Messages and Missions

“They are beautiful creatures indeed”

“Among the finest in Middle Earth.” Elrond replied to his wife as he fastened the last of the messages on the leg of a proud golden hawk. There were four of them, perched on a carved oaken rail at the edge of the gardens near Elrond’s Hall, overlooking the rushing Bruinen.  It was evening and a full moon and spring stars washed bright over them on a cool breeze.

“I almost hesitate to send them on their journey, the seed of their messages planting deeds that may not grow to flower.”

“Speak not of doubt, my husband.  It is a good plan, as best as can be expected with the resources of this world” Celebrian stood beside him, her arm about his waist.  Far below them they could hear the clear tones of Arwen’s voice, her laughter as she skipped stones across a rock rimmed pool in the river.

“There are times when I would take us all to the Havens and board a ship Westward.  Is it right that she grows roots in this world only to leave it?”

“Her brothers have the same roots as do you and I.  These are the words of a father for his daughter.  There will be a time for all of us when the choice will be clear.  It is not today, husband.  Let us release the hawks”

Elrond sighed.  His heart was heavy after the events of the last few days. He saw a clouded future, no matter the result of Gandalf’s mission.  Yet he had to admit to himself that in all his days it had never been truly clear that he could see destiny written before him.  But the night was clear enough and one light drew his attention as it always did.

“Look, Celebrian…look how he rides the night sky tonight.” Elrond pointed far up into the night sky at the evening star that rivaled the moon.

“Grant that Earendil’s light will guide our messengers to their appointed destinations.” Celebrian prayed out loud. “Now husband, let us release our wards to their journeys.”

Elrond unfastened a small leather strap tying each of their talons to the oaken perch.  He stepped away.  For a moment they stood still, the moonlight burnishing their powerful feathered bodies with a faint glaze of silver, their deep sharp eyes glittering like companions to the cold stars above.  Then there was a sudden rush of wind and beating of great wings and they were gone, faint silhouettes merging into the darkness of the night.

----------------------------------------------------*-----------------------------------------------------

He was up early as always.  There was a quality to the light and the smell of the earth at dawn that could not be replicated at any other time.  Thought the light was yet dim, just a hint of a glow in the east through the treetops, he could hear the first birds stirring, sense the rustle of the small mammals as they stirred in their protective barrows.

Radagast stretched himself, standing at the edge of the porch of his high peaked house of living vines.  A light ground fog covered the grassy field in front of him.  A few stars still peaked through the lacy network of vines and high tree limbs above.  His breath came in clouds, moving ever so slightly in the light air of dawn.

How he loved this moment in time.  Before, he had been comfortably anonymous, one of many satisfied to explore and assist in that Other World.  The summons by Yavanna to join the others in this journey east had taken him from that cocoon and set him apart on a mission he had not sought nor truly embraced.  He sensed that the Blue Ones had similar thoughts though they shared little.  Gandalf and Saruman, there was no doubt that they were suited though of different minds and talents. 

Here in this place his could be obscure again, yet expanded in a way that allowed him to indulge in largely solitary enjoyment of his love for animals and plants, hues and colors, particularly birds and the subtle tones of the forest through the seasons.  There was a darkness in the forest he knew to the east and south and he well knew what it was.  Perhaps it would go away with time and leave him to his interests.  Perhaps Gandalf and Saruman would see to it, being ever so much more interested in such affairs and the fate of the peoples of Middle Earth.  Few had interested him, though the young man with the luminous blue eyes seemed to understand the mystery of the night at least.

A sudden rush of wind and flap of wings broke his reverie.  A great golden hawk descended from the hole in the canopy above and came to perch on the rail of his porch.

A silver band bound its right talon.  Radagast gently released the band and the hawk rose on heavy wings and settled in an evergreen not far away.

His eyes widened as he read the message and understood that his quiet reverie was now postponed for an indefinite time.

And so he had busied himself mightily in the days that followed, sketching out a broad strategy, then putting the needs in place to make it happen.  Fortunate it was that he had developed an ongoing relationship with the Wood Elves to the north, a number of which had shared his particular interests in the behavior of certain plants and animals, avians above all.

Still it was no small matter for him to summon the great flocks from their duties in spring, breeding, caring for their young progeny.  Indeed, he knew that those who arrived fully understood the risk that this year’s hatchlings might be sacrificed for their absence from the nest.

