Dwimmerlaik

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who either read or reviewed! It certainly brightens my day. Our heroes set off on their respected journeys...what will they find?

Part Five

A Dark Road Begun

Aragorn tightened his swordbelt and hefted the sack he had just finished filling with peaches. It was still dark under the close-growing espalier and the soft sweet fragrance filled the pre-dawn air. It soothed Aragorn little. He had not closed his eyes but he was not tired. On the contrary, a fire burned in him that even a sleepless night could not quench.

Slipping through a narrow gap between two hedges, the ranger headed towards the small wicker gate that would take him out of the valley. The front porch’s long windows gleamed amber as the early sun tilted down onto their faces. Aragorn skirted them nervously. He hoped to reach the Bruinen before full daylight. Doubtless his brothers and father would discover him missing if he didn’t turn up by midmorning; he planned on being far away by then.

Galen’s disturbing tidings had made him more determined than ever to seek news of his friend whether his father permitted him or not. Thinking of his father and their conversation later that night after the house had gone back to bed caused him to slow and he almost looked back.

Elrond had seen the lamplight coming from under his son’s bedroom door and pushed it open to find Aragorn standing pensively at the window, staring out over the dark valley. But he didn’t seem to see his reflected face in the glass and his eyes were distant.

“Galen will be all right. He has already fought the worst battle. All he needs now is rest—like you, ion nin.”

Aragorn hadn’t turned at the sound of his father’s entrance but he did now and the look of horror on his face was enough for the elf-lord to wrap an arm around his son’s shoulders as if he were still the little boy, frightened of shadows.

The ranger who looked far younger than his years beside his father stayed tense against the older elf’s shoulder. “I keep thinking, Adar, that he’s out there somewhere…hurt… maybe dead…”

“We do not know that for certain, Estel.”

“You listened to Galen,” Aragorn said, his eyes hardening, willing his father to speak the truth. “They were being cut down. Worse, if he was taken by orcs…Adar, you know what they do to elves.”

Pain flitted across the elf-lord’s face and made Aragorn halfway regret his words though he could not take them back once spoken. “Yes, my son, I do. All too well.”

“Then you know why I have to go after them.”

“You, alone, can do very little at the moment,” Elrond said, brushing his son’s dark hair out of the tired, wan face.

“Haldir would not wait if it were me.”

“And Haldir is also old and cannyenough to know when we need more information. I have never seen Galen so wild and I have known him since he was a babe in the cradle. No orc can hold such power as that over the Eldar. There is more to this than we know, Estel, and I am not willing to risk more lives—especially yours—until we are certain of what we are facing. The black horseman in your dreams, the dark shadow Galen and Halbarad both spoke of—I cannot help but feel it is all connected somehow.”

He did not say the word “wraith” though the thought had crossed his mind. But that enemy had been vanquished from this part of the world early in this Age; there was no reason to think he would dare return to this country…yet.

He fingered the boy’s chin to direct those grey-green eyes which very slowly met his. “My son, you must trust me and have a little patience.”

“I do trust you, Adar, but my heart bids me to go lest I be too late.”

“I know it is hard. But wait. And get some sleep…I will join you for breakfast tomorrow…”

Aragorn pulled a peach from his pack—it was all he had had time to grab as he snuck out of the house, fearing either his father or brothers would catch him before he could get a decent enough head start. He hadn’t risked taking a horse lest the noise of hooves on the cobblestones attract someone. For the tenth time, he checked his swordbelt and the saber wrapped in oilcloth tied to his pack. He had resolved to return it to his friend when he found him.

“I’m sorry, Adar,” he whispered. “Please don’t worry. I’ll bring him home.”

“A fine morning is it not?” a voice asked from almost right beside him.

Aragorn dropped his breakfast and already had half-drawn his weapon before Halbarad stepped out of the brush and fell into step at his side. The younger ranger slammed his sword back into its sheath irritably.

“What are you doing out here? You’re never up this early,” Aragorn accused his friend.

The older ranger tapped his nose slyly as he stopped a pace ahead of his chief. “Ah, but I have quick ears. By sheer chance, I discovered that some crazy ranger was thinking of going off into the wild on his own chasing after an even crazier elf and his company.”

“Were you eavesdropping on me?”

