ERNIL

Chapter 16 ~ Echoes in the Dark

Lying on a flet high in the boughs of a beech, Thranduil looked down through the dark of the night to the ground below.  He had picketed one of his wolves there and now it remained only to wait for the sire he had chosen for her next litter of pups to show himself.  He hoped he would not have to ward off any less desirable competitors, for that was always difficult.

The legacy of Celeborn’s hound had grown to majestic proportions, and Thranduil had governed and recorded the pedigree in as much detail as he had been able.  The wolves of Eryn Galen had added a wild touch to the bloodline, but through careful selection the royal hounds had grown larger and sleeker than their free-roaming brethren.  They were bred for power, stealth, stamina, and beauty.  They were also more than simply a hobby; the practice of distributing Thranduil’s half-grown pups to the border guard had already met with great success.  As the dark age beyond the wood deepened, it was wise to take every precaution.

A low rustle in the brush caught his ear.  “Look, Galadh,” Thranduil smiled, nudging his friend in the ribs.  “There he is.”

“Magnificent,” Galadhmir agreed, as the massive wolf presented himself to his waiting mate, gleaming silver in the moonlight.  “I suspect he may already have your stamp upon him.”

“Perhaps,” Thranduil conceded.  It was becoming much harder to manage lately.  He could hardly account for everything his dogs did while they were out.  They had probably spread their paternity all over the wood.  It was not good for his records, but the quality of the wild wolf population was certainly improving.

The mating proceeded without incident, and indeed with great success.  This would be a handsome generation.

All at once, the great wolf tucked under with a nervous snarl and slunk away into the brush.  The female wanted to follow, but the picket restrained her.  The nocturnal sounds of the wood were suddenly hushed save for a single strident howl raised to the north.

By now both Thranduil and Galadhmir were aware that something was amiss.  It was a tension, a spine-tingling brooding in the darkness.  For a moment they simply lay there, hardly daring to move in the stillness.  The picketed hound grew more restless, shying about to the left and the right, whining plaintively.

Spurred by a distinct but nameless sense of peril, Thranduil thumped Galadhmir on the shoulder and slid down the rope to the ground.  The phantom wound on his arm had begun to ache as it had not since he had stood beside Sauron himself, and that was warning enough for him.  He quickly unleashed the dog as Galadhmir made landfall behind him.

“Go!” Thranduil hissed, shoving Galadhmir ahead.  They both plunged headlong into the brush, instinctively avoiding the path, running back toward Lasgalen.

A painful howl was again raised to the moon, a howl of fear, sounding eerily throughout the wood and echoed by every canine throat within earshot, creating a dreadful cacophony of impotent protest.  Thranduil felt more than heard the pursuit behind them, the rapid pounding of horses’ hooves.  He was very conscious of a black power there, and the fact that he could never face it alone made him desperate.  Elbereth, what was it?   Would it dare to enter Lasgalen?  The bridge over the gorge into the valley lay so close, yet though both of them ran as though their hearts would burst, they would soon be overtaken far short of Oropher’s stronghold unless they quit the brush and took to the open road.  He would have dismissed the idea as madness, but somehow he knew he could never hide from them.

Yanking Galadhmir aside by the sleeve, Thranduil bounded back up the bank and onto the path, refusing to glance behind him.  He saw only the bridge, and now they approached it hard and fast.  Galadhmir sprinted ahead, gaining the first wooden planks.  Thranduil was not three steps behind him, yet a chorus of horrible shrieking paralyzed him in sudden agony.  Icy talons tore through his arm and into his heart.  His legs gave way and he fell with a cry, tumbling to a cruel halt on the road.

He would never forget the three black and faceless horsemen bearing down upon him, their cloaks billowing behind them like smoke, a dull gleam on their upraised swords.

His hound stood over him, bristling and snapping, half mad with fear.  The black horses balked at the wolf and came to a halt.  The first of the three phantoms rasped something Thranduil could not understand, nor would he ever wish to hear such a hideous thing repeated. 

With a vicious shout, Galadhmir threw his knife, which buried itself into the shoulder of the first horse.  Arrows then came whistling from the trees, passing harmlessly through the black robes but eliciting more angry screams.  An order was given to aim rather for the horses, and just as the fearsome steeds were mortally wounded Thranduil felt his father’s regnant power surge to life throughout the valley.  Elvenking Oropher could not be present, yet he was awake and aware of what moved in his domain.

Recovering himself, Thranduil tapped deeply into that reservoir, felt it tingling at his fingertips.  A great silver light leapt up around them, shooting in bright and terrible shafts from each leaf of every tree like captive moonbeams.  This light transfixed the riders on all sides like blades, growing ever brighter until the intensity had invaded and almost dispelled their inmost shadows beneath Thranduil’s onslaught. 

Unearthly shrieks shattered the night once more, wrenching him again.  The light failed and faded, and what remained were only three slain horses, three torn and empty robes.  The faceless riders, whatever they may have been, had fled.

Thranduil was exhausted by his effort, still tingling as his own aura gradually faded.  For the moment he lacked the strength to stand.

“What in Elu’s name was that?” Galadhmir demanded.  A lingering tremor in his voice betrayed the fright he had taken.  He crouched by his brother’s side to assure himself that he was not seriously hurt.  “What happened?  You are not bleeding at all.”

“The horses were real enough,” Dorthaer decreed grimly.  He was already inspecting the wreckage with a severe eye, carefully probing the remains with the tip of an arrow as his troop lowered themselves from the trees.  Two Guardsmen among them moved to help their prince to his feet.

Wrapping his hand in a rag, Dorthaer took reluctant hold of one of the three evil swords, throwing it heavily into plain sight.  The notched blade was already stained with drying blood.  Disaster had doubtlessly met the guard at the northern marches.

“Imrathon and Nedhudir,” Dorthaer commanded, “accompany the prince and the Lord Galadhmir to Lasgalen and attend them.  Andaer, go ahead to Lasgalen and request a new guard be sent to this position in doubled force.  Make a full report to the king.  Beriadhren, take the remainder of the guard forward to secure the northern positions.  Attend the wounded and the dead, and send one to report back to me so I shall know how to reinforce you.”

Numerous lights had appeared in the wood along the valley and on Amon Lasgalen itself, the inhabitants aroused by the hellish noise.  By now, Thranduil had regained strength enough to walk on his own, though Imrathon hung by his side with great concern.

The king was waiting for them when they returned.  He heard Andaer’s report in silence, Thranduil supplying what was lacking in the details.  Oropher’s face remained grave, even as he dismissed Andaer to rejoin his patrol.  It was a gravity that always suggested unpleasant and radical change.

“Mark my words, Thranduil,” he said at last, “this is yet another consequence of Celebrimbor’s war.  From the moment I saw it below the mountains I knew Eregion boded no good for us, but I had not imagined it would prove to be the willing plaything of Morgoth’s successor.”

“I would say unwitting, Father,” Thranduil corrected, remembering the master wright’s fate.  “Whatever Gorthaur’s plan, I doubt this was Celebrimbor’s intention.”

“Perhaps not,” Oropher conceded.  “But what does it matter now?”