to approve, especially as his mane was now out of his eyes.  Dorwin had also braided flowers into each weave; Halrohir looked askanse at that, and he was sure even Morindal did as well.

The dawn began lightening the eastern skies with umber pastels behind clouds, heralding a sunny day ahead.  Halrohir broke camp and had his gear packed, swiftly he thought, but Dorwin was already to go, seemingly never unpacking.  As was the usual way of the Elves, Dorwin rode “elf-fashion” with Forosul, no saddle or harness or bridle at all.  All his gear he simply slung over his shoulder in a large baldric, a knife at his hip and a quiver of arrows on his back as his only gear of war.  The two companions mounted, and with a dig from Halrohir’s boots and a whispered word from Dorwin, the two set off on the next stage of their long trek.

The first day’s ride together passed slowly, as did the next, because of the sameness of the lands they rode through.  The Greenway was barely more than an overgrown track through the grasses, an old and unused country road.  Here and there among the low rolling downs there grew scrub trees and pine or cedar in places.  But there were, even in this wilderness, traces of the works and hands of the Kings of Men from the past; for at intervals there stood small pillars of stone, half a man high, set alongside the track.  Dorwin explained to Halrohir that these were markers for travelers as to the distance of the roads, each one a league apart.  Faded, but still deeply etched into the stones to be read, were numbers in descending order: “three hundred seventy” read the first stone they passed from their camp, then “three hundred sixty-and-nine”, and so on, marking the leagues south to the ancient capital of Gondor at Osgiliath.

“Who knows how many of these gondlars, these ‘stone pauses’, will we find still standing in our journey?” Dorwin wondered.  “But for the ones that do, they will mark the passage of the leagues in the empty lands.” 

“For nothing else will”, Halrohir said ruefully, “there is no relief to these moors that could even be closely used.  These stones make perfect sense, then.”

The riders passed steadily on, Dorwin setting the pace, for Forosul could not hope to match Morindal’s relentless stride.  Though Halrohir had reckoned he could have done twenty leagues a day, with Dorwin’s company they could manage fourteen.  This would add an additional day before they reached the crossings at Tharbad, but it could not be helped.  The first day passed, then the second, then four, the league-stones marching past and counting down.  Each night’s camp was lit by firewood gleaned from the scrub near the road, with stories and words shared at the fireside until sleep took Halrohir, leaving Dorwin watching through the night.

At the fifth day’s camp, beside a broken gondlar whose barely-read number showed 301, Halrohir looked ahead down the Greenway.  They had been slowly descending into a vast open valley and could see just a few leagues off copses of trees growing near the banks of a vast water.  Here the Greenway ran straight away toward a cluster of stone ruins at the edge of sight.  The grasses on either side of the roadway had given way from prairie grass to rustling marsh-tails and smaller plants without fragrance. 

“There lies Tharbad, the old ruined city,” Dorwin said.  “The ancient causeway has fallen into total ruin and is now a rocky ford dangerous for man or beast.”

“Yet that is our road”, Halrohir said, “and the only road across the Greyflood for leagues in any direction.  And who knows how treacherous the crossing shall be, if the snows from the North have not swollen the river?  Had you no word before you set out?”

“Yes, and it is not good.  The heavy snows of the Misty Mountains are already melting, and the Mitheithel, that Men call the Hoarwell, is flooding the crossings to the north.  Even the Ford of Bruinen is treacherous.  But there is hope that, this far downstream, the floods have not reached Tharbad yet.”

“We must make the crossing tomorrow and be beyond by our next camp.  I fear any delays.  How does Morindal seem to you?”

“I have not noticed any change in him, and I have been watching him through the days”, Dorwin said smiling.  “His appetite surely has not faltered, as sure as his strength has, neither.”

“All the same”, Halrohir said, “I’m concerned, and rightly so.  I confess, Dorwin, that sometimes I wish I could ask him and he’d answer somehow.  I know his moods, and his dispositions; but the way of the Elves with good beasts is beyond me.”

Dorwin grinned with mischief, “Then might you allow me?”  And they rose from where they were seated on the grass and came to the horses tethered side by side.  The Elf approached Morindal, who watched him with great interest.  Dorwin laid his forehead against the stallion’s and whispered a few words in the Elven-tongue.  After a moment, Morindal shook his head as if to chase away a fly and snorted once.  Dorwin’s face showed a momentary bit of surprise, then he turned to Halrohir.

“He truly was a steed of my people,” he said with an expression of wonder.  “He knows our speech, and he hears you when you talk to him.  He knows you cannot do the same with him, so he must make his wishes very plain.  His hearing and smell are superb, as you know by his warning and danger signs.”

“So, he knows of our journey, and why?”  Halrohir said in amazement.  “But, how is he, how does he fare?”

“He is aware that he is not like any horse in the land, and the waters made him what he is.  He does not feel any need for haste, for his strength has not lessened.  He is well, for the present.”

“And, he told you all this.  I envy you, Dorwin.”

“Say not so.  You have a friend in this creature, this beast of wonder, and you are only separated by language.  He will not forsake you, because he knows you will not forsake him.  This ride is proof of that.  Now see, we are distracted, for the fire is lighting the grasses!”  Dorwin pointed back to the campfire, where a log had fallen outside the circle and some of the drier turf was alight.

Later that evening, when the fire had burned low and all was in darkness, and a sliver of new crescent moon was climbing in the eastern sky, Halrohir was walking around the campsite as Dorwin tended to the dying fire. He crossed over to where the horses stood, holding two apples from his dwindling store.  He offered the first to Forosul as a gift, who eagerly munched happily on the fruit.  He laughed as he looked over at Morindal, whose expression was of sheer disappointment.  He offered the second to the great black, his customary crunching following, and ran his hand through his still-braided mane.

“So, you can hear my every word, can you, you big haystack?” Halrohir asked the horse.  “You’ve never failed me.  But I’m afraid, Blackfoot.  I’m afraid of failing you.  With Dorwin’s help, we’ll make it, I thought; but he’s slowing us, and I fear we’ll not get to the waters in time.  So, you have to tell me, in any way you can.  If your strength lags, or your time is approaching fast, you’ve got to let me know.  It would, it would kill me to think I failed you.”  And he wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck.

Morindal lowered his head and pushed Halrohir aside, and the man felt wounded and rejected for a moment.  The moment passed when he realized that the black stallion was looking off to the left, his neck stretched, his right hoof pawing the earth slowly but heavily:  the danger sign. Halrohir drew his knife and stood by the horse, realizing he was backlit by the fire’s small glow.  He peered off into the darkness where Morindal pointed, straining his ears for anything.  Not a sound met him, no stirring in the grass.  Suddenly, off to his right, there was a high-pitched twang and a cry to his front.  Dorwin appeared suddenly at his side; he had strung his bow and landed a shot in the gloom.  Wordlessly, the two moved to investigate what the Elf had shot, and they fond the target:  a man, dressed in rags and a thick leather jerkin like cast-off armor, clutching a small dirk in his dead hand, Dorwin’s arrow stuck in his throat.

“That was a fine shot in the dark, my friend”, Halrohir said.

“I was aiming for his chest”, Dorwin replied. 

They searched the body, to find little that would tell them anything:  a purse with coins of some value, and a shoulder sack with a few meager belongings.  But both stopped when they opened a small envelope, with a previously broken seal plainly with the emblem of the White Tree of Gondor. Inside was a small parchment, still legible.

“The letter of marque of a King’s Messenger”, Halrohir said grimly.  “This stalker in the shadows must have ambushed one of them and stole the letter and purse.  And look at the blade; it’s a dirk, of a make that a common thief would not have.”

“And this close to Tharbad”, Dorwin said.  “We may find the ruins are not friendly, and the crossing more perilous than just rocky waters.  We should allow the fire to die, and not relight it, for fear of attracting other moths like this one.”

“Agreed.  I must ask your elvish habit of never sleeping to keep watch for us in the night.  But also, watch Morindal, for he warned us first.”

So, the night passed without light, save for starlight and the waxing moon.  As Halrohir dozed, Dorwin walked in a circle around the camp, singing softly to himself and gazing at the stars above.  Slowly the sky turned light once more, heralding the sunrise, and Dorwin roused the Ranger gently.  Quickly they broke their meager camp, leaving the thief’s body where it lay, and rode on.