Halbarad looked affronted. “I? Eavesdropping! The very idea! The things you accuse me of, Strider, honestly. I went down to investigate the noises I heard last night and met Sadron on the stairs. Rather shaken up, he was. He told me. I figured if Galen hadn’t brought good news, you’d go out sooner than planned no matter what anybody said to dissuade you and I was right wasn’t I?” He eyed his chief’s gear which consisted of a long traveling cloak, the lumpy, unmistakable shapes of a bedroll and pack bunched under it.

“So?” Aragorn said, a trifle defensively. “I may go where and when I please.”

“I’m not about to stop you,” Halbarad agreed. “But you didn’t really think we would let our chief go alone?”

“What do you mean ‘we’? Did you bring the whole company with you?” Aragorn was beginning to think nothing of his journey was a secret anymore—and he’d only just started!

For answer, Halbarad stuck two fingers between his lips and blew a low whistle.

The hedges parted. Men in dark green cloaks and hoods emerged, all fully armed and with identical packs slung over their shoulders. Aragorn choked a groan behind his teeth while Halbarad folded his arms, all too satisfied with himself.

“It is too dangerous,” Aragorn winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He knew these men knew the risks and had faced more dangerous things with him and without him. But he didn’t even know what he was riding into. How could he ask it of them?

Silver-haired Eldacar grimly rested a hand on the hilt of a longsword and raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Dangerous, you say? Chances of mortal injury? I should have known two peaceful days was too long with you around.”

“M-m-maybe we should listen to him,” Angrad said, turning uneasily toward Halbarad. “I already pulled my shoulder once I d-don’t want it to…”

“Stop complaining about your hurts, Angrad. Lord Elrond patched you up good as new,” Halbarad interrupted, his eyebrows knotting over his forehead at his youngest warrior. “Loyalty to your chief is more important than shoulder aches.”

Angrad threw his eyes to the ground, frowning at the rebuke.

Aragorn hadn’t heard the exchange. “I am not jesting, Eldacar. I don’t even know what I’m getting into. All I know is my friend is in trouble and I must find him. Whatever else I meet along the way…”

“All the more reason for you to have someone at your back. If only for the ride,” Eldacar cautioned. “You might need help—if you find your friend.”

Another ranger with lank, shoulder-length hair asked, “Why are you so willing to risk your life for this elf? From what Halbarad has told me he is more than capable of defending himself—against real or imagined intruders.”

“Halbarad should know better than to spread stories,” Aragorn glanced reprovingly at his friend. He was beginning to lose his patience with this roundabout questioning. His tone held the ring of finality as he said, “He is my friend. As are you. Would you not risk your life for mine?”

“In less than a heartbeat but you are far better-tempered than that curmudgeon. Most of the time,” Halbarad said.

Aragorn snorted, imagining the expression on Haldir’s face if he had heard that particular moniker applied to him. But his eyes were sober when they met Halbarad’s again. “I am going.”

“You really care for him.” It wasn’t a question for the answer was all too obvious in Aragorn’s eyes.

“Yes. And I will go whether you come or not. But do not hinder me.”

The older ranger nodded then glanced around at the gathered company. “Then so be it. We are coming with you.”

----------

“Why did we agree to come with you?” Halbarad moaned, swiping at his stinging, sunburnt neck.

“I did not ask you to come so you can keep your complaints to yourself,” Aragorn muttered from the head of the line, a little more sharply than he intended. A mixture of heat, midges and lack of sleep was wearing on him.

They had left Rivendell behind some days ago and made rapid progress at first with sunny day following sunny day and the path stretching firm and clear ahead of them as they crossed the Last Bridge and headed deeper into the Lone-lands as the Road switch-backed towards the more habited lands of Bree and Archet. Aragorn had only the briefest sketch of where he was going, basing his directions on what Galen had said in his moment of half-lucidity as any trace of the missing company were long faded.

Here and there, they spotted signs of flooding from recent rains and deep, murky pools glistened in ditches at the side of the road. But the rangers turned off the beaten way before reaching the dwellings of other men, taking a shortcut towards the Weather Hills into what had been an old Gondorian commonwealth though now it was decimated and largely empty of people and game.

