Aragorn leaned against the barracks entryway watching Eäráng gather together his weapons and gear.  The Grey Elf was one of the ancient beings of his race and although he looked young and fair and not much older than Strider himself, he had seen thousands of years.  He was the captain of King Thranduil’s elite Sindarin Guard, a highly skilled archer and a seasoned warrior.  During the Second Age, while he served under Thranduil’s father, he had seen heavy battle and grievous losses to the Sindarin kindred; he was one of only a few Elves who had survived the massacre at the Battle of Dagorlad and knew well Sauron’s evil.   In the years that Legolas had spent growing up in Mirkwood, Eäráng had served as a mentor and friend to the young Elfling and Aragorn knew that he was devoted to the young prince.  Estel had met the captain previously on his various visits to Mirkwood and he trusted and respected the warrior’s counsel.

          “Not that the king doesn’t believe your plan will work, Strider,” the Elf was saying as he stowed his belongings into a leather sack.  “But when it comes to his son...”

          “I take no offense, Eäráng, and I welcome the backing of your troops.  Believe me, I have no great desire to take on this evil alone, but I am concerned that your presence in the woods will alert the orcs and compromise our entry into the tower to seek out Legolas unseen.”

          “The day you rode in with Celoril and Amorfing with news of the prince’s capture, I sent out patrols to keep a watch upon the tower.  Despite what you or the wizard may think, the reports that my runners have brought back suggest that there may be only a few hundred orcs actually occupying the fortress.  If that is the case, we shall have little trouble with them.”  The older Elf smiled. “Have no fear, Strider.  They will not see us.”

          Picking up his bow and slinging the leather pack across his shoulder, the warrior strode to the doorway and moved out into the courtyard beyond.  Aragorn followed and they headed toward the assembled Elf warriors who were now marshalling at the billet gateway.

          “You are welcome to journey with us, Strider,” the warrior invited.  Under Eäráng’s command, the Sindarin Guard planned a forced march to the Anduin where they would then board large cargo boats and sail down the river to Carrock.  From there they would move overland through the forest to the fortress of Dol Guldur.

          “Nay, I will make better time moving through the forest alone.  I wish to assess the tower fortifications myself while no one else is about.”   The ranger clasped the proffered forearm of the Elf captain and clasped his shoulder in a gesture of farewell.

          Eäráng nodded and took his leave of the ranger.  Strider silently watched as the Elven company mounted up and prepared to deploy.  Eäráng looked back over his shoulder at the young human and waved a salute.  Aragorn returned the sign and stood aside as the horses began to prance forward and the Elves began filing out of Lasgalen’s military compound.  As the small army departed, a groom came up to the ranger with Hodoer in tow and Strider turned to take the reins from the young Elf.

          “We’ve supplied you with provisions and your horse is rested and ready to go, Strider,” the Elfling smiled.  “I wish I were going with you.”

          The young man smiled and placed a hand on the Elf’s shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze.  “All too soon, Isúl, you’ll be out there with the patrols.  Your time will come.”

          “Not soon enough,” he muttered as he held Hodoer’s head steady while the ranger mounted.

          Aragorn laughed down at the Elf and touched his thumb and forefinger to his lips and then his forehead.  “Namaarie.”*

          “Maer faras,”** The fair being responded and waved as Strider rode out of the garrison and into the forests of Mirkwood.

          Standing alone upon a balcony high above the stockade, King Thranduil, too, watched the departure of his warriors and the young human ranger.  His heart heavy, he stared at the gates until his soldiers disappeared into the forest and then he quietly returned to his private rooms within the palace.  There were still a great many affairs of state that needed his attention, but his mind was elsewhere and fraught with worry over his son’s fate.  If not for the persistent nagging of his steward, he would have cancelled all audiences for the day and sent everyone away.   But he was king, and fear for his son or no, his first duty was to his people.   Listlessly, he left his study and made his way toward the Great Hall and his awaiting ministers.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////

          Gandalf sat at the diminutive table with the small group of Dwarves, his ancient bent knees drawn up to his chest and protruding over the table top and his bottom barely squeezing into the chair they had provided for him, but he was enjoying his meal and pint of brew as he listened with keen interest to their humorous tales.  This particular company of Aulë’s children mined the Misty Mountains to the south of Moria and was known for their great tunneling abilities.  Lomli, their taciturn leader, already knew the reason for Gandalf’s visit to the mines.  He had spoken with the grey wanderer at great length and had agreed to set up this meeting, but his jocular Dwarf companions were as yet unaware of the wizard’s plan.