At last, on the sixth day of Halrohir’s ride, the two companions reached the edge of the ruined river-port of Tharbad.  Once a bustling port of kingdoms long past, the deserted, desolate place was a tumble of stone archways and pavestones, the Greenway giving way to a partially-paved road that ran straight as an arrow between the buildings.  They had not ridden long when they came upon the fords, and there they halted briefly.  A great bridge and causeway once spanned the Greyflood here, the Greenway leaping over the river in three jumps between islands in the stream.  But the bridge and causeway had collapsed into rock and mire, still visible in the swirling currents of the river.  The ford here looked to be every bit of a mile wide, and the distance between the eyots several furlongs at a time. 

“This will be a crossing every bit as treacherous as Mitheithel was”, Halrohir said, “even before the half-orcs of Saruman destroyed the Last Bridge.  We should stay mounted until the horses can no longer walk safely.”

“Horse and man, and Elf, can swim”, Dorwin said, “but I agree, we should ride as far as the road allows.  Shall we be off?”  And they continued down the low slope from the causeway’s end to the water’s edge and began wading through the shallow water.  The going was easy at first, for the river bed was firm and allowed good progress.  They came to the first eyot and paused, stone and masonry from the fallen bridge making a pile of debris that made the island larger. 

The passage to the second eyot was a more cautious going.  The horses stumbled, once or twice at first, but more often as they went on.  The rocks and sunken masonry were slimed and slippery, and footing was increasingly hard.  The water had risen up the horses’ legs, up to Forosul’s forelegs but only to Morindal’s knees.  Both horses walked slowly but steadily until harder and drier ground was beneath their hooves, and they heaved out of the water onto the higher ground of the fallen supports of the bridge.

Here they halted, the riders stepping off to the water’s edge.  Halrohir stayed with the horses while Dorwin scouted the path before them, testing the waters and looking ahead to the best possible path to continue the crossing.  After a few minutes of watching and looking, Dorwin returned.

“The worst is not over, I deem”, he said.  “We are fortunate that the floods have yet to reach here, but the channel is before us; the river is not shallow and the current runs swift.  I fear the horses will have to swim and bearing us as well.  But there, you can see the other bank is close.  Just this one last wetting, and all will be over.”

“I feared it would come to this”, Halrohir said.  “I don’t doubt Morindal can swim this, but what of Forosul?  How is his strength, compared to the current?”

“He is of good stock, though of course no match for that black behemoth of yours.  We will, however make the passage as quickly as possible, lest his strength fail.  Come, let us not wait!”

They mounted and plunged into the swirling waters and aimed the horses’ heads for the opposite shore.  They walked on the riverbed, the water rising past their legs, then their flanks, until even Morindal was now swimming with powerful strokes of his legs.  Forosul was struggling against the current, Dorwin speaking to him urging him on.  Steady was their progress, but they slowly swept downstream, missing the mark of the other bank.  Suddenly their hooves found purchase on the river bed once again, and the horses heaved out of the river, stumbling on the slick stones but gaining more purchase until, at last, they burst free of the water and mounted the bank.  The Greyflood had been crossed.

Halrohir and Dorwin had discussed what they would do once Greyflood was behind them, and they agreed not to wait a single moment by the river’s edge, because of the thief of last night.  They did not even halt after the crossing, but rode on at a canter, putting as much speed on as the tired horses could manage.  After a league or more, riding down the Greenway with a course as straight as before the fords, Morindal halted despite Halrohir’s urgings.  He turned his head to Forosul, then looked up at Dorwin, then back to Forosul.  Halrohir was confused, but Dorwin laughed.

“He means for us to stop here, and give Forosul a rest”, the Elf said.  “Well, as good a place as any, I suppose.  We can all dry off in this bright sun”, and he dismounted lightly.  He walked to Forosul’s head, where he touched the horse’s forehead to his own.

“Only for a while, though”, Halrohir said grimly as he alighted.  “I don’t trust this place.  Look around, there’s no shelter, not even a tree or hollow to wait in.  See down the road a way, there looks like another set of ruins, and that might hold some promise.  And look at this marker nearby”, he pointed at one of the league-stones, “it still says ‘two hundred-and-ninety-five’ plain enough.  That means we’ve been but six leagues from yesterday’s halt.”

“I agree, we need some place to rest for the night”, Dorwin said.  “But Forosul is nearly spent from the crossing, mellon nin.  One more league is about all he can manage now.  Come, let us go on, while there is still something left to him.”  And they remounted and rode once more, and after an hour at a slow walk, they approached a tumbled-down house of stone and wood, an old homestead from the looks of things, long since abandoned and overgrown.  The only firm part of the structure still standing was a chimney and a hearth of dry-laid rocks.  The remains of the walls made for a somewhat enclosed space to keep the horses and bed down for the night. 

While Dorwin built a fire in the old hearth, Halrohir scouted round the place, finding no signs of anything beyond field mice or creatures of the wild.  That this was once a farmstead there was no doubt; old pieces of forged tools were inside and outside, rusted and falling into dust.  Wood had been worked by tools and hand, lumber cut and shaped.  There was wood in plenty for a fire, and Dorwin produced a treasure from his belongings, a flask of cordial he brought from Rivendell.  Shared with Halrohir’s rations, everything tasted like a feast made in a great hall.  And in this ruined house, the travelers passed the night and the horses rested, but they remained ever watchful for what might lie ahead.

Chapter Three:  The Long Middle-Marches

Halrohir and Dorwin spent the night in watchful solitude after their crossing of the Greyflood.  All of them, both horse and rider, were taxed from fording the river, except perhaps for Morindal, who was if anything hungrier than his wont.  The giant black horse began cropping every tusset of grass within sight of the ruined house, while Forosul was simply munching in his fodder bag.  Halrohir and Dorwin were content with their shared meal, and the Ranger slept soundly while the Elf watched the hours pass undisturbed.  But neither of them forgot the encounter of the previous night with the thief in the shadows, upon whom they found the stolen letter of a King’s Messenger.  Halrohir mused on that long after the sun had set, reading over the torn parchment several times as he puzzled out its riddle.

“The parchment is torn in two, and only the bottom half remains”, he explained to Dorwin.  “So much of the messenger’s errand is gone, but this is plain, when and where he came from and where he was headed.  The last lines read, done by my hand in the city of Minas Tirith, on this the New Year’s Day, in the fifth year of the reign of The King Elessar, and of the new age the third, so signed, Camwaen, King’s Writer and servant of the Steward of Ithilien.”  

“This tells us that this letter was signed on the twenty-fifth of March, barely a month ago”, he went on, “and that the bearer rode out from the White City headed north.  He must have been waylaid at Tharbad or nearby, as he was fording the river and headed up the Greenway from Gondor.”

“Is there naught you can glean further?” Dorwin asked.

“Only a half-broken wording near the frayed edge, which reads in part, deliver your packet to Calcallon, the King’s Minister at Annuminas, or his deputy, Ranger Captain Galador should he not be present.  Galador!  They never received this message, or the packet that the errand-rider bore.  Alas, that the road is still too perilous for any to travel, even after the return of the King.”

“If we speak of roads, then why not about the roads ahead?” Dorwin asked.  “I suppose you have a clear plan as to what you might do, and where you might go?”

“I had thought of continuing down the Greenway until we crossed the Fords of Isen, on the borders of Rohan”, Halrohir said, “then on northeast to strike the Entwash, and follow it north into the forest from there.  I had thought it would be six days, at Morindal’s pace, to arrive at Isen; but with Forosul setting the pace, it may be closer to nine.  We have to consider about food and water for both us and the mounts.”

“There are places for water, and fodder for both we and the beasts”, Dorwin said, then grinned.  “Even the Ranger must learn some new things about life in the Wild, I deem.  I shall show you some simple works that will make it easier to pass the long and lonely miles ahead.  That will wait for the morrow, and our next day’s march.”  And with that, the Elf let the watchfire burn a little lower, while Halrohir rolled up in his blanket and uneasily fell to sleep.