For hours they scrambled up the gentler backslopes of the bald hills, each one seeming longer and higher than the ones before. The relentless sun beat down on the backs of their necks and left them all irritable and red-faced. Worse than that and the insects, a growing shadow darkened their hearts as the afternoon of the fifth day slipped down towards dusk, bringing little relief from the heat which now seeped up from the ground.

They had come to a rocky stretch of country. Unrelieved by grass or trees, it was a stark, barren, lonesome place that made Aragorn long for the cool forests they had left behind. It also left him with a horrible feeling of exposure as he stood at the top of a steep scarp, able to see and be seen for miles.

It was not only his brothers he believed would hunt for him.

As the sun sank in a fiery cascade in the west, the scarlet light painting the stones bloody, Aragorn and his companions scrambled and slid down into a small hollow filled with weeds and a circle of great stones that towered up like teeth against the navy sky. He had almost passed through it when Halbarad’s voice called him back.

“Strider! This is a good spot to camp—it’ll be dark soon.”

“Here?” Aragorn glanced around at the grim circle of standing stones and felt an unexplainable chill.

“It is the only shelter we are likely to get,” Halbarad said, already tossing his pack on the ground at the foot of one of the standing stones.

Aragorn didn’t follow suit. “Amon Sûl is only another hour or two’s walk away. We can camp in the dells there.”

“And it will be twice that in the dark on empty stomachs. Besides, Amon Sûl is hardly more a comfort than here and here is closer.” The older ranger looked up at his friend who was staring longingly forward. He continued in a softer voice, “Strider, you’ve driven the men hard today. Let them catch up their strength and they’ll put on a good enough turn of speed to shame a pony tomorrow.” So saying, he took no more heed to his young leader and began to unpack his meal kit.

Seeing that they were stopping, most of the men mimicked him and spread out in search of sleeping spots or simply tossed down their bags and collapsed on the ground with sighs of relief.

Defeated, Aragorn sighed and dumped his pack next to Halbarad’s.

“You’d never have made it in the dark,” the older ranger soothed. He knew Aragorn begrudged every rest stop even when he had need of it.

The other ranger had no response to that and merely leaned his back against the rough, still-warm surface of one of the stones, watching as red and orange lights sparked to life where the rangers kindled fire from the little brushwood they found scattered around the clearing.

Aragorn knew Halbarad thought he was bordering obsession the way he pushed the men. But Halbarad didn’t understand—every time they delayed, even if it were only by a few hours, the chances of finding Haldir and the elves of Rivendell alive and unharmed decreased.

Halbarad must have sensed his gaze for he looked up from rolling out his groundsheet. “Here, give you something to do,” the ginger-haired ranger tossed a pan and a water skin into Aragorn’s lap. “Go find water will you? I think we passed a stream not too far back. Angrad,” he called across the camp. “Make yourself useful for once. Go with Strider will you—make sure he doesn’t get lost!”

Aragorn aimed a swipe at the older man who dodged with a galling chuckle as Angrad trotted up, swinging his longbow over his shoulder.

Rather small and lean, Angrad wore a tunic that gaped at the collar and held a hunting bow he had obviously made himself. Clearly, he was still becoming accustomed to living in the wild outside of the rough Dúnedain settlements for his face had the pinched look of the young and untried though dark circles ringed his eyes.

As they set off back up the slope and out of the hollow, Aragorn glanced at his quiet companion and smiled slightly when the younger ranger’s awe-struck gaze met his briefly.

“How are you holding up?” Aragorn asked kindly to break the silence. The young man started as though he’d shouted.

“ ‘m fine, my lord,” he mumbled with his eyes on his footing as the hill steepened.

For a few minutes, neither spoke any more as the climb robbed all their breath. It was hard to see in the gathering gloaming and Aragorn almost tripped when the incline abruptly evened out again. The faint glare of the Dúnedain campfires lay far below them with the tall, stones ringing them like a circle of black teeth in a red maw.

Angrad kept so close behind him, he kept treading on the older ranger’s heels. Aragorn couldn’t blame him for being jittery after what he had been through but his heels were aching enough already. Gently touching the man’s arm, he edged him a few inches to one side. Thankfully, Angrad took the hint and offered an embarrassed smile.