So, he had devoted his efforts, securing the deliveries of certain supplies from the Wood Elves, marshalling his own skills with herbs and brews.  Most of his winged arrivals would be expecting live prey.  He had no argument with that.  It was their nature.  Even those who dwelt within his protected realm were free to seek their opportunities.  That much he acknowledged.  But there would be hundreds, hopefully many thousands of hunters.  There was not enough live forage to sustain them.  Hence the need to craft an alternative, one that would be nutritious, yet still appealing.  If he failed, the mission would be for naught.

So he had converted the small crops and fields in front of his home to a series of open, shallow wooden vats, brimming with a potent meal, laced with certain herbs and spices he felt confident that the raptors would find appealing.  But as always, doubts beset him, as one of the lesser emissaries from the West.  Saruman of course the first, then Gandalf, blessed with the gift of curiosity about the peoples of this land.  Then the Blue Ones, long gone.  And then there was he, Radagast, almost an afterthought to the journey, unable to say no to Yavanna, here without clear vision as to his contribution.

But now, for once, there was something he could do, a way to contribute, and he meant to do his part. 

-----------------------------------------------------------***---------------------------------------

The days of hurried preparation had passed.  He had sent word out and received replies.   It was late morning and the first would soon arrive.  The great trees bordering the fields were empty, their vast embrasure of massive limbs vacant to house the guests he knew were essential to the task, visitors that he hoped would come in great numbers.

The swifts came first, their chief and her lieutenants securing themselves in a tree hollow. This he had moved near a number of long low perches he had constructed for others, a series of curved spars running over two hundred feet in front of his vinebound home.  The small swifts had come eagerly, knowing their role from his initial message to them.

Several thousand arrived, the air filled with their bold chattering and twittering sounds as they darted about the open space.  Radagast bowed low and sat cross-legged on the ground, smiling, knowing how they would relish their part in the next few days. 

He projected his thoughts to them, the plan in his mind, sensing their interest as they soon became animated amongst each other. Apodidie was their leader, one close to his heart.  She spoke to him.

“It is agreed.  We will test the hawks and the others as you request.  It will be a pleasure to show them what we can do.  They will be well prepared for their task.”

Radagast smiled.  “Many thanks Apodidie, for your efforts and the interest of your flocks.  The hawks will be tested indeed.”

She emerged from the hollow in the tree provided for her and her flock leaders.  Then they flew off to the further parts of Radagast’s realm to other trees, other hollows, and spread the word to their multitudes. 

The starlings were next, arriving in great clouds, tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of them filling the air, weighing down the great tree limbs with their numbers.  Their chief arrived, settling on the perch, accompanied by ten subalterns.  Aggressive and tenacious, they waited restlessly as Radagast gave greetings and communicated their part in the plot.  They immediately flew off spreading out to points in the trees which soon came alive with an almost deafening cacophany of whistles, clatters, twitters and trilling melodies.  Sturnus, leader of the starlings returned to parley. 

“Provided there is food for all in this journey, we will participate.  But we must be back in less than two fortnights if nesting is not to be delayed beyond what is safe.”

“It will be as you stipulate Sturnus.  Please, make yourself comfortable in my forest.  The western edge may be to your liking.  I will send word when it is time.”

Sturnus left the perch and flew off on a swift direct flight, his wings rapidly beating.  A great rush of wind followed him as the sky was darkened with the starlings, leaving the tall trees and migrating west a few leagues to the edge of Rhosgobel, Radagast’s abode on the western edge of Mirkwood.

Then it was time for the hunters, each species in their numbers filling a portion of the great ring of trees around Rhosgobel.  The Kites, grey bodied with brown wings and red eyes, their wings a yard wide, led by Ictinia.  Then the Goshawks, with their grey white underparts, blue-black backs over four-foot wings, and orange-red eyes, their great captain Accipter in the van.  Red-tailed hawks arrived, marshalled by Buteor, their pale chests and legs contrasting with their ruddy four-foot wings, their voices filling the air with their characteristic keeeeer-r-r calls. 