          When the boisterous conversations around the table died down to a dull roar, Lomli leaned forward over his tankard and nodded to the grey wizard.  “So Master Gandalf,” he began. “Why don’t you tell us about this mission?”

          At this pronouncement several of the seated Dwarves started talking at once and Lomli had to silence them with frequent waves of his brawny hands.  “Quiet! Quiet, I say!”  He gestured toward Gandalf. “Let the wizard talk.”

          Gandalf scrutinized the assembled table members one by one before speaking, and then lowered his head conspiratorially as if this was some secret plot to be undertaken and they were the only ones privy to the information.  Readily drawn in by the Istari’s tactics, the Dwarves eagerly leaned in closer.

          “There is an ancient evil dwelling within the fortress of Dol Guldur on Mirkwood’s southern border.  The tower is filled with orcs and goblins and other foul creatures and a vile she-demon has taken captive one I hold very dear.  I would seek your help in rescuing him.”

          Mithrandir sat back in his chair and absentmindedly produced a long, thin pipe from a massive pocket within his robes.  He proceeded to fill the pipe with Shire weed and a short time later began puffing away on it. Billowing clouds of smoke encircled his head like a wreath and he carefully observed the gathered Dwarves through a smoky haze as they digested his words. 

          “And just who might this she-demon be?” asked Roifur, a squat ruddy-faced Dwarf with red-gold hair and beard.

          “Aye, an’ who’s she holding prisoner?” asked Glaran, one of the larger Dwarves at the table.  His black, beady eyes squinted at the wizard and his expression held only a guarded interest in this tale.

          Gandalf again looked over the hardy rock workers and slowly set down his pipe to continue the narration.  “The demon is Thuringwethil, an ancient evil spawned in the time of Morgoth and she holds Prince Legolas of Mirkwood her captive.”

          “Thranduil’s son!” shouted Roifur irritably.  “Bah!  And why should we rescue an Elf, especially one from Mirkwood?”

          Several other angry nods and shouts went round the table in agreement with Roifur and Gandalf calmly waited until the Dwarves’ grumbling outcries died down before he went on.

          “King Thranduil is offering a reward for the return of his son,” the wizard replied.  “I should think that might be of some interest to you.”

          “Reward?” Hulir, the youngest and most eager of those present asked.  “What kind of reward?”

          “Aye,” Glaran and Roifur spoke at once. “What kind of reward?”

          Gandalf leaned back and puffed at his pipe in a leisurely manner, allowing their innate inquisitiveness to peak until he was sure that they would burst with curiosity.  Then he spoke with a clever twinkle in his eyes, as if relaying knowledge of grave import to them alone.

          “Enough to satisfy any Dwarf Lord, I should say” he chuckled.  “Surely you know of King Thranduil’s wealth?”

          “Aye,” Lomli nodded bitterly.  “Stolen from the Naugrim!”

          “Now, now,” Gandalf soothed.  “That was a very long time ago and he didn’t exactly steal it...”

          Another spell of shouts and scathing Dwarf curses went round the table and the wizard patiently waited for their tempers to cool before speaking again.

          “My dear friends, we must put aside our disparity and join together in this.  The young prince is a worthy Elf and has shown great courtesy and assistance to the Dwarves when many of his kindred would not.   He means a great deal to me and deserves all the help we can muster to secure his release.  This evil being holding him prisoner must not be allowed to spread her foul darkness any further.  Dol Guldur is not that far from your own halls, and if left unchecked, she will loose her dread orc hordes upon your homes and families.   This is a peril that affects all of the inhabitants of Rhovanion and it is left to us to stop her.”

          “And how do you propose we do that?” asked Glaran, crossing his burly arms across his wide, barrel chest.

          “Ah,” Gandalf smiled.  “The answer is right here.”  He reached down to the floor beside his chair and picked up several of the antiquated scrolls and manuscripts lying upon the floor and placed them on the table.  He carefully unrolled them one by one and spread them out for the Dwarves to see.

          “I already have the allegiance of a young ranger of the northmen called Strider.  He is much aggrieved by the Elf’s capture and has sought my assistance in gaining his freedom.   He would willingly give his own life to help save the prince and fears not Thuringwethil and her orcs.”  The wizard stated.  “But he cannot gain entrance to the tower unseen and unhindered without your aid.”

          “I’ve heard of Strider,” said Lomli, nodding sagely.  “He seems an honest enough human and much respected ‘round these parts.”  Several of the other Dwarves present also nodded their knowledge of the young man and their agreement with Lomli’s assessment of his character.

          Mithrandir smiled and gazed at his stalwart audience.  “What I need from you, my stout friends, is to lend a hand in the tunneling out of these unused entrances.”  He indicated several marks on the parchment with a gnarled finger.  “Here and here.”

