“By all that’s sacred,” Halbarad muttered as he drew his arm across his nose and mouth. “That smells worse than my horse balm.”
The smell of smoke and something far more dreadful mingled with the closer odors of damp leaf mold and wet grass as they traversed the mist-shrouded hillside. The sun had climbed past its zenith, but dense fog continued to lock the world in dreary white gloaming where trees became grasping wraiths and shrubs crouching trolls. Suppressing a shiver, Aragorn glanced behind him. He could barely make out the ghostly shapes of Denlad and Galadh where they rode to the rear.
“Close up,” he called softly and was almost amused at the alacrity with which they kicked their horses to catch up with Eledh and Halbarad. He couldn’t blame them for their unease, not when dread ran its cold fingers down his own spine with disquieting frequency.
Weary and sore of heart from the orc attack, they had garnered some much-needed undisturbed rest through the night and awoke feeling, if not refreshed, then at least better able to struggle on. After breaking his fast, Aragorn had rejected Halbarad’s offer of another application of his beloved horse balm, going as far as drawing his sword in firm, incontrovertible proof that his shoulders were fine. And even with Aragorn’s sword at his neck, Halbarad had the nerve to look smug at the effectiveness of the balm. Aragorn had briefly toyed with the idea of giving Halbarad a very close shave, but he pulled his sword away with a disgusted look and ordered the men to mount up.
All morning they had ridden unmolested, heading east by slightly northeast. As they closed in on the hills that marked the Hoarwell River valley, they spotted a column of smoke that writhed and clawed toward the sky. Aragorn had stepped up their pace, but their progress slowed as the mist thickened, and now, nearing mid afternoon, frustration rode him so that he felt he must either kick Bronadui into a hard gallop or fly to pieces from the tension. But riding at speed when they could barely see ten steps in front of them was to openly court disaster, so he forced all thoughts of urgency from his mind as they picked their way along this last wooded ridge.
They were close now. At the end of this ridge, below the fog, lay the Hoarwell River and Bracken’s Ferry, a small settlement of fifty or so families some thirty leagues north of the Last Bridge. It was a village Aragorn had visited often. Like its name suggested, there was a ferry there, one of only a handful of such crossings north of the Bridge, and many times when stealth had greater value than expediency, he had cut across country to use it instead of riding farther downstream to the ferry at the more populous Windydale, or even farther south to the Last Bridge and the East-West Road. For all its remoteness, Bracken’s Ferry was a friendly town, sporting a smithy, a mill and a small but good inn called The Hunter’s Horn. Bilfen Broadbow was its keeper, a round, cheerful little man who wore a perpetual smile and always greeted Aragorn with an “Oh ho! Lock up your daughters, all you fathers! That handsome rascal Strider's a'prowlin' these parts!” Then he would throw back his head and roar with laughter, and Aragorn could never help but join in, even after the fifth, tenth and thirtieth time the joke was repeated. Many a cold night Aragorn had spent with his feet warming on Bilfen’s hearth as he ate some of the best roast mutton to be found west of Rivendell.
Thinking about Bilfen always sent Aragorn's thoughts toward the other man who was a mainstay of the inn's cozy public room. As cheerful and welcoming as Bilfen was, Kenevir could hardly be called such. A dour man of indeterminate age, he could always be found glowering over a tankard of ale in a dark corner booth by the window. Orcs had slit his tongue and he could no longer speak, but tales of a hundred skirmishes could be read in the scars on his face and in the fiery depths of his black eyes. Had Aragorn not had the assurance of both Gandalf and Bilfen that Kenevir was a friend, he would never have felt he could turn his back on him. The man looked on foe and friend alike with a gleam in his eye that Aragorn could never quite decide was murderous or merely cantankerous.
Aragorn pulled up, his men stopping with him. As he tried to see past the thick fog, the hollow ache in his gut told him that there would be no more happy evenings at The Hunter’s Horn.
He glanced at Halbarad, who was, like him, breathing through his open mouth to try to avoid the smell. Not that it helped. The rank odor was so thick he could taste it. Halbarad gave him a small shrug. “We have to see what’s happened. Nothing else for it.”
