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?