The next day dawned slowly but with great news from the skies.  Dorwin had been watching the light climb over the eastern horizon when Halrohir arose to see the Elf first standing to the east, then the west, then turning to the north.  At length, he turned to Halrohir and spoke.

“The weather is changing.  See, the clouds are distant over the western sky, and there is a tang of rain on the wind, rain borne from the Sea.  Even if we break camp and begin riding soon, we shall be overtaken by those clouds before the day is out, even before we could find a camp.  I trust you thought of what to do in the event of the weather turning against you?”

“Yes, I had”, Halrohir replied.  “I brought with me oilskins, heavy cloth treated with oil that repels water.  With these, I make a small shelter.  It was meant for one full-grown man plus his gear, but I suppose we could squeeze the both of us inside.”

“Good, you have shelter, now what of water and meal?”

“Morindal can graze, and I have skill as a hunter and trapper in the Wild.”

“But hunting and trapping will take time, time you do not have to spare from Morindal’s errand.  And what again of water, or were you going to drink from the same puddles that your faithful horse would draw?  Let me teach you a way.  Have you your kettle handy?”

Dorwin quickly rebuilt the fire to a blaze, and Halrohir’s kettle-pot was set to the boil, filled with brackish water from a nearby depression at which the Ranger turned up his nose.  As the kettle began to sing, Dorwin piled more fuel beneath it, bringing the kettle to a roiling whistling boil.  After several minutes, he reached with a branch and took the kettle off the flame, setting it aside on a stone to cool.

“Such is the first step”, Dorwin explained, “boiling the water until all that is impure is killed.  Second, we do this”, and he produced a heavy cheese cloth, draped it over the lip of Halrohir’s metal pan, and poured the water over the cloth.

“This strains anything that may have not been purged in the boiling.  Still, this water is too hot to drink, so it must be allowed to cool.  What happens next, is this”, and Dorwin poured the boiled and strained water into a water skin, separate and larger than the one he used.  “This water skin has a nugget of pure silver inside.  The silver, when immersed in the warm water, further kills anything which might poison the water, and prevents mildew from forming within the bag or the water itself.  Not much silver is required; it can also be used in anything even as large as a barrel – for that as much as a silver coin will suffice – and water can be brought safely over great distances.”

Halrohir was amazed.  “Marvelous!  What a thing to learn!  So many can benefit from this wisdom.  What else can you show me?”

“First things first, mellon nin”, Dorwin said, “for now we must prepare more water for all of us.  Start gleaning more water, and I shall rebuild the fire.” And the two friends set about their work.  Soon, both Halrohir and Dorwin had full water skins, to which Dorwin had added a precious nugget of silver to Halrohir’s; and Dorwin’s larger water bladder was also filled, for which they would use for the horses in the leagues ahead.  Firewood they had in plenty, stripping the ruins of the house for kindling and fuel.  Soon they had the camp cleared, then they mounted and began the next leg of the ride south.

“You spoke of food, Dorwin”, Halrohir asked as they jogged along at a trot.  “Have you any tricks in your sleeves for that, as you did for the water skins?”

“Not in my sleeves do I carry water”, Dorwin grinned, “nor food for that matter.  But here, you tell me what precautions you already have.  What do you pack for journeys like this?”

“I’ve packed cornmeal cakes, baked hard and crisp and wrapped in cheesecloth so they’ll keep longer.  Many of these will keep a man in the saddle for a long journey.  Also, I’ve brought slips of cured meats, which can either be eaten plain or warmed over the fire.  Morindal will eat the cakes as well, he likes them for the salt taste.”

“All well and good, my friend, but would you know how to extend you store, or to make it more enjoyable to the tooth on the way?  Here, see this,” and Dorwin produced from his bag a glass phial, with a golden liquid inside. 

“Honey from the bee-pastures of Rivendell”, he said.  “Sweet to the taste and fortifying in a way all its own.  Those with long lore of plant and herb tell us honey has much the same effect as silver does with water, and this will aid to reduce illness if one feels ague approaching.  Now, I have brought for both of us what should be enough to last us the trek, should we not have a chance to replenish our stores.”

“There is one other thing I have, my friend”, Halrohir said, and that is the writ of the King’s Messenger I bear.  I am hoping that, by using its influence, we might claim hospitality wherever we go, and whatever hosts we find might refill our stock of rations for the next leg.  Once we reach Isen, and cross into Rohan, we shall meet folk who will provide us with many things.  Until then, we might not even find folk at all.”

So, the day’s ride continued, as they talked and schemed of their road before them, as the gondlar marched past, counting down the leagues.  Just south of the ruined farm, the next stone read “two-hundred-ninety-and-four”, and both Halrohir and Dorwin were in earnest to make good time before the weather changed against them.  South and east they travelled, glancing over their right shoulders at the gathering clouds, while looking ahead at the empty, dreary moors that opened before them.  They had come to Enedwaith, the Middle-lands, the vast and barren land between the realms of old, Gondor in the south and Arnor in the north.  Nine days they had given themselves for passage though that lonely land, and the two riders were determined to keep that pace.

As the sun began westering that afternoon, the stone pillar numbered “two-hundred-seventy-and-nine” was just behind them, showing they had gone full fifteen leagues, a good day’s ride without a hard effort.  Neither horse seemed winded, nor were their riders especially tired, but both agreed they should husband their mounts and themselves and rest where needed.  After scouting around both sides of the road, they found a small stand of stunted trees a furlong to the west, and there made their camp.  Halrohir had found in their scouting signs that this spot had been used before:  charred wood lay scattered in places, and stones had been moved, but the signs were old, and not recently left.  While he searched and began to make camp, Dorwin watched the northwestern skies, and seemed pleased with what he read in the clouds.

“The weather has turned”, he said as he sat down next to Halrohir, who was working with the now crackling blaze and boiling water.  He gratefully accepted a honeyed cake that the Ranger handed him.  “The clouds now move northeast, leaving us be for now.  We shall sleep dry tonight, and feel the air, as well; it will not be chill tonight.  Now, will you insist on this pace for a while?  I would agree, so long as the weather holds for us.”

“I was hoping you’d agree”, Halrohir said as he munched on a honeyed cake.  “It seems the horses agree, too.  Look at what they’re doing!”  They turned to watch, as Morindal was shoving a cake with his nose toward Forosul, who sniffed at it with interest.

“I offered a few of them to Morindal, but then he began sharing them with Forosul”, Halrohir laughed.  Laughter and talk circled the camp far into the night again, as the stars wheeled overhead and closed out the latest day of the long errand. 

Chapter Four:  The Passage South is Watched

Days of riding through empty lands and nights of lonely camps were blending together once again, as the road took the travelers southward along the ancient road between the kingdoms of old, now the Reunited Kingdom of the West.  The lands about them, the Enedwaith, were unremarkable for any relief or height, simply a flat prairie to be crossed on the way, the line of peaks that were the Misty Mountains always on their left, looming larger as the road bent to the southeast.  But even the approaching peaks could not afford any break in the journey.  Only the steady march of the gondlars, the pillars marking the leagues as they stood in silent watch on the road, provided the travelers any sign of progress on this weary path.

Halrohir was silent on this morning’s leg of the journey, staring off into nothing.  He gave Morindal his head, letting the great horse follow the track as he would; in this, he jostled Dorwin and Forosul twice.

“What ails you, Ranger?” Dorwin laughed.  “Do you see things in the air that even I do not?”

Halrohir still looked in the distance, but now gazing at the mountains.  “The Greyflood is now five days behind us.  We are passing through Enedwaith, but far too slowly for my liking.  The horses are paced well, and it looks to me Forosul is doing fine – if he wasn’t, either you would tell me, or Morindal would”, he smiled.

“And you would be right”, Dorwin laughed, “though you would probably first hear it from that – what do you call him? – ‘that big haystack’?”

Halrohir laughed as well.  “True enough.  But look, Dorwin, we are falling behind our pace.  Are you ready for another pass?”  And with that, he nudged Morindal into trot, then a canter, seeing Dorwin following but Forosul stretching out to pace the great black stallion.  For several hours, the travelers wore away the miles, and when they drew up to a gondlar still proclaiming “two-hundred-twenty-and-five”, they halted and dismounted.  Morindal began right away cropping every blade of grass in sight, while Forosul was beginning to show signs of being lathered.  Dorwin watered the horse and rubbed him down gently while Halrohir paced around the stopping point, testing the wind and the air, gazing at the mountains and the sky.