Falcoverus led the Kestrels next in order, smaller winged, sounding klee-klee, killy-killy, their spotted tawny breasts in contrast with their rufous backs.  Sharp Hawks followed next, red and white breasted, blue gray wings, Striator at the head of their bouyant flocks, announcing their arrival with kik-kik and kek-kek-kek.  Then the small owls,  uncomfortable in the daylight, complaining too-too-too, their golden eyes filled with dark pupils, light chestnut brown wings in silent flight with fluttering beats.  Aegolius, prince of small owls alighted on the perch, next to the chieftans of the other hunters, both large and small.

Lastly the golden eagles arrived, their ten foot wings beating slowly, powerfully, descending from a great height, singing keya-keya, their fierce general Aquilar guiding them in, taking his place at the center of the perch.   His suborns took their places far to the left and right of the leaders, along with the rest of the raptors on the long, curved rail.

“Welcome great hunters of the skies.  I am honored that you respond to my request.”

The lords and leaders of the raptors were like statues, their sharp eyes focused upon him, their feral intelligence alert, yet curious as well.  Radagast continued, his eyes shut again, formulating the visions in his mind for them to see.

“A Darkness grows in the forest. Your ancestral habitats retreat each year and are forced north and west.”

Their wings twitched ever so slightly.  Around the perch their taloned claws tightened their hold on the perch.

“And we seek to drive the Darkness out”

They became still again, attentive, yet wary of promises from beings not of their kind.

“There are others abroad in this task, but it may not succeed whilst the Darkness has certain allies that you and your special skills can vanquish.”  Radagast formulated a picture in his mind of these allies of Darkness, creatures that most of his audience regarded as prey.  A gleam arose in their eyes at the thought. 

“And there will be more than all of you can feast upon in a day, opportunity for pursuit and capture that you will not see again in such numbers even though you will fill the sky with your own!”

Sproadic cries sounded out amongst the lieutenants of the great flock leaders, their blood up with the thoughts that Radagast was flooding through their minds. 

“But this will only work with a plan, one that will make fine use of all your strengths.  One that we will practice just once tomorrow.” 

There was a restlessness then, a resistance as with all wild creatures to any restriction or control over their habits and desires.  Radagast quickly summoned the plan in his mind, the migration, the laying of the trap, their specific sequence of flight, the architecture of the capture, the closing and the kill, and sent it out to the proud avian conquerors of the skies before him.   There was a subtle communication amongst these leaders, short clicks and trills, kreks and croaks, other sounds and head movements, bustlings of wings and meaningful stares.  

After a moment Buteor, marshal of the Redhawks was designated to speak for all.

“There is risk and we have hunting enough to sustain ourselves in our own lands without journey.  Nesting will be put off, and some hatchlings will not survive.  Such provisions as you and Elves make available meet bare needs but are like rocks and stones to us, however potent their qualities you may deem fit.”

Radagast felt a deep chill at this.  It seemed a rejection, kind enough in the language of those before him whose days were spent largely in killing to maintain their own survival.  Then the marshal of the Redhawks continued.

“But you speak truth and have always done so or we would not have all come in full flocks.  We have little time for things other than bare facts, slivers of time being the difference between life and death in our world.  Yet the Darkness takes and we cannot move to other lands forever, til we find ourselves at each others nests clawing at the same mouse, squirrel, or rabbit to last another season.  And the prey you promise will fatten us well, not to mention the killing sport.”

Radagast felt a different chill, though a familiar one when communing with creatures of intelligence and skill, but with limited empathy.  Times he wondered about the fine line that divided the good from the evil in this world.  Yet good men bore swords as did orcs and it was beyond him to judge these creatures that were the product of ages past and intentions set in time before his own ancient birth.

And thus he stood, raising his arms in salute to the host, eyes still closed, the voice coming from his thoughts, though as spoken in tongues.

“Then we will proceed.  You will be gone for less than two fortnights as has been said.  Game will multiply in your absence.  There will be ample pickings upon your return.  Some will not survive, but those that do will have tales to tell and will be the strong ones in the hunt and nest.”

Radagast paused for a moment, now the one staring hard at the arrayed winged masters before him, seeking a flinch or hesitation in their eyes.  But there were none.

“When the sun lays low on the western peaks tomorrow we will put things to the test.  Til then you may take as you will from such ‘rocks and stones’ as I have provided here…or as you can forage on your own.”