Water trickled somewhere above their heads. A shorter climb later, they found it: a thin runnel of white gleaming in the dark as it fell from a rocky height overhead, spilling over a lip of stone. Aragorn filled his water flask and Halbarad’s cooking pan while Angrad faced outward with his bow in hand.

“W-we came this way once b-b-before,” Angrad said.

Aragorn looked over his shoulder then back at the pan which was slowly filling. “These lands are largely empty now since the kingdom of Arnor fell. Not since the battles with the Witch-king—” he stopped. The naming of his people’s greatest Enemy save the Lord of the Dark Tower himself stuck other words in his throat.

“W-w-witch-king?”

Aragorn looked at him in some surprise. “Do you not know who he is?”

Angrad flushed and mumbled something that sounded like “no good at history.”

A shudder rippled up Aragorn’s spine though it was not cold and he returned to his task. “That dread sorcerer is not something to speak of far from firelight and companions. The standing stones we’re camped among tonight are a remnant of the first battlefields with him. That ring is where King Arveleg made his last stand with all the remains of his escort after Amon Sûl’s fortress was razed. They were buried there.”

“We’re camping in a g-graveyard?”

Aragorn grimaced. “Blame Halbarad. He wanted to sleep there tonight.”

When the other man blanched, the older ranger handed him the full pan of water and smiled encouragingly. “Come now. What better company could we ask for than a king’s guard?”

Angrad laughed a little though he clenched his bow tightly against his side as they made their way back down the hill.

Aragorn was so concentrated on the downward winding road, he forgot to watch his feet He missed a foothold in the dark. Angrad grabbed his arm to steady him and pulled him safely back. But Aragorn scarcely noticed. Something moved down below them. He stopped too quickly and Angrad’s pan hit him in the back and slopped water over his tunic, saturating him down to the belt.

Aragorn grabbed the man’s wrist and yanked him down to his side. “Quiet.”

The older ranger’s eyes narrowed as he peered into the gloom below them. Something clacked like two rocks hitting one another and a shadowy shape darted downslope but was too far and faint to make out. Aragorn tracked it with his eyes but lost it in the shadows under a wide overhang.

Crouched beside him, Angrad had also stiffened and his grip tightened on his bow, his other hand crept down towards his hip where a quiver of arrows hung. “Wh-what was that?”

Aragorn made a motion for him to stay silent. He strained his ears a few minutes longer but could hear nothing more.

“A r-rabbit?” Angrad suggested; he hadn’t gotten as good a glimpse of the thing as Aragorn had.

“It was far too big for a rabbit.”

“M-m-maybe it was a g-g-ghost,” Angrad quavered worse than ever. “This p-place is haunted.”

“Not haunted. But dark,” Aragorn corrected, getting to his feet and feeling his wet tunic sticking uncomfortably to his back. “Come on. We should get back to the others, tell them to douse the light.”

“What do you mean ‘no fire?’ ” Halbarad protested when they returned. “And here I was slaving away just so we could have a hot meal.”

“Better to have cold food now so we live to have another hot meal than attract undue attention and get caught out by orcs,” Aragorn said, smothering the small fire closest to them with his boot heel. “Pass the word along, Angrad, and draw two men out who are willing for the first watch tonight. I’ll take the later one.”

“Did you even see this thing?” Halbarad asked as Aragorn shrugged out of his damp tunic and hung it on a pinnacle of stone to dry. “Maybe it was just some hill-animal.”

“It had two legs and moved fast,” Aragorn said, sitting down beside the glowing pit that had been their fire. “I am not taking chances in this country.”

“Fine then. Did you at least bring water back?”

“Absolutely. All over my shirt.” Aragorn slipped on a replacement tunic from his pack and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. “You know you need to teach our men a little more of their history.”

“You try teaching a bunch of hot-headed young fools anything,” Halbarad mumbled, disgruntled, as he accepted his almost-empty pan back.

The camp grew gradually still and silent as the rangers bedded down for the night. Only those taking the first watch were alert, pacing the perimeter just outside the stones to keep themselves awake, occasionally stopping together to speak in low voices.

Aragorn lay on his back with his arms folded behind his head, listening to Halbarad’s deep, throat-rattling snores. It’s a miracle all the orcs in Angmar aren’t bearing down on us now! Even if they were completely deaf, they’d be able to hear this racket. Even as he thought it, he heard a twig snap and one of the guards who was standing just on the other side of the tall stone Aragorn had set his bedroll against challenged the sound.