The land had not changed remarkably in the past leagues.  Rolling hills and hollows dotted by scrub and stunted trees gave barely any relief.  The road south, which had been less and less visible the farther south they went, was now almost completely obscured by grasses and undergrowth.  Here was where Dorwin’s company proved invaluable, as he searched the ground for signs of the ancient road.  Halrohir, Ranger though he was, would have twice missed the track, even relying on the distant mountain peaks as markers; he would have missed the pillars entirely, and been left to wander the trackless hollows of Enedwaith.

But nonetheless, the travelers stayed on course, the gondlars counting the leagues and showing the progress of the trek.  The sun was setting westward as the stone boasting “two-hundred-and twenty” was just coming up, when they halted and searched the trailside for a suitable camp.  The weather had held for this long, except for two days ago when a passing shower south of them wetted the road ahead.  The standing waters in many pools allowed them to refill their water skins with the boiled-water-and-silver technique Dorwin had shared.  Halrohir found a good site to the left of the trail not far from the league-stone, sheltered by brush with tinder and kindling in plenty.  While the horses grazed and cropped, the Ranger and the elf discussed what lie ahead.

The trail they followed now bent in a sharp turn eastward, making straight for the pass between the Misty Mountains and the White.  By Halrohir’s reckoning, they were one, perhaps two days before the Fords of Isen and the Gap of Rohan.  That would be their first real test, if they could pass the frontier of the realm of the Rohirrim and King Eomer the Lucky, as he was known.  He had few illusions if any that he’d meet the King of the Horse-lords on this errand, but to at least gain good will from his men, and safe passage through his lands, would be a boon enough.

As the fire crackled merrily in the gloom, Halrohir sat near the firepit chewing slowly on a piece of dried meat, while Dorwin stood just outside the fire’s light to watch the stars above the camp.  Suddenly, the elf stiffened, tense and alert, and glanced at Morindal as if in consultation.  Sure enough, the black horse’s head was pointing off into the darkness, nostrils flared and taking in a scent.  Dorwin knew where his bow was and began slowly backing away to the firelight, speaking low and quiet to Halrohir in the Elven-tongue.

Cuath i philinn lin, Dunadan!  Guidhoth farad vin.  Morindal noston hain o more.  [Find your bow and arrows, Westman!  An enemy hunts us.  Blackfoot smells them in the night.]

Halrohir scrambled quietly to his gear, retrieving his bow and bending it while lying on his side, his quiver in easy reach.  His bow now ready, he whispered to Dorwin, who had also readied and already had an arrow notched.

Man cenich?  Ias hain, i holhain?  [What did you see?  Where are they, how close are they?]

“I only know they are out there in the dark, waiting.  Get out of the firelight and let us watch.”

As they nodded, they each split up on opposite sides of the fire which was still burning, concealing themselves in shadow.  They didn’t have long to wait.  Into the circle of light stepped four men, clad in armor and thick furs and jerkins, and helms with tassels of horse hair.  Two of them wielded great spears, the other two had long swords at their sides.  They stopped at the firelight, then split into pairs to look around.  They began speaking, in a tongue that Halrohir almost recognized but not quite certain of what he heard.  Suddenly, Dorwin rose out of the grass and stepped into the light, hailing the men in what seemed to be their own speech.  The four were so startled and surprised, they nearly dropped their weapons.

“Come forth, Halrohir, my friend”, Dorwin called out, “here we have good news!”  Halrohir rose and stepped into the firelight as well.  He saw the four men clearly now up close.  Two of them had removed their helmets, and he saw golden hair and beards, fair faces, but hard eyes.

“Halrohir, fortune is with us tonight, for these are march-wardens of the Riddermark, riders out of Rohan.  Friends, here is my friend Halrohir, Ranger of the North and Messenger of the King Elfstone!”  One of the swordsmen stepped forward and looked hard and long on Halrohir, who met his gaze with equal strength.

“Your companion speaks true”, he said, “for you are in face and in eyes one of the Men of the West.  And his story, told in brief, that he is an Elf of all things – I only met one from afar, the companion of the Lord Elfstone himself in battle at the Hornburg – but I see there is a tale to be told here.  But speak now, what errand brings you this close to the marches of the Mark?”

Halrohir had been warned by his father that in dealing with the Rohirrim, one must be bold to gain trust, and offer hospitality.  And that is what he did.  “My errand is such that neither time nor idleness must stay it.  But even so, our horses have traveled long leagues and even the stronger of them must rest.  Since we shall go no further this night, I would ask you to be welcome here, to what comfort I can provide.  If you have mounts, tether them with ours.  If you have food of your own, partake.”

The hard-eyed leader considered this, then said “Agreed.  It has been a ride of several leagues for my men as well.  Your offer is gracious.  You companion names you a Ranger and Messenger.  I am a March-ward, and Bragwine is my name, son of Beaga.”  At his call in his own speech, the other riders set about bringing their horses to the campfire – their number was greater than they let on, for they left several more riders to mind the horses in the dark.  Soon there were Halrohir, Dorwin, and ten riders assembled round the fire, which had been built up much higher with wood the Rohirrim had brought with them.  Several of the riders were exclaiming about something in their own tongue.

“Do you say”, Bragwine asked, “that the giant black stallion is yours?  My men have never seen the like of that one before!  And he will let no man near him, he just snorts as if daring you to come near!”

Halrohir laughed and said, “Let me see what I might do”, and rose and walked to where the horses were tethered.  Sure enough, four or five men were clustered around him, speaking in tones of admiration or awe.  The Rohirrim loved horses, and the presence of Morindal fascinated them.  In his usual way, Halrohir approached the great black, two apples appearing in his hands.  Morindal immediately calmed and crunched the proffered fruits. 

“That is the secret for Morindal: always lead with an apple!”  he laughed, and the others laughed as well.  The ice had been broken, but questions lingered in the Ranger’s mind: why are the Rohirrim out this far, nearly a day’s ride from their borders?

Chapter Five:  The Gap is Closing

Halrohir liked the company around the blazing fire that night.  It was cheerful as well as loud, a marked difference for his journey thus far down the Greenway and across the wastes.  Skins of ale passed round the fire, as well as bread on sticks toasted over the fire.  Clearly, the Rohirrim were comfortable with a camp this far out from their own borders and made no heed to noise.

But to Halrohir’s mind, the best thing about the night’s gathering was the sharing of news of the road ahead, and it was both bad and good.  He sat in council with Bragwine and Dorwin, and one other of the riders, Windlaf, who it seemed kept record and careful notes on what passed on their patrols.

Bragwine and his small riding, it was told, were part of the March-wards of Westfold, whose lord was still the hale warrior Erkenbrand of Helm’s Deep.  In the years since the War of the Ring and the rise of King Eomer, the Rohirrim had set about reordering their realm that had seen such devastation at the hands of the traitor Saruman.  And in these few years they had accomplished much; harvests resewn and gathered, towns and hamlets rebuilt, families reunited and begun, but importantly, the lands around had acknowledged Rohan’s strength and power and their borders were secure once more. 

But it had not all been successful.  Brigands and the lawless still needed to be routed out, and that took time and blood.  The lands of Rohan stretched from Anduin to Isen, but the lands just across the border could not be allowed to harbor freely those who meant them harm.  This was the reason for the rides of the March-wards, who rode out one days’ ride from the marked borders of the land, sought out whoever meant ill, sped on or escorted the friendly traveler, and kept a watchful peace over the lands.  Bragwine and his company were such a riding, one of three small patrols who set out from a garrison near the Fords of Isen.  One day’s ride out, two or more to scour the land, then one day to return. 

“Ours may seem a pointless task”, Bragwine said, “but it is needful.  Those across the lands who see the patrols mark their passing and know that Rohan is vigilant as well as victorious.  None since the White Wizard held sway have crossed our borders unchallenged.”

“It is much the same in the North”, Halrohir said.  “The Rangers are no longer in the shadows, but work active and abroad, and simple townsfolk praise us for our work.  So much has changed since the return of the King, I can scarcely believe it myself.”