Radagast turned decisively and strode into his great vine bound abode.  Behind him Buteor spoke briefly to the leaders of the other great raptors.  Then the captains of the air  launched themselves from the perch, going their separate ways, joined by their subordinate flock commanders as they disappeared over the treetops heading towards their flocks.  Much needed to be discussed, but the principal thrust of their lives over the next few weeks had been decided.

----------------------------------------------------*---------------------------------------

It was a long table, shallowly elliptical in shape, white marble polished to a mirror surface.  It dominated the room, which opened to the east, washed in the early morning’s light pouring through high paned doors.

Mardil sat at the center, alone for now.  Soon the rest would arrive, division commanders, advisors, counselors, cavalry captains.  Most of them holdovers from Earnur’s reign.  Good men most, he thought, though some never fully comfortable with his Stewardship.

Little satisfaction they would derive from his commands today, brought in the message he received at dusk the day before, which he still clutched in his hands.

A few of the oldest, those who had some degree of noble blood, were sons of raw recruits who had fought in that day long ago when Gondor still could summon a great fleet to assail the Witch King’s conquest of Arthedain, their vanished sister kingdom to the north.

He valued their counsel, though their time should by right soon yield to younger men.  Still he had not the heart to dismiss them as yet, hoping still that they might retire on their own.  It was a measure of the lingering uncertainty in his own leadership, even after more than ten years after Earnur’s departure, that kept him from steps he knew he should more forcefully take to set the course of Gondor’s future.

Many would object to his plan of course.  Some in proforma fashion, seeing that as to advantage, not truly caring one way or another given their ambitions.  Others would protest because they would be at risk if he were gone.  There were few who would reply with needed facts and the terse, but welcome, summations he needed to weigh the consequences and finalize the details of the mission.  But that was his task today, to take these disparate voices and compel them into a whole, while revealing only enough to make success possible.

How he missed Eradan’s presence, he who by strength and deed had earned their grudging respect and would have had a place at such a meeting.  Whose life was now in peril or forfeit for all he knew.  Then there was Drianna, whose fire and bluntness he also missed this day, as much it vexed him at times.  But she was far away, his only trustworthy representative at a meeting none in his court had knowledge. 

Now they filed in, impeccably arraigned in their dress uniforms, tall and proud, yet many not meeting his eyes or responding to his welcoming smile.  Very well, he thought, it is not your burden, but mine to summon common purpose if by reason or command as may be.  It is perhaps time now to recognize that the royal line will be vacant and that a new line must grip the reigns if the kingdom is to continue.  His grey eyes chilled and the smile faded at the thought.  An uneasiness settled over the room as the assembled sensed the shift in his mood.

“I thank you all for meeting on such notice.  For some it has meant a long hard ride with little rest” Mardil nodded at two captains who had not had time to change from dusty, sweat soaked riding togs into the more ornate court garments that those posted near Minas Tirith always kept at hand.

“It has been two fortnights since Eradan has gone missing in the north” Mardil scanned their faces, all impassive as he stated the obvious.  “Today we will act upon that news”

There was a slight rustling amongst them, a shifting in their seats, a few furtive glances.  Mardil stood and unrolled a large map that delineated Gondor and much of the lands to the north, east and south.

“I have reason to believe that Eradan and his men have met with a superior force in the Brown Lands ”  Mardil planted his fist on the upper border of the map.  “I mean to lead a regiment of cavalry north to meet with and defeat that force and rescue those who may yet be alive in the hands of the adversary”

The table erupted in consternation and discord.  Mardil let them protest and posture for a few moments, then waved them silent.  He stood, taking the measure of each of them, his cool gray eyes meeting theirs, some looking away, others standing firm.

“Well do I know the arguments of which you speak, if not in turn.  The enemy to the east watches from Minas Ithil for any sign of weakness.  And to the north none here can tell me who or what has taken Eradan and his cavalry.”

“We were told he was lost! Now you speak of a superior force?!” One of the last to arrive replied heatedly, a large cavalryman, grimed with two days ride that had consumed four horses.

“Indeed I do Perrian and brave men will be needed to join me in pursuit of it.” Again Mardil scanned the table.  There were those whose eyes flashed with eagerness to take his call while others sat with closed faces. 

He continued.

