Had the words of Gimli been borne out by history? Were these caves in the Fourth Age better for their discovery by the dwarves? At that time, the answer was most certainly, yes. In the three centuries the dwarves had been given to open up and improve the caves, they had done just that, and no more. They had not mined as much as a single ounce of gold or silver, though there were certainly plenteous veins in the Ered Nimrais. But the simultaneous re-habitation of Khazad-dum had made any mining unnecessary, for the time. And Krath-zabar was also rich in ore. So Aglarond was kept almost as a site of pilgrimage, up to the time of this story.
       The dwarves had renamed the caves in their own language: Ozk-mun it was called, which signified 'The Wall of Light.' Its population was quite low. Only a few hundred dwarves were permanent residents of the caves. Compare this to the thousand or so who lived in Erebor, in and around the Lonely Mountain; or to the thousands who dwelt in Krath-zabar or the Iron Hills; or to the nearly ten thousand dwarves who (had until recently) filled Khazad-dum; and you will see that the Lords of the Caves had taken their custodianship quite seriously. Limits had been set and laws passed, and in proper dwarf fashion they were strictly enforced.

When King Mithi in Khazad-dum had received the warning from Celeborn and Nerien about the balrogs, he had immediately cleared the caves, giving orders that most of the rank and file of the khazad temporarily relocate in Krath-zabar or in the Ered Luin. Only the King and his family and guard, and a few ranking families, were to go to the Glittering Caves—the nearest refuge. The evacuation was only just in time. In fact, the balrogs awoke and issued forth on the very heels of the dwarves, even passing some few in the passages in their great haste. But the creatures were not interested in battle—having awakened at a signal and only desiring a clear path.
       The dwarves did not know this, of course. Despite the message from Imladris, it was not known why the balrogs were there, why they were awakening, or whither they intended to go. It was not even known for certain that they existed, until they were seen in all their terror. And even then it could not be known that all were accounted for. None had had the courage to count the creatures as they issued forth—even the bravest had cowered and quailed and hidden their faces. And had they known the number to be seven, this was only the number passed on from the mouth of Tomilo. Who of elf or dwarf could say with surety that the hobbit had counted correctly, or that he had encountered the full contingent of sleeping balrogs in his wanderings? Even Tomilo could not have said. Perhaps there were other halls and other tombs.
       In light of this, only a small batallion had been left in Khazad-dum. It was their unenviable task to scour the lower regions of the caves, to make certain that no other creatures lurked in the depths, still waiting to awaken. It was a mission with only one possible outcome that was fair, and many that were exceedingly foul. For if any creatures were found, they would likely overwhelm the searchers. Only if the caves were discovered to be completely empty, would the battalion return to the surface and make their report. In that case, the dwarves might return to their city in the mountains.
       Until then the King would remain at a safe distance, with others of royal rank, at Ozk-mun. Galka had gone with the King, as part of the King's Guard. As a wearer of the mask, he was one of the few warriors who accompanied the King. Most of those in the dwarf army had been sent to the Iron Hills, to swell the ranks of the Phalanx of the Worm.*

Shortly after the arrival of King Mithi's retinue at Ozk-mun, another Royal entourage arrived from the evacuation of Erebor. In the months since the dragon attack, Erebor had been re-opened; but few now chose to return. The High King himself had no plans to go back until it was known why the dragons had come and where they had gone. He did not wish to be caught by surprise a second time. He knew well the story of Smaug, and the total annihilation suffered by The Mountain in the time of Thror.
       Kurin, the High King, had fled with his sons Oirin and Firin. His brother Kalin also had come, although he had been at the Council of Rhosgobel, and so had to turn around and cover the same road again as soon as he arrived in Erebor. With him were also several of his guards that had been at Rhosgobel, and these guards recognized Galka and the other King's Guards from Khazad-dum. They spoke to them as soon as they had settled at Ozk-mun. It was from these dwarves that Galka heard first-hand the falling of the dragons upon the Lonely Mountain and the taking of the Arkenstone.