“We are told you are a King’s Messenger, with credentials to present”, Windlaf said.  “As such, we are charged with speeding you on your way, to whatever destination you are bound.  Your first task will be to present yourself at the garrison at the Fords of Isen.  From there, you may proceed with leave through the lands of the Mark.” 

“But be warned”, Bragwine said.  “Our rides have encountered troubles in recent weeks.  The Dunlendings, the old allies of the Wizard, have shaken off their fear of us, and are growing slowly bolder, testing our strength and resolve on our frontier.  This ride found traces of their passing on the trail before you; you may have encountered them instead of us, so this meeting has fortune smiling upon you.  Now, with the dawn we shall rise, mount up and move out.  It is not a hard ride, for we are but fourteen leagues from this spot to the crossings of Isen, then close by to the garrison.  From there, only your own errand can say.  Now for me, I shall retire from this merry band, and there shall be a watch set around this camp tonight.”

“I would join this watch with you, friend Bragwine”, Dorwin said, “for sleep evades me, as it does for all my folk.”  Bragwine nodded and showed Dorwin where the watch was organizing.  That left Halrohir at the fireside with Windlaf, who was watching the Ranger closely.

“What troubles you, Ranger, that you listen more than speak?” he asked.

“I have need of news of the road ahead, and my ears don’t work if my tongue wags.”

A chuckle.  “Well said.  As was told by Bragwine, we found evidence of the Dunlending  presence, not themselves.  I am frankly surprised that we are being so heedless with this camp tonight. It should be a silent and dark camp, with more or a guard mounted.”

“You speak as a scout or a warrior should, friend; but do I understand you are a recorder, instead?”

“Not just a recorder, no.  I observe, I scout, I question, I make account and record for others, and when the painful necessity arises, I fight well.”

Laughter from both, then Halrohir asks, “Then what have you recorded on your journeys, especially any journeys east across your lands – all the way to the Entwash, perhaps?”

“Even as far as that?  My business keeps me in the Westfold, so it is a rare time I travel that far east.  But I have spoken to those whose journeys go there.  What, may I ask, is your interest in the Entwash?”

“The purpose of my errand is merely to reach the river and discover its source, beyond that I cannot say”, Halrohir replied evasively.  Windlaf was about to reply when cries and harsh sounds rang out in the night, towards the place where the horses were tethered – all the voices drowned out by one voice, a loud, thunderous neigh…

Halrohir sprang to his feet and sprinted to the sound, his sword flashing into his hand as he ran.  The nightmare scene before him was lit by flickering torches and brush set on fire.  Two horses lay dead in the grass, butchered.  One of the Rohirrim was down, clutching his stomach and a protruding spear.  Others were fighting back to back, swords and spears weaving in the light.   And at the edge of the light, Dorwin stood with his bow working, rapid shots flying in every direction, each shaft scoring a deadly hit.

But it was the animals that Halrohir ran to.  The riders’ horses screamed at the blood and fire -  warhorses of the Rohirrim though they were, something terrified them.  And there, looming up before him was the familiar bulk of his faithful Morindal, hooves beating and striking at a massive figure in the firelight, flailing and snarling with snapping jaws.  He could scarcely believe it:  here was a Warg, a creature he had not seen in five years, not since the epic flight of the Dunedain.  But now here was proof the creatures of the dark years had not all been routed out.  With no further thought for himself, he charged the Warg with his sword swung back, bellowing out a cry.

The Warg heard Halrohir’s shout and turned to face him.  Blood already dripped from its jaws as the snarling maw gaped wide to engulf him, but the beast grunted loudly and flew high to the side, crashing to the ground; Morindal had turned his hind legs to the Warg and delivered a savage kick with both hooves, sending it reeled and stunned.  Halrohir changed the direction of his rush, and plunged his sword into the monster’s eye socket, finishing it.

A shout from Dorwin brought Halrohir to his friend’s side.  He was standing near the fires, the light blazing bright now.  Bragwine was with him, speaking quickly with another rider.  It seemed two men were injured, though none was slain, but two of the horses were.  Forosul had been staked near Morindal, and the great black shielded him from harm.  But Bragwine’s concern was doubled, because his men had found nearby the targets of Dorwin’s arrows, lying dead in the grass.

“Dunlendings”, Bragwine spat.  “It is as we suspected, they are indeed becoming bolder.  So much so, that now they are bringing the White Wizard’s former pets into the play.  Let us see to the camp and the riders, and keep a more watchful guard, though it may not be enough.”

“Halrohir!  Come here, quickly!” came Dorwin’s voice from the horse tethers.  Halrohir crossed the camp to find Dorwin near both their horses and in the dim light, his face was a picture of shock.

“Look here, my Forosul was unhurt”, he said, “but look at our giant friend!”  And in the light of the bonfire, Halrohir saw numerous cuts and scrapes from the Warg’s claws and fangs, but that was not what he pointed at.

Morindal’s ribs were showing, and his muzzle was graying, like an ageing nag.

“His time is drawing nigh, my friend”, Dorwin said with a note of dread.  “It seems that each use of his mighty strength speeds him down the road to ruin, like drawing from a well that cannot be refilled.  All the long leagues from Breeland to here sapped him slowly, and we failed to notice.  But now, in fighting off this beast, he took too much of a draught from his well.

“He knows that there is something amiss, that his strength is less, but he is otherwise in no discomfort or pain; save of course these bravely-gotten hurts of his.  I cannot even venture a guess as to how much longer we have, I know that is your question; but as of now, the gap in the door of good luck is slamming shut.”

Chapter Six:  Eyes in the Night

All options had run out this night for Halrohir and Morindal.  There was no longer any time to spare or to leisurely pass the leagues, the journey was now a race against fate.  Halrohir, upon hearing Dorwin’s ominous pronouncement of Morindal’s impending doom, felt panic scrabbling at his throat.  He had to act, and act quickly, but what action could be taken?  He went back to the fireside and sat on the ground to think.

Morindal must drink from the waters of the Entwash, he thought, but where along the Entwash must he drink?  Must we find the source of the river, the headwaters, or a spring that feeds the stream?  Shall we stay under the open sky, or must we plunge under the eaves of Fangorn?  This needs knowledge, and knowledge must have a source.  Who but the Elves ever ran with Morindal –

“Dorwin”, Halrohir called, and his friend sat next to him, seeing his troubled state.  “Think back along your memory.  Who besides me, or the Eldar, ever walked alongside Morindal?”

“The great black was foaled in Rohan, nigh on twenty years past”, Dorwin replied, “I cannot imagine anyone remembering one colt out of thousands, even if he became your big haystack.”

“I wonder if there might be some help from our hosts after all…”  Halrohir said as he called out to Bragwine and Windlaf, and together they held a strange council.  Halrohir spun the whole tale of Morindal’s enchantment, even a brief account of the flight of the Dunedain, and the true reason for their errand across the wastes and across the land of Rohan.  Several more of the Rohirrim joined the circle as Halrohir’s masterful story crafting spun the tale of the mightiest horse in the North, his unmatched strength and power, and the slow spending of his strength which now threatened to spiral out of control.

Many voices rumored in wonder as Halrohir concluded his tale.  Some doubted, but to see Dorwin backing him up, and the very sight of Morindal nearby, subdued many doubts. But of everyone there, it was Windlaf who had the answers, and even a rapid plan in his quick mind.

“Ranger, and Elf, you are on a noble errand, like out of song and story.  While I say it is true that an enchantment lies upon this faithful beast, and it must be renewed – which is not a new story, for tales speak of pledges made and kept true – it is not as much of a mystery as you fear.  You seek the waters of the Entwash, you say?  I tell you, it is not the Entwash you seek, for that would be too easy a quest.  It is the Ent-draughts you seek, the waters that have felt the dwimorcraft of the Ents themselves.  So therefore, if you seek the waters that will revive your mighty friend, you must seek out those who enchant the waters in the first place!”

“The Ents, themselves!  Then we must go to Fangorn Forest after all”, Halrohir cried.  “How long a journey do we still have before us, and with Morindal’s strength flagging?”