“But that pursuit will not be enough, for we cannot leave our eastern flank exposed.  It has been quiet for the while south of the Poros, and the peoples of the Druadan Forest keep to themselves.  It has been more than one hundred years since the Wainriders were defeated and nearly that long since our great fleet sailed north to defeat the Witch King.  The soldiers and sailors or those days have long since gone back to their farms and villages where their grandsons now tell their tales.  Our forces are much the lesser now, though still the best among men in Middle Earth and I intend for the enemy to the east to know that!”

His most senior infantry commander rose, a grizzled white-haired leathery veteran with noble blood in his ancestry whose father was but a cavalry squire on the northern plains so many years ago when the hordes of Angmar were routed.  Still tall, aristocratic, and unbent with age his eyes were like unforgiving flint, the lines of his face lean and severe.

“You mean to attack Mordor, Steward?” he rasped, a trace of condescension in his voice.

“No…that much I know from prudence alone, Orannon” Mardil replied evenly.  “I mean to impress Mordor, not attack it.  You will summon the guards and companies from Anorien, Lossarnach and South Ithilien for maneuvers.”

“Mendil” Mardil turned to the admiral of the fleet, a bluff heavy set man with grey hair “The Corsairs too are quiet these days and your sailors fret with swabbing decks and sewing sail.  Make plans to have half the fleet sail up the Anduin to join with Orannon’s army.  You will stage a mock attack on the rear of Orannon’s guards then fall back to your ships and escape in the night!”

“And of what purpose is this theatre!” Orannon thundered, his harsh face reddening under his close-cropped white hair.

“To remind the Witch King that we still guard our eastern flank and to remind the people of this land that it still has the force to defend itself!” Mardil shouted.  “If that is not too much to ask of its commanders!”

There was silence around the table for a moment.  Then one came forth. 

“And what of your journey north, Steward.  Is it wise, if I may say, to so boldly risk your office on such a mission of uncertainty”  Perrian finally spoke up, breaking the quiet.

“It seems you are among the few who would voice such a concern, cavalryman.” Mardil smiled, though there was little but irony in his mirth.

 “Suffice it to say that my journey and the actions of our army and navy in these next weeks are entwined.  Upon my return I will explain more.  For now I expect you will all follow your orders and abide by the proclamation explaining my departure”  Mardil looked hard at the assembled group.  None had words of response though some had eyes that brooked defiance. 

Then meeting ended and most left, occupied with the tasks ahead of them.  Mardil noticed one lagging.

“You remain, Perrian, though you have little time and much to do” Mardil commented, rolling up the maps on the table.

“If the Steward will permit.” Perrian replied.   Mardil nodded his assent that the cavalry captain could talk freely.

“Some care not if you return, Steward, though the cavalry and some elements of the army wish for your success and, if I may be so hopeful, for the return of Eradan as well, may he yet live.” 

Mardil set aside the maps and stood, fixing his eyes on Perrian. “Well do I know the divisions that parse this land, captain, and well do I respect the candor of one who has much to lose with truth so expressed in a sea of uncertainty.  Fear not, for Eradan has spoken well of you in the days before his departure.  Had you said less, I would have been disappointed.”

Perrian’s anxious demeanor eased, the dust caked armour of his long ride settled a bit as his shoulders relaxed.

“But I must trust in one, at least, if what is to transpire is to succeed.” Mardil mused, then walked around the table, tall, noble and white robed, gliding toward the rough-hewn horse soldier.

Perrian stood, almost transfixed, eyes widening slightly as Mardil approached.

“These are not the eyes of treachery.” Mardil stated, standing but a foot from Perrian, locking his gaze upon him.

”Let us talk then, upon pain of death for revealment, as the nature of your task with me will surely mean death for you and others if you bear false witness this day.”

Mardil put his hand about Perrian’s shoulders and eased him out of the meeting room into an entrance onto one of the many openings to the high terraces overlooking Minas Tirith and the Pelennor.

-------------------------------------------***---------------------------------------------

It was now late in the day.  The spring sun had just fallen behind the jagged silhouette of the great peaks of the Misty Mountains leagues to the west.

Radagast had spent the latter part of the afternoon in a slow climb, a solitary figure in a brown hooded ankle length cloak.  It was a great vine he had cultivated along with the carefully nurtured towering specimens of the noble trees of this land.  Rooted near his dwelling, it separated from amongst the cluster of massive vines that formed his abode in the forest.  It wound independently through the two hundred foot tall firs and leafy trees that formed the majestic perimeter of the central courtyard of his sanctum. 