The guards were accustomed to take meals together in the soldier's common room. All the dwarf soldiers that had come to Ozk-mun from the various dwarf settlements were of high rank, and therefore ate together with little ceremony. Stories were traded—especially in the first weeks of being thrown together—over all the meals, and after the closing of the gates each evening, well into the night. The dwarves of Erebor were full of questions about the balrogs, and those of Khazad-dum never tired of hearing of the dragons.
       One morning, about half an hour before sunrise, Galka was seated at a long low stone table set with plain dinnerware of the commonest metals—unadorned save for an 'O' rune embossed on each piece of cutlery or plate or tankard. With him at the table were some sixty fellow guards, from both royal retinues as well as the resident guards of Ozk-mun. At nearby tables of

*The Phalanx of the Worm consisted of specially-equipped dwarves who carried larger shields, and longbows rather than axes. They also travelled with catapults, capable of launching great stones many feet into the air. And the PW was expert at the digging of trenches and the erection of earthworks—as protection against flame.

equal size sat the remaining soldiery of the caves. This being the soldiers' Dining Hall, it was among the least magnificent of the large rooms of the dwarf city. But even so, it was beyond anything the dwarves from Erebor or Moria had ever seen. It had none of the splendour of armament, or of other manufactured items, that the other places could boast of. But it needed none of them. The very walls themselves were things of beauty beyond compare. The rows of torches set the whole room ablaze with a twinkling, dancing light, mirrored in a thousand tiny facets. These shining surfaces sent the light back in a barrage of subtle colours: violet amethyst, reds of garnet and ruby, greens of emerald and jade and chrysoprase, yellows of topaz and opal and beryl, blues of sapphire and lapis lazuli, whites of onyx and adamant. From above, hanging from a lofty and craggy ceiling, were stalagtites encrusted with other fantastic gems beyond name and number. As Galka looked up, he thought that there could be no metaphor to help in describing these fabulous monstrosities—these almost mythical shapes in the gloaming. There was nothing to compare them to, neither in the heavens nor in the waters nor in the flora and fauna of the sun-touched regions of Middle-Earth. To outsiders, they must remain a tale of poor and pinched words, unbelieved until seen.
       But the dwarves had been in these caves for several days already, and so were becoming accustomed enough to the beauties around them to begin to speak of other things. At any rate, on this fine morning, far below the moving air and just-awaking birds and fragrant soil outside, the conversation had become lively; and the great room echoed with the tintinnabulation of many voices striving to make themselves heard over all the rest. At last, one voice rose above the clank of knife upon plate and the slap of fist upon stone and the dull roar of nearly two hundred low and sonorous voices.
       'I will tell the story!' said the voice of Muntz, a Captain from Erebor. He was near the head of Galka's table, only a few chairs away, in fact. He stood and raised his arms in a command of silence, and the room did become quiet. Muntz was a very large dwarf, with a huge bearded head and arms that looked like they had been hewn from granite. His forehead was like a wall in itself, that armies could batter themselves against and come off the worse. As he spoke, he brought his gauntleted fist down upon the table—whenever the story called for emphasis—and the stone itself shivered. Galka thought to himself that here at last was a dwarf that needed no tools to mine: he might cleave the very backbone of the mountain with his bare hands.
       'I was at the Gate when the dragons alit, as you were not, Monel,' he began, glaring at another large dwarf of Erebor. 'Let me tell the story as it ought to be told, and then we will not have to tell it again and again—with the thousand addendums of fools who weren't there. Now, everyone wants to know about dragons, I hear. Well, Khazad, I will tell you about dragons. I will tell you and you will listen. For I smote a dragon and he smote me. And so we know eachother. That's more than anyone else here can say, I warrant.
       'I was at the Front Gate, as I said, where the stream issues forth. That has been my post for the last twelve years, as all from Erebor know. I have been Captain of the Gate Guards for ten years, and I was Lieutenant before that. Well, it was eight days before the first day of the year, as you all know already. There was no warning of any kind. We had not even heard of the attack of the balrog at the Bridge, which anyway had only happened two days before. So our guard stations were all at standard levels. It is just as well, for if more at been stationed at the Gate, it only means more would have been killed. At four hours before sunrise, I saw a light in the sky—which some others saw, too, so I know it wasn't a dream. It was in the northwest sky, just above the arm of the mountain. At first some of us argued it was just a bright star, or some such thing. But as we continued to watch, it became clear that it was moving. Slowly but surely. One of the guards suggested that it was a falling star, but as those move very fast, that was dismissed as absurd. Then another suggested that it was an eagle, with the rising sun reflecting off his feathers. I turned on that dwarf and asked him how that could be, seeing that the light was in the west, but the sun rose in the east? Besides, it was four hours before sunrise. Tricks like that, which he meant, only happened right before sunrise. But his foolishness got me to thinking about flying things, and I remembered Smaug, and the description of his coming. And I grabbed a horn and blew such a blast that the guards around me were made deaf.