“Only two days, Ranger”, Windlaf said with a laugh, “because you don’t have to go to Fangorn to find Ents!  Two day’s ride from here, one to the Fords of Isen, and then a day’s ride north to Isengard – or as it is called now, the Treegarth.  There you will find the wizard tower of Orthanc in the center of a beautiful garden, enclosed in a garth of trees where the old wall stood.  And there, tending the trees and keeping watch over the tower, you might find the Shepherds of the Forests, and they will no doubt have the answers you seek – if of course, you can find them at all.”

“The Onodrim are but two days away!” Dorwin cried. “Good tidings!  Not only shall we find the answers and solve the riddles of the Ent-draughts, but we might even have the chance to spy one of the oldest living things in the world!  Halrohir, my friend, we may have given Morindal more of a fighting chance than he ever had before.”

The company began bedding down as much as could be, though not all comfort could be found.  A watch was set, in case of any return of the Dunlendings, and a closer guard posted over the horses.  Few of the company slept that night.  Dorwin paced the camp, offering to spell the guards and take turns as he would.  Halrohir had cast himself down on the ground next to Morindal and drifted off into a fitful slumber, filled with images of walking trees and fountains of waters.

He was roused by Dorwin just before dawn.  The Rohirrim were breaking camp, the fire was already doused, and the horses were being saddled.  Halrohir immediately turned to Morindal, and what he saw made him recoil.  Morindal’s condition was hidden by the dark, but in the daylight the extent of his growing weakness was plain.  The hair around his muzzle and eyes were grey.  His ribs protruded from his hide making him look undernourished, although his height and the length of his legs had not lessened.  He had no trouble with the saddle or harness; if anything, it went on easier.  Halrohir mounted, Dorwin rode up next to him, and the small company rode off eastward.

Halrohir begged Bragwine to set an easy pace, to see how Morindal’s endurance was affected by this sudden fall of age.  But to everyone’s eyes, the great black showed no signs of lessened strength, his long-legged gait keeping pace with the horses of the Rohirrim with little effort.  The company kept the pace at a canter for some miles before calling a halt and dismounting to let the horses walk.  The Rohirrim all spoke in admiration of the Ranger’s great stallion, who rode with them even at the end of his strength.  They all noticed the change in his appearance, but also the fact that his power had yet to lessen.  After all, did he not fight off a Warg in the night?

It was late in the afternoon, after several brief halts for food and water, that the party approached a river that was wide to the left and right, the north and south; but before them was a wide shallow plate of rock which raised the riverbed and created a crossing, even forming a small island in the center of the river.  They had reached the Fords of Isen and began their passing across at good speed.  At the center of the eyot was a mound, at which passing the Rohirrim bowed their heads.  Halrohir asked about this salute.

“There lies the mound of all those who fell in battle here, against the forces of Saruman”, Bragwine replied.  “Chief among them was Theodred, son of Theoden, who afterwards might have been King of the Riddermark.  He is not here, for he lies with his fathers at Edoras.”  Halrohir placed his hand over his heart and nodded his respect as well. 

The party passed over the fords and came swiftly up to a cluster of stone and wood huts in a tight circle:  the garrison of the Fords.  Here the horses were tended, and Windlaf bade the travelers inside the largest hut.  Within, he showed them introduction to the ward-keeper and Chief March-warden, whose eyes widened when Halrohir broke the seal on the credentials he carried all the way from Breeland, proclaiming him a King’ Messenger.  The warden could not take his eyes off Halrohir, nor Dorwin who stood by saying nothing, and he listened to everything Windlaf said.  Halrohir rather enjoyed the situation.

“Your credentials are in fine order, friend Ranger”, the warden said, “and from what our Windlaf tells me, it is important you be given safe conduct through the Westfold in support of your errand.  Very well, and we shall task Bragwine and his folk to be your escort, especially considering the attack upon your camp.  Might I inquire further, though, on your errand and your destination?”

“You may not, for speed and haste requires we leave at once”, Windlaf answered for him.  “I thank you for the service of Bragwine as escort, it is wise of you.  But we can brook no delays, such is the Ranger’s need.  Good day to you,” and Windlaf hustled them all out the door.

“The Chief Warden”, Windlaf explained when they were out of earshot, “is like an old washer-woman, who would gossip at the fence and keep you there until he was done talking, which would be never.  Now here’s hoping we can get at least a few miles in before sunset, though there will not be much more of a ride today.  And I do not advise staying near the garrison, the warden will ask questions and second-guess his assistance.”

“You don’t mean to say he’d try to stop us from reaching Isengard?” Halrohir asked.

“Not so much, but his meddling could cost you days that Morindal cannot afford to waste”, Windlaf replied.  “I am your ally in this remarkable adventure as much as anyone can be, Ranger.  I offer whatever help I can, in return for seeing this mighty mount of yours restored to health and having a tale to share with my grandchildren by the fire someday.”

Halrohir genuinely smiled at Windlaf’s kindness, slapping a hand on his shoulder.  “Done.  We shall see this through together, with Dorwin’s leave of course?” he grinned at the elf, who was giving a lopsided smile of humor and approval.

Bragwine and his party of riders approached, already mounted and ready to depart.  As Halrohir, Dorwin and Windlaf mounted, Bragwine said, “We had to leave three of our riders behind due to injuries and the loss of the horses.  But I am sorry to say that word of the great black stallion has spread, and not a few of the folk here wish to see him up close.  But it has also had the good fortune of getting more riders to commit; we have six more joining us, making for a stronger party.  We are ready when you are.”

The party formed up and rode north along a well-used track that ran straight as an iron lance, pointed directly at a mountain peak, Methedras, the last mountain of the entire Misty Mountain chain.  In a deep cloven space at the foot of that mountain lay the valley once known as Nan Curunir, the Wizard’s Vale.  In these better times, the new name of this transformed place was the Treegarth of Orthanc, and it was a gift of the Lord Elfstone to the Ents themselves, though the King retained the tower itself as his own, asking the Ents maintain stewardship over the valley.  Ever since the end of the War of the Ring, the Ents had maintained their watchfulness over the Treegarth, at times calling it the Watchwood, while the traitor Saruman still dwelt as a prisoner of the tower; that name was now largely forgotten.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, it was clear there would be no reaching Isengard this night.  There was no moon to light the way, and high clouds hid the stars mostly.  A single bright watchfire lit the camp, and Bragwine posted more vigilant guards around both the camp and the mounts.  Dorwin, as his wont, joined the watch while the other rested in the cool spring night.

Before retiring, Halrohir made his customary way to the tether lines and found Morindal, who was looking around for grass to eat.  Taking his offered apples, the horse nuzzled Halrohir’s hands for more.

“You can’t know how worried I am about you, you big fool of a horse”, he muttered.  “But we’re one day away from maybe getting you what you need, and this trek will have been worth it.  I just wish I had clear guidance on where I find the waters you need.  They could be here, or a hundred miles away.  How shall I know whether you will find out?”  He hugged the stallion’s neck, and Morindal bent his head to press Halrohir’s shoulder in reply.  He moved off and found a place to throw himself down and give himself over to sleep.

Halrohir woke up and saw about him it was still daylight, surrounded by trees in leaf and the smell of woodsmoke.  It had been nighttime just a minute ago – then his mind grasped what was happening.  Another dream of foresight, of the kinds he had during the flight of the Dunedain, and sometimes afterward, always giving some deep-meant message.  And here, he was seeing another, and looked around to watch it unfold.

Halrohir rose to his feet and looked around at his surroundings.  The land was kept and tilled, and a prosperous inn stood nearby.  The inn was a sprawling affair, with a paddock and stables next to it, a large yard – and it suddenly dawned upon him that he was looking at The Forsaken Inn, but in the future and not the present!

Then, from out of the stable came a most familiar sound – the thunderous voice of the mightiest horse in the North.  And suddenly, bursting through the stable doors came Morindal at a full gallop, looking strong and dark, but strangely thin and drawn.  But he had a rider, and this rider was as different as different could be – because it wasn’t Halrohir!  The rider was a girl, a young woman by the look of things, dressed in a baggy, cream-colored tunic, moss-green trousers, supple leather boots, and her hair braided in a long rope down her back.  But as they got closer, what caught Halrohir’s eyes most of all was the young woman’s features – her wing-tipped ears revealed her to be of Elven-kind.  But the eyes – it was the eyes – they were bottle-green!  The same eyes he saw on the flight in his visions, he was sure of it now!