“Halt! Show yourself!”

As Aragorn sat up, a voice called back out of the dark. “Peace! I am unarmed and mean you no harm.”

“Galen!” Aragorn threw off his cloak and leapt up, rounding the stone as the elf-scout stepped into their midst, brightening his natural glow so they could see him more clearly. The elf smiled on seeing the disheveled ranger.

“You were too avid a student, Estel. I had trouble following your trail until I saw the lights,” his eyes twinkled. He looked a good deal better than when Aragorn had last seen him in Rivendell though still a little pale.

“It w-w-was he then—that was the one we s-saw,” Angrad who had been one of those taking watch reasoned, looking relieved.

“That was no elf,” Aragorn said softly.

Galen frowned in puzzlement but the young ranger only waved him into the circle of stones. “Come. You’re welcome here.”

The elf glanced down at the snoring form of Halbarad and chuckled. “Tis a wonder I could not track you by ear alone.”

Aragorn kicked his sleeping compatriot who merely rolled over on his other side with his mouth open. “Indeed. Why are you here? Did my brothers send you? Should I expect them in the dead of night as well?”

“Nay, and I am sorry I had to come upon you so and cause you undue alarm but this country is dangerous and hard to cross. I could not follow any swifter than I did,” the elf said, leaning wearily back against the stone as Aragorn sat beside him and offered him the leftovers of their cold supper.

But the scout waved the provisions away and unshouldered his own pack, adjusting his rapier so he could sit properly. “I brought such as I could to bolster your supplies,” he handed the ranger several wrapped packages which Aragorn guessed rightly were full of cram. “These will keep you on your legs for many days yet.”

“And break all our teeth too,” Aragorn grinned wryly and nibbled experimentally on the biscuitlike morsel. He wished he had thought to bring the lembas Haldir had given him in Lórien; but his thoughts turned too quickly to where his friend might be now and he closed his eyes to will the despair away.

Galen sipped from the flask at his hip to clear his throat. “I was beginning to think I’d never catch you up.”

Aragorn seized eagerly on the distraction. “Why did you want to?”

“I heard one of your brothers—Elladan or Elrohir I can never tell which—say that you had gone after Captain Haldir. They wanted to send out a search party to find you. Lord Elrond though was still awaiting the scouts he had sent out to bring back Glorfindel. I volunteered to go look for your trail. I knew you had a far lead but I could catch you up if I moved quickly—I at least knew where you were heading.”

“And now that you have caught me up?” Aragorn asked, beginning to see where this was going and mentally preparing his argument to dissuade the elf from making him return home.

“I wish to persuade you to return if you would. And if not, to give you such aid as I can.”

“I cannot go back, Galen.”

The elf scout was silent for a minute as he ran his fingers through his hair. “You do not know the dangers of this road.”

“Do you remember anything more of what happened that night?” Aragorn leaned forward.

The hauntedness returned to Galen’s eyes and his gaze darted over the large humps of rock and the rangers lying slumped on the ground. “I…would rather not speak of it here.”

“You don’t have to,” Aragorn assured him hastily. “I would that you return, Galen, at least you can tell my father I am alive thus far.”

Galen looked at him and his eyes were bright and hard. “No, young one. My purpose was to find you and now that I have I will not go back to your father’s house empty-handed. Either you come with me or we go on together…Captain Haldir was a friend of yours?”

“He is a friend of mine,” Aragorn corrected softly but with gentle emphasis. He touched the hilt of the saber wrapped tightly among his things.

“Of course, forgive me.” Galen’s eyes followed the movement. “I would find my friends as well—to see if they yet live and if not…to give them a well-deserved resting place.”

“I would welcome you,” the ranger said softly.

Unnoticed by the two of them deep in talk, Halbarad’s snores had ceased.

----------

Commotion and curses rang off the stones as the orcs clattered into the courtyard, dragging a struggling figure between them. The tall, strong elf was clearly a warrior for an empty scabbard hung at his waist and he fought and twisted viciously despite the many hands arresting him. But it was a losing battle. Long strands of golden hair tangled around his face and shoulders and blood trickled freely down his cheek from a cut on his brow.