With a terse nod, Aragorn directed his horse toward the steep slope that led into the town. Bronadui’s feet slid and clattered on the loose rocks, and Aragorn had to lean far back in the saddle to keep balance as they went down the steep hill. The fog and wet ground made the way even more arduous, but Aragorn trusted Bronadui not to falter. Eventually they reached the spot where the grade became too steep to continue their straight path down. He pulled Bronadui to the left, and one by one, the Rangers rode down a switchback trail of their own making until finally reaching the bottom. As they descended, the fog lifted but the stench of death grew ever more unbearable. Aragorn lifted his hand to call a halt just before they emerged from the forested hillside onto the road that led into the town.
“Draw weapons!” Aragorn said in a hushed voice. “We don’t know what we may be facing.”
Swords scraped out of scabbards, and Eledh readied his bow. Assured that his men were as ready as they could be, Aragorn nudged Bronadui out into the road, and he caught his first glimpse of what was left of Bracken’s Ferry.
He heard a choked cry from one of the men and felt his own throat constrict.
The town was ruined. Smoke rolled from the ashes of the buildings, and as they rode in, what looked like misshapen piles of rags revealed themselves to be bodies. Aragorn’s stomach reeled as his eyes unwillingly took in the carnage. Men, women . . .
Dear Valar, they did not spare even the children.
He looked away, halting Bronadui and listening, but the silence pressing down around them was mute testimony that nothing was left alive in Bracken’s Ferry. Aragorn sheathed his sword and dismounted, keeping a firm hand on the reins. Bronadui was battle-trained and experienced, but horses like the smell of death no more than men, and he could see from the look in Bronadui’s eye that given the chance, the horse would gladly turn tail and take to the hills. And I would likely follow you. He patted the horse’s neck and murmured a few comforting words.
“I’d say this happened about four or five days ago, from the looks of the bodies,” Halbarad said. “The warm weather–”
“That will do, Halbarad!” Aragorn hissed. He was having a hard enough time keeping his bile down without hearing a discourse on the effect of heat on decomposing bodies. He swallowed hard, then continued walking.
There were no signs of life, save for a flock of vultures that flew briefly upwards from a dark bundle on the ground as the men approached, returning almost immediately to their unholy feasting once the men passed. Galadh’s horse shied at the sudden burst of flapping wings, but he brought him under control with a quiet word.
Aragorn turned and looked up at his Rangers. “We will check every building, in case there might be someone still alive.” He received quiet nods in answer, and he wondered if his own eyes looked as haunted as his men’s. “I know how heavy your hearts must feel, for mine feels the burden of grief as well. Hope seems gone, but we have to try. Be careful as you search. These buildings still smolder and could collapse. We will leave the horses yonder, in those trees, upwind from the stench. Be sure to tie them securely, though. A shift of the wind and they'll abandon us for the hills and I wouldn't blame them. Halbarad, stay with me. Denlad, take Eledh and Galadh with you and start from the far end of the street and work your way back.”
After they had secured the nervous horses and the three younger Rangers moved off, Aragorn took some time to look at what little the signs told him. Orcs had swept into the town from the north. Aragorn looked at a ridge very similar to the one down which they had just ridden, and as the fog started breaking up, he spotted the torn vegetation and disturbed earth left by the charging horde. The trammeled ground led straight into the town. The orcs must have caught the townsfolk by complete surprise, for there was little sign of resistance. Near The Hunter's Horn, one man’s dead hand still clutched a broom he must have been holding when an orc arrow pierced his heart. Aragorn swallowed and looked closer, but it was not Bilfen.
He shut his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath and walked to what remained of The Hunter’s Horn. He pushed against the door. It opened a few inches before banging up against something behind it and refusing to budge. He peered through the crack but saw only the charred remains of what looked like collapsed roof rafters. “Bilfen! Kenevir!” he shouted, but as expected, there was no answer. He threw himself against the door, trying to drive it open through the sheer weight of his body, but he only managed to bruise his shoulder.