       'So you see, we weren't completely unprepared—for all the good it did us. Like those who had battled Smaug, we had no time to put up proper dragon defenses, or to armour ourselves correctly. We did not even have time to use the water from the Gate Stream to any purpose. The only thing that was achieved was a warning of the King, so that he and the Princes and such could run to their secret places. But as the dragons had no interest in the King anyway, none of that was of any importance either. If we had known what they were coming for, we might have thrown the Arkenstone in the waters, I suppose. Though that would only have made the dragons angry, I think, and would have led to a general slaughter. None but a seer could have predicted such a limited and focused attack, anyway; and all such talk of might-have-beens is pointless.
       'As dwarves rushed hither and thither, gathering arms or running for the deepest chambers—depending on their courage—I myself only stood and watched. My axe was at hand, my arms were at my side, and my feet were planted beneath me: I needed nothing more. After perhaps five minutes, the light in the sky began to grow in size, and then to separate into two lights. I blew the horn again and announced that there were two dragons. This only increased the madness, of course. Some mothers and children ran down from the mountain, to be clear of the expected onslaught completely. And the news had now reached Dale, also. As I looked down upon the city of men, it was like looking upon a city of ants disturbed by a wasp. The whole town was crawling with torches, and I could hear the screams all the way up on the mountain. I think many were fleeing toward the River Running, though they must have been witless to think they could make it to the water before the dragons arrived. For even then the orange lights were descending upon Dale. They flew low over the town, setting the roofs alight. But they did not stop to do further damage there before turning to the mountain. I believe they were told not to risk unnecessary battle.
       'For even as they landed at the Gate and began belching forth their hottest fires, they did not stop to do battle, or to confront those of us who stood against them. They only crushed or burned those who stood directly before them. They threw down the gates with only a moment's buffeting of their great tails; and I hewed at the nearest one without success—for his armour was like tempered mithril, and seamless. He did not even turn to breathe his death upon me, but threw me clear with a swish of that great tail. Once inside they made directly for Thorin's Tomb, as if they had studied a map of our chambers. But perhaps it is not to be wondered at too much. The Tomb is not hidden or fortified, as it should in hindsight have been. And it is foolishly near the Front Gate. Its position was chosen, of course, to commemorate Thorin's stand at the Gate against the Five Armies. But this only made it the easier to pillage.
       'I followed the foul beasts as they tore the cap from the tomb and burned or smashed all the ornamentation and stonework about it. I saw the forward worm snatch the Arkenstone from the breast of Thorin, ignoring the remains of that Great King as if they were naught but dust. It held the jewel up to its horrible companion in its curved claws, and the two fire-drakes seemed to laugh at the ease with which their robbery had been achieved. The stone sparkled and shone through the claws of the beast, and threw its white light across the red fires emanating from its jaws. Then the worm seemed to flinch, as if the light pained it. It looked about the chamber, and at first I thought the creatures might leave the stone and trade it for other treasures. But they were only seeking out a chest, that they might carry the stone in it. Neither one seemed prepared to carry the Arkenstone from the mountain unboxed—that is, in a naked claw. For the first dragon threw the Stone from him, as if he could not hold it a second longer. And the second would not take it up either.
       'But soon they found a chest large enough to hold the stone, and they emptied it of its priceless contents. It was the very coffer that held the Queen's necklace—the famous Begalukk Strand—among other things. But they left that on the floor of the chamber as if it were no more than an iron chain set with quartz. They placed the Arkenstone within the chest and closed the lid. Then they turned to go.
       'I had not molested them as they broke open the tomb, nor as they searched for the chest. For I was now alone. All the others had fled or been killed. But I had one last card to play—hopeless as it now seems. I thought to come down upon one or the other as he passed back through the gate, and I had climbed onto a narrow ledge over the opening for this purpose. But the creatures moved so quickly that I only had time to fall upon the back of the second one. I brought my axe down on the scales above the hind leg of that beast, but it was as ineffectual as before. He threw me from him like a child's doll, or like a horse flicking away a fly. Nor did he turn to cover me with flame, though I expected it. The two worms only flew away into the night, in the direction they had come. That is the whole extent of what happened that night. Nothing more and nothing less.'