A hard shove between his shoulder blades sent him stumbling forward and he would have fallen if not for the cruel grip that prevented him escaping. Haldir shook his hair out of his bruised face to little avail as the loose strands simply fell back. His hands were tightly bound with rope and he could scarcely move for the orcs jostling him. Once or twice a spear jabbed his lower back warningly if he made too sudden a move. They were enraged and at the same time afraid for he had killed many of theirs before they finally brought him down.

“The lord of the house wants you for questioning, elf, did you know that?” one of his guards leered.

“He’ll make you scream, pretty. Your fancy swordwork won’t save you then,” hissed another at his elbow.

The marchwarden ignored them for the most part. He had heard threats like that before—and had felt them carried out too. But though his blood froze on the inside, he refused to show it outwardly. That was what they wanted. They wanted him cowed. They wanted him frightened. He wouldn’t give them that yet. Instead, he stared around as much as possible, trying to memorize the way in so he could find a way to escape.

Fornost had once been the royal court of the Dúnedain of the North. Rich and prosperous, it had called people from miles around, the twin of the great Minas Tirith in the south that is until war visited the kingdom of Arnor…

Now the main highway was abandoned and overgrown as it ran up to the wood and iron gates. The long streets echoed in silence. Roofs and walls of many of the buildings and living quarters had fallen in covering the streets with rubble, destroyed by the Witch-king after the people fled, but here and there, a few stood like ragged survivors rising from a battlefield.

The old palace, however, remained mostly intact, not yet completely reduced to crumbling masonry. Set high on a hill above the surrounding buildings, it was crafted with the aid of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains and had weathered many years of ill-care and disuse. Nevertheless, it shone like white silver in the sunlight and its walled garths and high crenellations overlooked all the North Downs as far as Evendim to the west and Angmar to the north-east.

But the windows were empty and lightless, gaping like eyeless sockets. Cracked arches and expansive courtyards had grown derelict with decay, weeds swallowing up the summer flowers. Gold filigree winding about pillars and veining long, dark rooms were dulled and scratched off. Wicked things crawled in the depths. A sweetish, rotting odor exuded from the very stones—death had visited these walls and not in quite as distant a past as all believed. Black pennants with a garish red eye painted on their facings fluttered in a chill breeze.

Evil infested her heart once more.

Orcs bustled all over the main courtyard, some carrying whips. Haldir wondered why until he saw the pitiful line of ragged slaves: men, women and children who looked as though they had come from nearby villages straggle past, their limbs weighted with heavy chains as an orc captain cracked a threatening lash expertly over their heads.

“Go on there! Move it!” the slave driver shoved a young woman with a gaunt face who had looked over at the tall elf in the midst of the orcs.

Haldir’s blood boiled but a crack across his own back with a spear haft got him moving again as his guard hustled him past the slaves and up the stairs into a vast entrance hall. One of the orcs left the group and disappeared up another staircase off to the left.

Now that they were sure their prisoner could not escape with the solid, wooden doors shut and barred behind, the guards relaxed slightly and started talking among themselves. Haldir understood their guttural speech for there were apparently members of several different tribes here and they spoke Common so as to understand one another. But even that language on their lips sounded cruel and tainted.

The one who appeared to be the leader of the hunters though he was smaller than most jeered at him and picked his teeth with a grimy claw. He had uncommonly wide, scarlet eyes that while making him look rather mad probably helped him see in pitch blackness. “Spy aren’t you? Not too good at sneaking if you and yours get caught on the road. My, they screamed so pretty when we ran ‘em through didn’t they, boys?”

Chuckles of grotesque agreement came from the guards.

When the captive did not acknowledge him, the orc loped forward, bandy-legged, and grasped the firm-set chin, his nails digging into soft skin as he forced the elf to face him. “You know, I almost hope you don’t say nothing. Then we might get to play a bit.” He caressed the long, golden tresses tangled around the proud shoulders, laughing when the prisoner wrenched away from his loathsome touch.

“Think he makes good sport?” asked the one who had called him ‘pretty’ unsheathing his knife and licking it as though he could already taste the elf’s blood on it.

Haldir turned his head very deliberately and gave the creature a long, slow stare until the orc flinched and hissed at him, raising a forearm to strike him. But the arm fell nerveless at his side before it connected. A sudden uneasiness had fallen on the company and they all shuffled back slightly, their eyes fixed on the staircase.