The slender Elf-maid cried out in a loud voice, “Come on!  Run for me, Morindal!”  and the great black responded with another trumpet of his voice, and turf flew from his hooves as he sprang away at a speed only he could manage.  As he watched the horse and rider speed off into the distance, the sky and light dimmed around him, until Halrohir found himself sitting up at the fireside in Rohan, a few leagues south of Isengard, with Morindal ailing and needing a fighting chance for a future.  But, what did this dream mean?  That there was a future, but not with Halrohir?  The bottle-green-eyes were back, which he had not seen in years.  Too much puzzle, he thought, as he laid back down and drifted back into, finally, a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Seven:  Under the Eaves of Anger

At dawn the next morning, the party broke camp, mounted and rode north at a slow pace, for both Bragwine and Windlaf counseled there was no telling what greeting they might find as they approached the Treegarth.  As they rode, the roadway changed; what was an arrow-straight highroad until now became a winding pathway that followed the bank of the Isen as it flowed from the valley ahead.  After a league or so, the path left the riverbank and shot straight north once more.  And as they approached and crested one final hill, the vista before them opened in wonder.

The Treegarth was a vast orchard and tended wood, flowering and blossoming in the spring airs.  Every manner of fruit, nut and flower colored the vale in a vast carpet, a riot of scents from every blossom assaulting their noses with myriad perfumes.  And in the center, in the middle of a dark still lake that lay like a mirror against the clouds, rose the spire and tower of Orthanc itself, black and imposing against the bright sky and clear waters.  From where the riders stood, there were two tall trees like doorposts, forming the gate from where the paved street ran all the way to the tower, though now submerged beneath the water.  All was silent, except for birdsong and breeze, the speech of trees in their boughs.

Dorwin was listening closely, leaning forward on Forosul and holding a hand to his ear.  “There are voices in the wood”, he said, “voices that are many and confusing.  Some are curious, some might welcome, but others, the most numerous, are angry.  They are being disturbed and look to see us gone.  And there is another note in their speech:  a summons, a call to arms.  They call for a shepherd to drive us off!”

They all knew this to be true, because the horses began to shy and stamp, as if they knew what was coming before it could be seen, which presently it was.  The trees to the side of the pavement began swaying like a high wind, then parted as if shoved aside.  Through the canopied archway the trees created strode a being from another, much older world.  A figure fully ten feet tall with short, squat legs like stumps approached them at a remarkable gait for such and ungainly creature.  The long torso and arms were grayish-brown, smooth and veinless and almost waxy.  The beard, too, almost looked waxen, as did the bristlecone of hair.  But the eyes were the most shocking and powerful of this creature’s appearance, for they were deep and thoughtful, but also burned with a fury that no man or orc could match.

The horses of the Rohirrim began shying back, and their masters did not hold them, such was the malice off this being – an Ent, obviously, but something not fitting with the tales of the wise wood-creatures they learned.  Dorwin leapt from horseback to the ground and motioned for Halrohir to do the same.

“Hail, new friend Onod, of the people of Fangorn, eldest and wide-walkers of the wood!” he cried.  “Dorwin is my name, of the people of the Eldar of Imladris.  It is you and your folk we came from afar to seek out, for we crave your counsel and your aid.”

The Ent did not answer right away, his eyes moving over Dorwin and holding him for a minute.  Then the eyes shifted to Halrohir, and the weakened form of Morindal; then once again back to Dorwin.  The Ent took two steps tentatively closer to the elf and stood for a silent moment more.  Finally, he broke his silence.

“Hrm, harm”, it rumbled, “An Elf, a Man, and two horses – one of which has a curious scent, most curious indeed, harm”.  And the great being took two steps towards Morindal, who did not blench or turn away, but stared at the Ent as if in challenge.  The Ent took two huge sniffs, tasting the horse’s scent.

“Harm, hey, this horse smells of Ent-draughts!”  he said surprised.  “The Ent-draughts are not to be shared, except the time when the little hobbit-children came to stay with us and joined the Ent-moot.  That was a stirring time, and I am sorry to have missed most of it.  So, master Elf, you bring curious friends with you?  And what business might you have in the Treegarth, where we keep watch?  What counsel would you seek that we might share, if we were so inclined to do so?”

“Counsel that only the Onodrim can provide”, Dorwin answered.  “I shall tell the tale we have journeyed far to complete – although this man, my friend Halrohir, and friend of the black horse, can tell the story as it is proper to be heard.”  Dorwin nodded to Halrohir, who glared at Dorwin, but never took an eye off the Ent for dread of being picked up and tossed aside.

The Ent turned to stare down Halrohir and held his gaze for a moment longer.  “Harm, hoorm, so the tale is yours, eh?  With such a curious party, it might even be worth a telling.  At the least, it is worth a drink.  At least then, your throat will be wet enough for this strange story.  Follow closely, for the trees still remember the orcs, and you look like them, save the Elf, of course.”  And the Ent pivoted on his stumps and began walking in that gait.  Halrohir and Dorwin led their horses behind them, but the Rohirrim were neither invited nor welcome; wisely they chose to stay at the eaves of the gate.

Not a hundred yards into the trees did a small stone cropping from which a spring bubbled appeared.  The Ent reached down and picked up two smallish bowls and handed them to both the travelers.

“This is not the spring of the Ent-draughts, of course”, he said as if in answer to an unasked question.  “That is saved for Ents, and not outsiders.  Now, I am being hasty, and forgetting my conduct with the new visit and the visitors, strange as you are.  You named yourself Dorwin, and you were named, harm, Halrohir.  My name, in your Elvish tongue, is Celdoron.  In the tongues of Men, I am Silveroak.  That will do to go on with.  Now, start your tale, and we must have it from the beginning.  But also answer me this:  does it include the reason why your black horse reeks of Ent-draughts?”

So, Halrohir spun his story front to finish, with Silveroak listening at every word, and asking questions at every stop.  The strange Ent paid close attention to the forests he passed by, or the types of trees that grew, but especially the tale of how Morindal fell into the Entwash to begin with, and somehow bathed in the enchanted stream.  And he heard the warning of the every-twenty-year visit to Fangorn and to find the Entwash where he was foaled, but now confused with Ent-draughts instead.  In time, the tale would down to its end, and Silveroak rose and laved his long hands into the spring and drank a single long pull of water.  Once done, he rose and spoke.

“Harm, hm, hm, hey harm”, he rumbled, “a great long tale, and no mistake.  I can tell you, with utter certainty, that he did in fact fall into the Entwash as a foal, and the portion of the stream he found had its virtue upon it.  Now, that was a spring from an old Ent-house in that corner of the forest.  The Ent who lived there, lives there no more.  You will not find that spring again.  But do not be hasty in your despair”, he said as he saw the shock in Halrohir’s eyes.  “It is only as you have been told, that the horse requires, the Ent-draughts themselves.  He needs a drink, not a drowning.”

“But Silveroak, is that possible?” Halrohir asked, pleading.  “I have come leagues beyond leagues to see this done, because I have waited too long on the road for him.  Morindal is my friend, the best friend I have in all the world”, he said throwing an arm around the great horse’s neck, “just tell me where I need to go and what to do, and I will do it!”

Silveroak stood long and silent, surveying Halrohir with those impenetrable eyes.  All grew quiet while everyone waited.  Was the Ent thinking or looking long?  After what seemed an hour, the Ent said, “The places of the Ents inside Fangorn Forest are too far for you faithful horse to make unassisted.  Therefore, I shall assist you.  Bring him to the fountain.”  And Halrohir began leading Morindal to the spring, and Silveroak said, “No, no, that’s only a spring.  He needs the fountain, and that’s this way.  Come!”  And the party trooped on after the Ent who waddled on his stumps, down a path that opened before them as the trees swept their branches up to clear the way as Silveroak passed.  While they walked, Silveroak spoke of himself.