Carefully tended to allow for small shoots and creepers forming living railings along its great girth, the vine, ten feet thick at its base, wound up amongst the great lower limbs of the trees, then gradually thinned in mass to five feet as it reached the middle branches.  By the time it played out in the upper reaches of the vale it was barely two feet in width, just wide enough to support the weight of a man without crushing the upper spars of the great trees.

Here Radagast stood where the vine spread out in rope sized tendrils to form a tight knit shallow basin nestled high in the uppermost branchlets of a great spruce.  He was effectively above the forest, looking down upon a rolling canopy of high trees in his immediate vicinity, gently easing to an undulating carpet of darker hued greens to the east, where the influence of Mirkwood began to hold sway.  To the west the colors lightened as the forest opened amidst the mixed trees and grasslands of the Anduin river basin.  Farther west the wall of the Misty Mountains, now in shadow, held the horizon, the glow of the westering sun still strong against the outline of the jagged, snow-capped peaks.

Soon dusk would commence at it would to the south some days hence.  It was time for those who had answered his call to test their part in what was to come.  He scanned the northern sky.  Nothing for a moment or two.  A small knot of worry formed in his stomach.  Then he saw the smudge along the northern horizon.  In seconds it grew, then became a cluster of dark grey pinpricks moving quickly towards him.  The swifts had arrived.

In an elongated stream of flight they began to flit past him just above the treetops on rapidly beating wings.  Radagast quickly turned to the southwest from his high perch.  On cue a great cloud arose from the forest, dense and black, hovering for an instant, then moving southwest, speed increasing rapidly, the cloud assuming the shape of dark curtain, its lower edges hugging the trees, its upper limits a thousand feet in the air.

They were on a collision course with the swifts.  In three minutes they met, the swifts heading due south, the wall of over a hundred thousand starlings moving at first to the southwest cutting them off.  The swifts veered right, avoiding collision.  The starlings adjusted course from southwest to west.  The swifts veered west, then began to increase their altitude, trying to overtop the dense, impenetrable approaching curtain of aggressive starlings.  But their efforts to reach greater height were matched by the starlings, who then shifted course once more, this time from west to northwest.

Now the swifts began to realize the trap.  The starlings were curling back on themselves in a broad hook movement, capturing the plume of swifts in a column of air a mile wide and a thousand feet deep.  But the starlings had reached their limit of height.  Any further and the dense vertical wall of beating wings they had formed would thin to gaps through which the swifts could escape.  Seeing the opportunity the swifts darted up, seeking to overtop the shallow mile-wide cylinder of air in which the starlings had corralled them.

But at this moment the forest below erupted in a cacophony of calls and beating wings as great flocks of Sharp Hawks and Kestrels flew up from the treetops and took position above the starlings, extending the vertical entrapment to two thousand feet.  Still the swifts sought to escape, climbing higher on their rapidly beating wings.  But to no avail as squadrons of Kites joined in the task above the Kestrels, confining the frustrated swifts in a circular column of air that now reached three thousand feet in height.    

But Apodidie, leader of the swifts, was not done yet.  She knew that the top of their avian prison was still open and readied her flocks for a burst of speed to heights that would promise escape.  Yet just as she took aim at a point in the sky, the early dusk glow was blotted out by the great wings of Redhawks and Goshawks, descending to form an impenetrable feathered roof over their last escape route.  Like bees in a jar the swifts were trapped, and the confines of the jar now began to shrink.

The raptors tightened their circle and lowered the roof about the swifts who darted erratically in vain pursuit of freedom.  Then the airborne prison collapsed inward upon the little birds as the hawks, kestrels, and goshawks all targeted individual prey and swooped down on them with unerring accuracy.

Yet death did not befall the brave swifts.  They only felt the touch of talons, not their crushing grip.  And with that touch, one by one the swifts glided down to the trees below, out of the game, having played their part. 

The light was fading now as dusk advanced.  The birds of prey, for all their skill, were losing the advantage of their sharp eyesight and some of the swifts were escaping the mock aerial battlefield.