There were a few moments of silence after Muntz had stopped speaking, but he did not return to his seat just yet. He stared at the company, as if to defy any questioning of his word. But finally a nearby dwarf spoke up nonetheless. It was Galka.
       'What did they look like?' he asked, in such a tone of innocence that Muntz almost laughed. The Captain had thought to snap the head off the first dwarf who spoke any word to him, no matter how small. But this little dwarf from Moria—such an absolute babe of the first digging—took Muntz by surprise. He looked at Galka for several moments, completely forgetting to be gruff and horrible in the face of such naivete. But at last he remembered his position, and he assumed the proper scowl.
       'What did they look like? What did they look like!?' he yelled. 'They looked like your worst nightmare, Lieutenant! They looked like death itself! They looked like a river of molten fire, pouring down from heaven on your foolish head! They looked like towers of steel, like mountain-shoulders of red rock, like carrion birds forty feet long.'
       'Did they have many teeth? And what was the shape of the head,' continued Galka, undaunted.
       'Why, Lieutenant? Are you illustrating a book on worms? Or perhaps you are sewing a cap for one, and want it to be the right size?' At this the table erupted with laughter. The dwarves stomped their feet and clanked their armour.
       'No, Sir. If we are to fight these creatures, we must know everything about them. Who knows what information may turn out to be crucial, in the end.'
       'In the end? Whose end, the worm's or yours?'
       The dwarves laughed again. But still Galka was unaffected. 'Just answer my question, if you will, Sir. A description of the dragon would be very helpful, and since you are the one here who has done battle with one already, you are the only one who knows.'
       Muntz bristled at the first part of this statement, but the last part mollified him somewhat (as was intended) and he decided it would be to everyone's benefit to simply answer without further bullying. Muntz was fierce, but he was not foolish. Already he could see that this small dwarf from Khazad-dum would not be an easy mark—Aye, might even be useful to him in the future.
       'The beast had many teeth, yes,' he answered, looking about at the other tables with a grimace. 'Black teeth, as if they had been burned by the constant fire. A snout in the shape of a warg, but longer. Much longer. Its nostrils were great black holes, and the fire came from them, as well as from the mouth. The worm's head had no brow: it was nothing from the front but mouth and teeth. Long narrow eyes on the side of its head, with black slits in shining green ovals, like a cat or a snake. Horns behind the eyes, curling back and up. A very long neck, in the shape of an ess, and armoured in rings. A great breastplate of iron or hide, crisscrossed in diamond-shaped scales. Four legs, the front smaller than the rear, and all with long unretracting claws. The tail was as long again as the beast, and armoured in rings like the neck. There was no soft spot or exposed area from nose to tip of tail.'
       'What of the wings? Were they also armoured?'
       'Hm, well. I can't say, with surety. That is a fair question indeed, Lieutenant. Although I don't know why anyone would want to make a worm unable to fly away. You should hope that they do, as soon as may be. I can tell you that the wings were vast. When they were open, the beast was much longer from tip to tip than nose to tail. It required such a span to hold its bulk aloft, I guess. With all that armour, the beast must weigh as much as fifty large horses. And the worms had some difficulty getting into the air, I remember. They had need to run very fast, and then make a great leap. And even then, it was not a graceful ascent. But when the worm was on the ground, it folded each wing into three parts—like a bat—and held the wings back and high, out of the way.'
       Galka asked no more questions, seemingly satisfied for the moment, and he returned to his breakfast. Had he not been so absorbed in eating, he might have noticed Muntz looking at him curiously. But the others returned to their plates as well, seeing that they must soon be at their posts, well-filled or not. And no one else felt like sparring with the great captain, especially this early in the day.

