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.