Tired, but exhilarated at having outmaneuvered the predators, this remnant party of swifts headed back north, gliding lower, weaving through the upper branches, seeking the comfort of their tree hollows not far off now.   But there was one more gauntlet for them to run that they had not foreseen, for out of the treetops came the small owls, for whom the deepening dusk provided more than enough light to hunt.  One by one they made contact with the fleeing swifts, until only a handful remained, straggling back to their northern staging area.

High up atop the great spruce under the twinkling of the first stars Radagast could hear the cries of the raptors in the woods away to his west, celebrating their flights and victories, boasting of their counts. 

It had worked as well as he could had hoped, though he was weary, having invested much of his power providing hidden guidance to the great numbers that had participated.  More would be asked of him that way to assure that they safely made the migration south to Lorien, then east across the southern marches of Mirkwood where it would not be a game, swifts would not be the quarry, and their prey would fight back. 

Tonight they would all rest here, save the eagles who had already departed, choosing to test their mettle on large prey along their flight path south.  Herds of wild antelope and spring deer would be considerably thinned in their wake.

Radagast lay down now in his high, soft, vine woven bower, taking in the scent of the spruce on the cool night air.  He would admire the stars for a while, then slip into a deep sleep, restoring himself, emptying his mind which would be all too full of concerns in the coming days.  Somewhere to his south these same stars were glimmering over the gray cloak of his brother wizard, Gandalf, whose task was considerably more perilous than his.  Lying here safely in the heart of his forest enclave he felt a twinge of guilt at the disproportionate risks they had assumed.  Yet he knew Gandalf bore no grudge and respected him for the contributions he could make.  As he had once said to him years before:

“Radagast, all may be asked to give their full measure from time to time.  It is the hand of fate, not my own, that seems to have burdened me with the larger vessel from which more can be poured ‘ere it is empty.  It is more curse than blessing and the thirst of this world follows me with unfailing need.  No, my brother, be thankful for who you are and accept my gratitude for your kindness and hospitality in my all to infrequent visits.”

No, old friend, Radagast now thought to himself, I am thankful that this is my contribution.  May yours be equal to your strength.  Overhead a small shooting star left its trail through a patch of stars.  A sign perhaps.  Radagast closed his eyes now, body tired, but mind at rest.   

-------------------------------------------------*------------------------------------------

Not at rest was Mardil as he stood beneath the stars, aloof from Perrian and the rest of his commanders.  They were days out from Minas Tirith, having recently crossed at the Undeeps .  He had made some ceremony of inspecting the light guard at the decaying forts that had once formed the upper boundaries of Gondor, now more historical fact than present possession. 

Indeed, most of the journey had been such.  For public consumption it had been announced that the Steward would make a summer tour of the reaches of the kingdom, starting with the far north.  Eradan’s absence was becoming more difficult to explain away. Enough word of his original northern destination had spread such that Mardil had thought it politic to start north with vague intimations of assessing the results of his efforts.

He well knew that if he returned without Eradan, or at least some measure of closure to the episode of disquieting attacks upon trading parties and cavalry alike, that there would be those who would be emboldened to seek his ouster.  Though in the meantime many of those who might be so tempted would be occupied in the military exercises he had commanded in his absence.  These would distract the public and his potential adversaries alike.  The latter knew all too well that he might return with both Eradan and some form of tangible conclusion to his disappearance and none would want to have been found plotting in those circumstances.

These were the least of his worries now, returning this way or that way, or the nuances of the court.  From what he alone knew, there might be no return at all.  Nights like these he still wondered if this was some fool’s errand, a task selected precisely because of the tenuous nature of his position as Steward following the certain death of the king.

He dismissed the thoughts as he had before.  He respected Elrond well enough that instability in Gondor had long term consequences for his people and all the fair folk.  The days were long past when the elves remaining in Middle Earth could by themselves deal with the evils of this land.  Then there was Gandalf, of whom he knew little from the one meeting they had when he had made an appearance in court years ago and left him unimpressed.  A wizard they said, but to what end and purpose he could not say.  Yet from the messages had received from Rivendell, there was no doubt that this Gandalf was also willing to take risks.  They would not trust him lightly.

The messages from the hawks had other information.  Very specific instructions regarding the armor he and his men should wear, peculiar protections for their horses.  These he had fabricated quickly, modifying existing designs, then quietly had them stowed in the baggage of the men.  They had been instructed to put them on today, a test of new designs that the armorers had fashioned.  Again, he alone knew their purpose and hoped that its need would not be tested.