But several days later, the dwarves from Khazad-dum had a chance to tell their story. The subject of the balrogs had arisen again, and a dwarf from the caves had been chosen to tell of their sudden appearance at the East Gate. This dwarf, Gergii son of Nervii, was the ranking Captain of the Mask. Meaning he was the First Guard of the King. His usual post would not have been at either gate. He was normally to be found at King's First or Third Hall, either in attendance or stationed nearby. But since the warning from Imladris, Gergii had been given charge of seeing to the emptying and guard of First Hall. Since First Hall was just above the East Gate, he spent much time in those two days at the Gate itself, making sure that everything was taken from the Hall that should be, and nothing taken that shouldn't.
       The King and his family had already departed hours earlier from West Gate, and were even then nearing the Glanduin Bridge. But Gergii would follow them only when the last dwarf was safely out and escorted down into the eastern vales.
       Gergii was an older dwarf, large but not so large as Muntz. He was calm, with a serious mien and a sharp eye. His beard was long and white and forked at the end. His eyebrows were quite full, even fuller than was customary with dwarves, and they were still flecked with black. His stare was intimidating: it was as if he had become so used to the mask that his face maintained its power to overwhelm even when he did not wear it. He carried Durin's battle insignia* on his breast, as a sign of his unique rank. And the handle of his double-axe was tipped with a mithril knob in the shape of a grimacing boar. Only eleven other dwarves in Khazad-dum were of equal or greater rank (not including the Royal House).
       This is the story as Gergii himself told it to the dwarf soldiers at Ozk-mun that day:
       'I was at the East Gate,' he began, laying aside his fork and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 'I was trying to maintain some degree of order. It was not easy, since a panic had taken hold upon our caves that I had never seen nor imagined. Dwarves were throwing their hammers and axes down and running without regard to orders or to any protocol whatsoever. It was a sad day for the Kingdom, I must say. A few pathetic dwarves even went so far as to attempt to profit from the confusion by stealing minor heirlooms from First Hall, while the guards were at the gate or else searching for stragglers in the deeper rooms. I myself caught several with small tokens from the treasury: items they thought would go unmissed, or whose loss could be attributed to the balrogs. I need not tell you that these dwarves are deep in the pits of Krath-zabar—married permanently to the forges.
       'So I was already in a very sour mood, as my lieutenants here can attest. I had doubts about the existence of any balrogs, and misgivings that this sort of precipitious evacuation was the best means of reacting to the news from the elves. I even had a sort of suspicion that the elves had sent the message as a decoy—to flush us from the roost, as it were, and then take the nest.

*A double-ax and a flame. The battle insignia was used by soldiers, whereas the hammer and anvil were used by counsellors (without the crown and seven stars) or by the royal family (with the crown and stars).

I was wrong, in the event. But I still don't think they're too good to try it. And if they had tried it that day, I don't think there is anything we could have done to stop them. It would have been a rout. A disaster of unbelievable proportions.
       'But I was wrong, for the time. For the balrogs were coming. I finally realized that when I began to hear a rumbling from the depths, of a kind I had never experienced. It was not a quake; nor a shifting from a blast; nor a groaning of the mountain. It was the moan of a creature. The long wail of some terrible beast! I felt a fear, for the first time, fellow dwarves, that reached to my very heart. I did not think of running, but I began to think that the warning might have been justified. It was clear that something horrible was happening.
       'It was now several hours after sunset. It was very dark out, since there was no moon, and the only light was from the torches. I quit questioning those going out and only watched and listened. I stood in amaze as dwarves continued to flee past me in utter terror. And I heard shouts and screams from the inner halls, that I now know were the screams of dwarves being overtaken and passed by the emerging balrogs. Suddenly there was a strange smell, like the den of a bear—but much worse and much stronger. And the noises were now echoing in my head, near to driving me mad. They had increased in both number and loudness. It was a many voiced bellowing. Like bulls warning eachother, almost. But mad bulls of monstrous proportions. I began to feel sick, and I held my hands over my ears. I moved aside from the doorway just in time, for suddenly many great shapes of darkness rushed by, and the air was thick with their smell—and the smell of fear. I turned my head away to keep from fainting, though it is difficult for me to admit to it.
       'At last they were gone. I cannot tell you their number, though many have asked me. We were warned of seven. All I can say is that I believe there were more than two or three, but less than a dozen. I could not be more precise without straining the truth.
       'After a moment I looked up. I saw them in the distance, flying to the north and east. But they were enveloped in a cloud of fire and darkness which the eye could not penetrate. All I could see where the flashes of flame, and the smoke that seemed to carry the flame. It is difficult to describe. Below was another cloud, running along the ground beneath them like a shadow. It too contained flashes of flame. It was like a mirror image cast upon the ground by the flying creatures. I cannot explain it.'
       'Captain Gergii, Sir,' interrupted Galka, 'I believe I have some information on that point.'
       Muntz looked over at Galka in wonder, thinking to himself that this little dwarf had a comment or question on every subject.
       'Yes, Lieutenant. What is it?' answered Gergii, with some small impatience. He had already been made aware of his new lieutenant on the journey to Ozk-mun, and had found his loose lips nettling. In his opinion, a dwarf of Galka's age should not earn rank for any reason. But especially not for having disobeyed orders. He expected to find it necessary, at some point in the near future, to discipline this dwarf in some very harsh fashion. If it were not for the King, he would have already done so, in fact, not waiting for a reason. But this dwarf would soon give him a reason: he felt confident of that.
       'Tomilo—the halfling, you know—he told me that some of the balrogs he saw had wings and some did not. Perhaps this cloud you saw on the ground contained the wingless balrogs, Sir.'
       'This is the halfling you took from the cell?' asked Gergii.
       'Yes, Sir. He brought the letter about the Council, and about Morgoth. Then he saw the balrogs in Deep Hall. It's thanks to him that we got the warning. He told Nerien, you know. In Imladris. He also saw the balrog on the bridge in the north.'
       'All right, Lieutenant. May I ask why this halfling did not report to King Mithi immediately the sighting of the balrogs? Why, Guard, did we have to wait for a message from an elf to arrive from Imladris? It is rather roundabout, is it not?'
       'Yes, Sir. I suppose, Sir. I mean he thought he should, but he didn't know if he was in his right mind when he saw them. He didn't want to alarm us for nothing, you know. But when he saw the balrog that killed Glorfindel, he knew he was in his right mind, and must tell us immediately.'
       'Well, I don't know that it would have mattered greatly if we had known a month earlier. Though it all seems odd, the way it turned out. A wandering halfling discovering balrogs at the center of the earth. It's a story that takes some believing. But I suppose if we had gone down there before the council, we would only have stirred them up before their time and gotten ourselves killed in greater numbers. Though I still can't see why they were there or why they awoke when they did.'
       'It was the call of Morgoth, Sir.'
       'Was it, Lieutenant? And how exactly did Morgoth "call" them? Did he send a burrowing orc from the dungeons of Keh to shake them and tell them the holiday was over? Or did he just whisper into a hole? Maybe he sent a bat, with a map of the caves. Or a beetle with an urgent letter.'
       The dwarves laughed, but Galka was no more concerned this morning than he had been with Muntz.
       'I don't know, Sir. Perhaps it was pre-arrranged. Or maybe there is a signal that only evil can hear.'
       'Very mysterious, Lieutenant. Very deep. But let us leave it. It is no matter. And there is no need to speculate. It is no concern of ours. We will go where we are told and fight whoever attacks us—isn't that right, Khazad? But I will say this before I sit down. We of Khazad-dum should return to our city. The elves may not have taken Moria yet, but they may still. We are foolish to leave it empty, to be taken by any who pass by!'
       The dwarves stamped and cheered. They were impatient for battle, and many were irked that they had been ordered to the Glittering Caves—the beauties notwithstanding. Gergii was foremost among these. It appeared to him that there was little chance of reknown for a captain in Ozk-mun. Let him at least defend his own city. Or, even better, send him north to lead the khazad into battle against balrog and worm!