Despite himself, Haldir followed their gaze and his heart plummeted to the floor. Dread sheathed its claws in him and he renewed his struggles until the lead orc slammed a spearpole sideways into his stomach, doubling him over and dropping him onto his knees. The wound in his side, already strained by the long chase, began to bleed again.

When he regained his breath, he managed to raise his shoulders a few inches and look on the orcs’ dark master who had appeared at the other end of the hall. At that moment, his worst fears instigated by Caladir’s missing message were confirmed. This was what the young messenger had died trying to warn them.

He had not seen the Lord of Angmar since his defeat upon the North-Downs so many years ago but he remembered all too well the terrible presence of the Nazgûl, the most fearsome servants of the Dark Lord. The Nazgûl were the reason darkness was feared and the Witch-king most of all: the master of nightmares and greatest lord of evil save for the One who sat in the Dark Tower.

The Witch-king, hooded and cloaked, regarded his captive with interest before turning to the orc standing a pace or two in front. “Well, Critz?” His voice was hissing and rasping but threaded with hidden power.

“We got the last of them, my lord,” the orc-leader answered, speaking in a low, unctuous voice. He did not seem to want to get too close to his sinister master.

“You have less than half the company I left with you.” The Witch-king did not much care either way about orcs in a personal sense. But both they and slaves were resources he could ill afford to lose while their plans had not yet reached full fruition. “What have you to say for yourself?”

The orc looked down at the floor then at the captive behind him. “He escaped into the trees, lord, and—”

“One? One did this?” The voice had acquired an almost silky inflection. A danger signal to the orc who stepped quickly out of the wraith’s reach closer to the captive elf who was trying to get off his knees. He was held firmly in place by the guards. “Let us see what this one elf is. Show me his face.”

Critz now used his spear like a garrote to pull the prisoner’s head back, exposing the elf’s face and flashing silver eyes for his lord’s inspection.

The elf’s bright eyes and skin shone painfully bright in the wraith’s shadowy vision but the Nazgûl was by far the more powerful and flexed his senses outward like metal claws seeking purchase in the flesh before him. Satisfaction swelled in the hole where his heart had been as he smelled the tantalizing stench of fear and blood rolling off the elf in waves. A brave one, but afraid nonetheless.

For his part, Haldir met the wraith’s dark glare with his own. This was the most evil thing he had ever encountered in all his travels around Middle-earth and it transformed his blood to icewater. Something brushed his mind like shadowy wings. He almost likened it to the sensation he felt under the Lady Galadriel’s stare except this was not a gentle brush, a joining of thought. It was an invasion—one trying to bend the other to its will. He felt that fleeting touch probe the surface of his mind, not going too deep yet but tentative as though expecting barriers. It was looking for something, searching through him, inside him for something he did not have, a call he could not answer. The evil touch, dissatisfied but interested, withdrew after several long, uncomfortable minutes that felt like hours.

“You were the leader of your company?” When he predictably received no answer, the wraith moved closer, his fell power falling so heavily upon the group that even the orcs backed away. “We entertained several of your companions here not long ago. Unfortunately, my servants were a little…overenthusiastic,” he said and the hood turned towards Critz. “They were useless to me. You, you have eluded us for a while but your flight was ultimately futile. What were you and a company of mounted warriors doing in my lands?”

Haldir would tell the wraith nothing but he could not resist snarling. “These are not your lands. They belong to the Dúnedain of Ar—”

He got no further. The spike-tipped knuckles of the wraith’s glove raked three, long, bleeding lines across his cheek, the pain stunning him into a defiant silence.

“The Dúnedain of Arnor have been broken by the mere shadow of me,” the wraith hissed, shrill with thinly concealed rage at the naming of his ancient enemies. “They are vagabonds, useless indigent tramps whose seed failed them years ago,” he gestured at the orcs surrounding him. “I could kill you with a word, elf, or not. I could let you linger for a hundred, a thousand years in unbearable agony of mind and spirit until your body would beg to be broken to free it from this world. You would tell me your darkest desires if it meant freedom.” He motioned for the guards to take the prisoner from his sight.

“Soon you will know that bitter taste all too well.”