So here they were, like a squirming worm on a line, tempting a great fish to strike.  He had a thousand men with him, good men, loyal men.  He could have simply declined to participate.  Let the elves and the wizards deal with the darkness in the forest to the north.

Gondor had done enough, had always bled for Middle Earth.  Instead of standing here in this forsaken land, he could have strengthened his position, promoted new commanders, firmed up the defenses both on land and sea, focused inwards on the farmers and artisans and ordinary families that made the kingdom strong. 

And waited?  He knew history all to well.  It might not be in his Stewardship or the next or the one after that.  But It always came back, it seemed, despite the efforts of elves and men.  And if there was a chance for him to buy a period of peace, he would take it. 

The fool of a king that had put his kingdom at risk for pride to challenge the Witch King in Mordor had thrust him in this Stewardship and it was not vanity or pride that drove him.  It was an understanding that his time was finite and that the evil in Mirkwood had no such limitations.   Men would only continue against such adversaries by maintaining an unbroken line of resistance, king to king, and now Steward to Steward, though his successor was now a matter of great doubt.

And so he brooded, a tall figure in the starlight and the strengthening glow of the waxing moon rising out of the east.  A light breeze brought the voices of the cavalrymen camped a hundred yards away in a defensive circle upon a slight rise in the otherwise barren plain.  Their voices were somewhat subdued, but their spirits good, buoyed by their quest into what were now distant reaches of the land, led by the Steward himself.

The sound of footsteps scuffing the short grass and patches of bare earth caught his attention.  He turned, slightly irritated, hoping that he would have a few more moments of privacy before walking back to the encampment.  A tall, broad shouldered figure was approaching down the gentle slope, Perrian, the captain he had chosen to lead the men.

“You asked that I seek you out when the moon had risen a span over the plain” Perrian stated quietly.  He had already donned the special armor, eager to understand the feel of its weight and any limitations to his freedom of movement.  Its outlines gleamed softly in the pale moonlight.

“You chose not to wait til the ‘morrow” Mardil commented, smiling to himself, pleased at Perrian’s initiative.

“They have done well on short notice.  The additional weight is of no consequence, though I feel as if sealed in a coffin built for a man half my size, for the lack of fresh air on my skin.”

“You may yet thank those armorers for protecting your flesh and that of your mounts.  From what I have learned, there are threats more dire than the point of an orc’s sword to deal with.  In two days you will train the men and their steeds in battle formations wearing this full protection, until they are as adept as if they were scything summer wheat from their horses riding bareback in the fields of Lebennin.  Then we will continue our march to the north”

“As you wish Steward.  I will have the commanders commence the training at dawn.”

“Very well, Perrian.  I will join the men in a few moments”

Perrian saluted, turned on his heel and strode back up the gentle hill to the encampment.

Mardil watched him approach the men.  Their voices diminished.  Perrian made a few discreet hand signals and the company commanders rose and gathered behind him as he entered a tent set back from a small campfire at the top of the hill.

Good, Mardil thought.  His choice was sound.  The men respected Perrian, saw him as more than a costumed general, or some leader in court intrigues who kept his position at the expense of his men’s lives.  He would need more like him in the days and years to come. 

Now he sighed, gathering himself.  Perrian will have wasted little time in giving the orders to his commanders.  It was his turn to meet with the men, recall them by name, the names of their fathers in the cavalry, the role that their units had played in battles past.  All the things a leader does, tired or not, whether anticipating certain victory or stoic defeat.  But he always drew strength from the fact that even in his harshest self-appraisal, he knew that he was Gondor’s best choice for what had to be done in this time in its history. 

And so the men stood, respectfully as he strode up the shallow slope to the low knoll where they gathered, watching his stride, measured, sure, each step placed with a purpose that erased doubt.  The glow of the campfire softened some of the austere nobility that often most had come to expect, as if encountering a familiar statue of some past king.

He approached the first man on the outer edge of the defensive ring and smiled, calling him by name.  The man’s eyes lit up, his face flushing with the recognition and the genuine warmth with which Mardil inquired about his family.  There was a quiet murmur amongst the men, smiles and nods telling Mardil these soldiers understood that he knew they were more than ciphers with swords and horses.  And so it was that the moon made its long way to the zenith and towards the western horizon before the Steward had completed his rounds.