The southern plains of Wilderland echoed with the dim thunder of horses' hooves. Halmir and his men, tall, grim and dire, coursed over the golden fields of autumn, riding ever southwards, bloodhounds on the trail of the elusive palantir.

Beams of sunlight glistened in golden pools across the land where Arien peered from the wrack of high clouds. The Celduin lay to their left, an alternating ribbon of dull, muddy brown beneath the clouds and bright, gleaming topaz within the lidos of sunlight.

The Dunedain had been warmly welcomed in Dale. King Bard had been quick to offer the Dunedain what aid he could give and they had remained there for several days to rest their travel-weary steeds.

Erysa's kitchens had bustled with relentless busyness as the cooks prepared the larder for the lean months of winter. The delectable scent of spices and cooking apples had permeated the air as far as Bard's throne room, setting everyone's mouths watering. In spite of her responsibilities, the redoubtable housekeeper had still found time for her new charges, appearing as though by magic whenever any of them so much as thought of being slightly hungry. Erysa had merrily stuffed the Dunedain with food and drink at every possible opportunity. It would be some time before Halmir or any of his men could face apple dumplings again.

They had gathered news of the palantir from Bard and from Thorin, King Under Mountain. The palantir had reportedly fallen into the hands of an Elf Lord and a woman who had promptly lost it to a shadowy group of people known as the Hosluin. Rumour of a new, possible threat on the eastern boarders of Gondor had sent a chill through Halmir's heart. Gondor had lost many of its fighting men in the War of the Ring. His kingdom's strength lay in the valour of her men and her king. These Hosluin posed a new, insidious type of menace at a time when the kingdom was healing its wounds and rebuilding. Bard had been reticent about the Hosluin, unwilling or unable to give much information. Halmir guessed that the king of Dale would have quickly offered more guidance if he had any certain information. Bard was not a man prone to share wild speculations or dim intuitions. All the same, Halmir sensed the unease the Hosluin created in Bard. King Elessar would have to be informed of the shadowy blue horde and decide how best to deal with the group of poisoners who held a palantir. Halmir had asked King Bard to send messengers to Minas Anor while he and his men went south towards Esgaroth.

Along the way they had met with more unsettling news.

Froi and his men had booked passage on a boat that was sailing to Dorwinion two weeks after Inglor and Haleth left on the same voyage.

The dwarves preferred to trust their own sturdy legs rather than the tossing vagrancies of a loosely assembled pile of lumber, but news had been carried to them on the wings of the southern wind which urged them to greater speed than their feet could manage.

They kept to themselves below deck. The dark, tight spaces which oppressed most humans were a comfort to the dwarves. With no crafts to occupy their restless hands, they sat together, eyes gleaming in the lamplight, and discussed their business plans once they had recovered the palantir. They spoke quietly in low, rumbling voices in their own tongue, which they did not teach to outsiders. The conversation would falter only when they considered the one obstacle that was rumoured to stand in their way.

A wheezing nightmare of hard scales and scrabbling claws marauded its slow, cautious, way down the eastern bank of the River Running, wheezing like a broken bellows. The hunting was better here than in the rocky desolation of the Withered Health and Lithul feasted on sleek, fat sheep as he pleased. The Long Stair at the foot of Esgaroth had almost been the end of him with its narrow, twisting pathway, but at last he had gained the bottom and immediately lost the trail of his quarry. Lithul had crossed the river and was slowly making his way downstream, leaving rumours in his wake and casting a shadow of dread before him.

An inevitable as winter, the last of the cold drakes crept southwards, his quarry somewhere ahead of him.