          The four, squat Dwarf heads huddled in closer, examining the maps laid out upon the table top.  Roifur ran his stubby finger from the first mark to the second.

          “Do these passages connect?”

          “Yes,” nodded the wizard.  “The first follows the tower roadway from the river channel under the bridge and leads to the tower’s interior keep and the other intersects the first at the tower wall, here.  Either tunnel will allow us entry into the fortress if unobstructed.  Once we arrive at the fortress, you will need to assess which tunnel is the most likely route and Strider will use that avenue to infiltrate the tower, seek out Legolas and bring him to safety.”

          “And what about the orcs?” asked Hulir, a glimmer of fear in his young voice.  He had never actually seen an orc before, but he had heard enough tales from his elders to know that he did not want to fight one.

          “Not to worry, young Hulir,” smiled Gandalf.  “We shall work by day; the orcs are sluggish at best during the daylight hours.   If we work quickly and quietly, we should be through with our task long before the orcs are even aware of our presence.”

          “Tunneling is not a quiet business,” stated Lomli.  “How do you propose we go about this digging unnoticed?”

          “You leave that to me,” Gandalf replied.  He gazed at the Dwarves each in turn.  “Well, my friends, what say you?”

          The four miners exchanged meaningful looks with one another and began chattering rapidly in the Dwarvish tongue.  After some very heated interactions, and much fist waving, they ultimately turned their attention back to the grey wizard.

          Lomli stepped forward as the spokesman for the group and looked up at the wizard.  “This seems a fine enough proposition, Master Wizard, and Elf, or no, we’re sorry to hear of your friend’s capture; however, my companions and I do not see the advantage of this risk outweighing its danger.  I’m afraid we’ll have to decline.”

          “Emmmmmmm,” Gandalf nodded slowly as he began to gather up his rolls of parchment.  “I see.”  He paused for a few poignant seconds and then continued.  “Did I forget to mention the Necromancer’s hidden cache of jewels?”

          This statement sent the greedy miners into a tizzy of babble and commotion, each trying to speak and be heard over the others.  Lomli finally got his cronies to calm themselves and he turned back to the old sage.

          “Very well, Gandalf,” replied Lomli.  “We’ll help you with this tunneling on one condition.”

          “And what might that be?”  The magician inquired with a raise of his brow.

          “In addition to Thranduil’s reward, we claim all rights to the tower and the treasure once your Elf is freed.” Lomli gave his friends a confident wink before turning back to face the wizard.  “And you see to the clearing out of the orcs.”

          Mithrandir laughed and smiled down upon the group.  “Then we have a pact.”  He collected up his scrolls and maps, and placed his rumpled, pointed hat atop his head.   “Now then, my friends,” the Istari stated. “We must make all speed to join young Strider.  He will be awaiting us in the forest outside Dol Guldur at the end of a week’s time.”

//////////////////////////////////////////////

          The great burning Eye of Sauron swept over the jagged rocks of Emyn Muil and glided over the scorched and barren plains of The Brown Lands, winging toward the tower of Dol Guldur, seeking the one whose fate was so ultimately bound with his own.  Despite the demon Thuringwethil’s assurances that the mortal would come to the tower to rescue the Elf, there had been no sign of the ranger for nearly two weeks and he grew tired of waiting.  He knew the Shadow Woman’s proclivity for degenerate pleasures and idle amusements, but she wasted precious time indulging her depraved appetites toying with this Elf while his true enemy roamed freely throughout the lands of Middle Earth.

          The Dark Lord could feel the Ring’s stirrings; now, after lying hidden for thousands of years, it called out to him and he knew that the time was swiftly approaching when he would again claim dominion over the lands of Middle Earth.   But first he must deal with this upstart Dúnadan who would be king.

          The fiery Eye roiled again, swirling and flickering, casting its brazen gaze farther and farther afield.   With each new vista exposed to its view and still no sign of the Heir, he grew more and more enraged.  He sent his dark will out through the smoldering skies of Mordor, making its way to the unsuspecting Thuringwethil, languishing in her tower and commanding her to attend him to answer for her failure to capture the human.

          She was remiss in accomplishing the task he had appointed her and because of this insignificant distraction with the Firstborn that was consuming her interest, she was being derelict in her allegiance to him.  Punishing her would be quite pleasurable and he looked forward to it with great anticipation.  Even now as his black mind reached her, he could sense her fear and apprehension and it only increased his desire to see her suffer.  She would learn what it meant to disregard the will of Sauron.

*Farewell

**Good hunting