“Aragorn, do you think it’s wise–” Halbarad started, but Aragorn merely waved him off as he stepped back and aimed a vicious kick at the door. He felt it move slightly, so he drove his leg at the door again. The door shifted another inch, but then a creaking groan issued from deep within the building.
“Look out!” Halbarad yelled. He grabbed Aragorn’s arm and yanked him away from the building. What was left of the roof line sagged several feet, and they scrambled backward as the front of the building suddenly lurched toward them. Halbarad dragged Aragorn another twenty feet before he let go. “What was that you said about being careful?”
“I know, I know. But–” He shook his head, unable to put his sorrow and frustration... his rage... into words. Unbidden, a memory of his last visit flashed through his mind. It had been rainy and foggy much like today, and Bilfen had chided Aragorn for tracking mud across his clean stone floors.
“I don’t know how you manage to get so muddy, Strider. Even when you come in on horse, you look like you strode through mud instead!”
Unshed tears burned the back of his throat. “Farewell, Bilfen Broadbow,” he whispered. Then he abruptly turned away from the listing building and headed across the street. Mud pulled at his boots.
Halbarad caught up with him, giving his shoulder a squeeze but keeping mercifully silent, for which Aragorn was grateful. He was having a hard enough time keeping the lid on his sorrow without Halbarad mouthing some sort of comforting blather that would only serve to drive him to tears. He quickened his pace and, as he approached what had been the blacksmith shop, he felt heat still radiating from the ashes. The fire must have been fierce, for the only surviving item that Aragorn recognized was the great anvil.
“I remember Telvor,” Halbarad said. “Good ’smith but he wasn’t much on conversation.”
“No, he wasn’t. I used to watch him from the windows of the inn, and I don’t remember him ever smiling. I always wondered what made him so surly.”
Halbarad kicked at a clump of wood. It disintegrated with a puff of ash. “Woman, most likely. A woman can turn any man sulky.”
This from a man utterly besotted with his wife. Aragorn stared at Halbarad from a moment, then shook his head. He would never really understand the way Halbarad’s mind worked. “We will never know, I suppose,” he said and turned to look at the village. He rested one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on his hip and frowned. “Why, Halbarad? I know that orcs attack the settlements, but this... this feels like something beyond that. Look at the way every last building has been burned, if not to the ground, then at least to ruin. Orcs rarely take the time to burn even a single building, let alone an entire village. There’s something almost methodical in the destruction.”
“The beginnings of an invasion of the North,” Halbarad growled.
“With so small a force? We faced perhaps twenty orcs, no more. Unless those were some sort of scouting patrol, an invasion force would need to be greater, even in this land of scattered remnants.”
“Someone with a grudge, perhaps?”
“Orcs begrudge the very existence of Men and Elves and all free folk. But that still does not explain this sudden change in their tactics.” Aragorn squatted on his heels and looked closely at the ground. The rains had washed away anything of value. The tracks of their horses and their own boots were sharp, but anything older had dissolved back into pockmarked mud. He straightened back up and walked over to a dry patch of ground that had been somewhat sheltered by what remained of an awning that stretched along the front of the building that housed the town’s apothecary.
“What are you looking for?” Halbarad asked.
“Anything. Horses, men, orcs. A fire-drake. Sauron himself. Anything.”
He didn’t see Sauron’s footprints but something did catch his eye. He leaned in closer. “Halbarad, what do you make of this?”
Halbarad squatted, his knees popping, and steadied himself with a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder as he bent low to look. “Huh,” he grunted. “I’m not sure. It could be a boot track that the rain partially washed away.”
“It seems big for a boot track.”
“Telvor was a huge man. Could be his.”
“But look here, that looks like the heel. See the nail marks? I don’t remember seeing a heel of any kind on Telvor’s boots, nor any nails.”
Halbarad raised an eyebrow. “You remember the kind of boots a backwater blacksmith wears? I barely remember the color of the man’s hair.”