Silveroak was not an Ent.  He was a Huorn, one of the tree-folk of the Ents that stood here and there in the forest, not moving, but ready to be stirred when Ents rouse them.  As Silveroak told the tale, he was not present at the march of the Ents on Isengard, but at the Battle of Helm’s Deep, and the fight against the orc-invasion of Rohan, both served to completely wake him up into full Entishness.  Since the end of the war and the creation of the Treegarth, he elected to remain here and make his Ent-house in this place, learning Ent-lore from others and learning not to be hasty.  But the innate rage and fury of the Huorns still burned within Silveroak, and though it made for a fabulous guardian, it was wasted in peaceful times.   

Nonetheless, they came at last to a place that served for Silveroak’s Ent-house, his home in the Treegarth.  One flat stone balanced above two vertical pillars, and a spring bubbled merrily nearby.  Nearby were two stone jars, one a mossy color, the other almost grey.  The Ent removed the covers off the jars, and with a huge ladle began filling them both from the spring. 

“I had not filled them recently”, Silveroak said, “so we may as well drink from filled jars.  Especially one guest.”  Once he was done, he replaced the lids, and turned back to Halrohir.  “Now, Man of the West though you be, I am not pleased with why you demand the gifts of others to satisfy your own.  You wish for this horse to carry you to fame, is that not so?”

“I thought that once, a few years ago, Silveroak”, Halrohir answered, “but all changed.  I learned what it was to have many depend on you.  I learned what it was to be afraid for others.  And I learned how important friends are, whether Elf, Man, or beast.  I will cross lands and dangers and rivers and mountains for my friends, because they deserve all the best I have.”

“And does this beast agree?” Silveroak asked Dorwin.  “Your people did it first, teaching everything to speak.  What do you know?”

“Horse and rider made a pact, O Celdoron”, Dorwin replied.  “each will stay with the other for as long as time allows.  The waters of Fangorn will keep this partnership going for many years, long beyond the normal span of years of his kind.  And the lives he will save, the stories that will be told, the hearts he will hold all await him, Morindal, Blackfoot the Faithful.”

Silveroak said nothing, but leaned down toward Morindal, who still did not flinch at the presence of the Ent.  The tree-herd sniffed several times, taking in the great black’s scent.  Morindal snuffed the Ent in return, snorting with his customary “Whuff!”  This seemed to amuse Silveroak a bit.  He then straightened, then walked back to the stone jars, opened the moss-covered one, and waved a hand to Halrohir, beckoning him to being Morindal closer.  As the Ranger and his horse approached, the Ent laved his hands in the basin slowly, and a rich green light could be more felt than seen.     

“No ladle is big enough for him,” Silveroak said.  “Here you are, Blackfoot who is named Morindal.  Drink, mighty friend, and regain your strength, your youth, your joy.  Run with the clouds once again.”

Morindal looked into the stone jar, then turned his head to Halrohir.  He stretched his neck and pulled his beloved Ranger in closer, hugging him with his neck and muzzle. Halrohir returned the hug, and then watched as Morindal plunged his face into the jar, his muzzle below the water, snorting and puffing.  He began to drink – and drink – and drink, steadily draining the jar with each pull of water.

Silveroak was clearly impressed.  “Hoom, harm, this isn’t a thirsty horse, no.  This is hunger I see.  At this rate he’ll be back to his old strength by the morning sun.  Maybe sooner, should he not come back up for air.”  As soon as the Ent mentioned it, Morindal reared back and threw his head up high, water raining from his nostrils, his muzzle damp almost to his eyes.  The great black horse was, even from these draughts, visibly changed.  The protruding ribs were faded, the shaggy boots and mane were now fuller and thicker, and the gray around the muzzle and eyes had almost blackened once more.  The black stallion rose on his hind legs and sounded his thunderous neigh, deep-voiced and rolling with power once more.

Dorwin was grinning from ear to ear at the power of the Ent-draughts, but Halrohir was teary-eyed, choking, and unmanned at the sight of his beloved companion restored, even partially, as if by ancient wonder.  If there had ever been any uncertainty as to the substance behind Morindal’s legend, the mere sight of the transformation of one drink would dispel all doubt.  Halrohir was shamelessly crying as he wrapped his arms around Morindal’s neck, the horse vigorously nodding.  Dorwin drew close and laid his hand across Halrohir’s shoulder, still smiling.

“Hoom, harm, hey now, wanderers all”,  Silveroak said, “far be it from me now to break up this merry scene, but there is counsel to be had, and hastily.  These are not the draughts of the Ent-houses far away, this is rather a fountain for use here in the Treegarth.  Isen is not Entwash, after all; though the waters of both come from the same source, the heights of Methedras above us.

“These waters your great horse has feasted upon will not sustain him as foretold to you.  For that, you must seek purer waters, and those will only be found inside Fangorn itself.  Now, you were right to come here first, for you would never have had the benefit of counsel or the draughts to keep on the trail.”

“So, we must press on”, Halrohir said grimly, his joy now dimmed.  “But how now must we carry on, since journeying into Fangorn itself may not be as welcoming or accommodating as you have been?”

“That may not be as difficult as you imagine, horse-friend”, Silveroak said.  “My counsel is simple.  You and your band of companions must follow the feet of the mountain, headed east until the land bends north.  Turning north to follow the hills, you will find the rills, streams, and brooks that gather their waters to form the Entwash.  Follow them just downstream as the waters build, keeping the stream on your left, until you find the dwelling of a true Ent, called in your tongue Goldleaf.  His Ent-house is possessed of the spring that will provide the true draught that your mighty friend requires.”

“We thank you indeed, O Celdoron of the Onodrim”, Dorwin saluted the Ent as they found their mounts.  “Without your aid, our errantry might have failed in the end, having never found it.”

“How shall we find Goldleaf”, Halrohir asked, astride a renewed Morindal once more, feeling the horse’s great strength beneath him again.  “We cannot get messages to him, and whet if we miss him entirely, he may be abroad in the forest, for instance.”

“Harm, allow me to arrange things better than that”. Silveroak said.  “I shall send word ahead for you, along paths that the Ents are wont to go, telling of your tale and your plight.  But be cautioned:  do not tarry!  The draughts your great steed drank will keep his strength for only a little while, then his weakness shall compound once more.  Do not squander his power without need.  You are a hasty folk, each of you, and I fear that haste is precisely what is needed in this hour.  Go with good will and watch for signs of both good and ill!”  With that, Silveroak waved both his hands at the surrounding trees, and once more they parted to reveal a straight path, leading east towards the start of their journey.

Halrohir and Dorwin rode down the tree path until after a while, they exited the Treegarth on the eastern side, the brooding bulk of Methedras on their left to the north, the Isen flowing in its bed before them, and just approaching from the south side of the garth came Bragwine, Windlaf, and their company of riders.  As they halted, not a few stared and exclaimed at the transformation of Morindal in health and strength.  Here was the legendary beast they had been told of.

At Halrohir’s urging, the company rode out without delay eastward around the feet of the mountain.  The sun had already climbed to the sky when they arrived at the Treegarth; it had passed through noon during their time there, and they were riding at a steady pace to spare Morindal’s strength, but the mighty stallion seemed to want to press on, as if he either knew of the urgency of the ride,  or simply was reveling in his new-found energy and power.  The company rode on, reaching the turning in the lands that Silveroak described, and made their camp just under the eaves of Fangorn.  Dorwin firmly counselled the Rohirrim only build a single watch fire, and to cut or burn no living branch.  Dorwin’s word was followed, and the hours passed beneath the stars for all, save Halrohir.  Once more, he paced to the paddock where the horses stood, and spoke to his beloved friend in the quiet.

“We are so close”, he said to Morindal, “so close we could taste it – in fact, you did taste it today!  A partial draught to revive your flagging strength, to get you to the next place.  Oh, that I could have brought a barrel along just for you!  We could have fed you for days along the ways.  Curse me that I didn’t think of asking!”  He strode around, then stopped and returned to stroke Morindal’s mane.  “I promised, you big heap, you will stay with me.  We will see this through, and I will not leave this go so close again.  And now that we shall know the true source of the Ent-draughts, we need never flail about in the Wild again.  Straight as coursers we shall fly!”

The giant black stallion named Morindal, the mightiest horse in the North of Middle-Earth, shook his shaggy head, bumped his beloved man’s hand, and said nothing.