“His hair was black, and the only reason I know Telvor’s boots is from one day seeing him kick a vagrant out of his shop when he was fixing a broken harness link for me. His boots had smooth leather soles, completely flat. They were Elven make–my brothers wear similar boots, and it stuck in my mind. And look at this.” He pointed to a series of swirling arabesques in the dust up against the wall.
“A long cloak dragging the ground?”
“Could be. Which seems odd. I’ve never seen an orc wear a cloak.”
Halbarad straightened, nearly knocking Aragorn over as he used him for leverage. “I don’t know, Aragorn. All it really says is that a tall man with a cloak stepped here. That does not explain who, why, or where he is going next or if it even matters a gnat’s eyelash to us. Most likely, the tracks belong to one of those poor souls lying yonder.”
Aragorn studied the track one last time. “Perhaps,” he murmured. He reached out and touched the track, and for a moment, no longer than it takes to blink, he felt... something. Not a breeze, not a splash... but something brushed him. Or perhaps brushed his mind. Something very, very cold, and blacker than the depths of Moria. He jerked his hand away, then hurriedly stood and backed away. He looked at the hill to the north, then down to the river and the road that led across the ford and into the woods beyond. Nothing stirred, and the feeling was gone as quickly as it came.
Halbarad’s hand went to his sword. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Or... perhaps... an echo.”
“Echo? I heard nothing.”
“It was a feeling more than a sound,” Aragorn said, then paused, struggling to describe what he felt. “It seemed like the memory of something evil, the brush of a dark and cold shadow in my mind. But no more substantial than a thin cloud briefly dimming the sun.”
“The same thing we felt yesterday morning?”
Aragorn nodded. He loosened his sword, but did not draw it. “Something evil is stalking these lands... perhaps looking for something, but what that may be, who can say. I think the destruction here came when he failed to find whatever he sought.”
“What could possibly be of any value in a small village like this?”
Aragorn gazed at the river. “Something washed ashore? Or perhaps not something but someone?” His words trailed away. A memory tried to surface, something not from this place but from Rivendell, a glimpse of a picture on a page and a sleepy, bored child listening to Erestor’s voice lecturing....
He shook his head. Whatever lesson from his childhood was trying to nudge him, he couldn’t grasp it. He would have to hope it came to him later; right now, more pressing matters awaited. “Let us keep moving.”
They worked their way down the street, searching three more buildings and finding enough tortured remains of townspeople to fill their heads with nightmares for the rest of their days. At first, Aragorn searched the faces, trying to find people he recognized, but finally his shredded heart could take no more and he focused instead on trying to find more of the mysterious tracks. He came up empty.
As they approached the unrecognizable remains of what he thought had been the mill, they heard shouts from behind it. Aragorn broke into a run, hanging onto the hilt of his sword to keep it from banging awkwardly against his leg.
“Have you found someone?” he gasped as he turned a corner and saw Eledh.
“Denlad thought he heard something, so he and Galadh went in.”
Aragorn looked with some dismay at the remains of the blackened, roofless mill. The family that ran it lived in a small set of rooms tacked onto the back of the two-story mill, and it looked as though most of that section was intact, although the upper part of the rear mill wall leaned perilously over the small one-story portion. One misplaced step and the entire thing could come down on their heads. He moved to an opening that was once the back door. “Denlad!”
“We’re back here!” came the muffled answer. “Keep to the right side of the kitchen and then come through the doorway. The floor is still solid there. But mind you do not lean on any of the walls!”
He entered a small room, the kitchen, still largely intact. Threading his way past a fallen beam and charred remains of furniture, Aragorn passed through a doorway into a second room that abutted the mill’s back wall. To his left he found Galadh leaning over Denlad, who was squatting near the floor, gazing at a pile of debris that at first glance seemed impenetrable. From the looks of it, the entire north section of the house had given way. “What have you found?”
Denlad’s light hair shone in the weak sunlight that filtered through a gaping hole in the ceiling as he stood. He pointed toward a small opening, barely a foot wide and half as high, at floor level. “Listen there.”
Aragorn bent low and after nearly a minute’s silence, he heard it: a soft whimper.
Someone was still alive.