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Chapter 5
Fornost Erain

King's Norbury was some forty leagues from Bree on the North Road. It was an ancient site and had been settled on and off by descendents of the Three Great Houses of Men (the elf-friends) as far back as any could remember. Men had been living there when Elrond was born to Elwing in Doriath. Men had been there many years already when Bombadil arrived from over the mountains to seek the beautiful River Daughter. The dead buried there had lain longer a-peace in Middle Earth, still marked by their now-wordless stones, than at any other site. The ghosts there were older and wiser and deeper; and the aged sons of men, talking in whispers, felt always at home in these misty hills—hills where their kind had come and gone, doing what men do, from the beginning.

Before he became king at the end of the Third Age, Aragorn had been accustomed to walk there at times, to think of what his fathers had been, and what his line had come to. In those years, a traveller arrived at King's Norbury on the burnt-out end of the Greenway—a path rank with weeds and all but lost to sight. The place was called Deadman's Dike, and none came there but ghosts and sons of ghosts. Strider would sit on a broken cairn of stones, wrapped in his stained cloak and leggings, and dream of the towers that once stood there, and the fair people shouting to one another and playing fair games in court, it may be, and laughing under the clear sun. And he had looked about him at the desolation: the absolute stillness of the trees and grass, the cold hills lying untouched for centuries, the careless birds hopping from gravestone to gravestone, unaware of the legacies of their perches.
       At that time he had come to the stone of his mother, one among many, and he had promised her that she would have living company again and that children would run past on the road and that many fair things would be rebuilt by the sons of the ghosts of King's Norbury.

And when Elessar was crowned King of Gondor and Arnor, he remembered his promise, and he sent the Rangers—who were now princes of the Reunited Kingdom—to Fornost Erain to oversee the rebuilding of the city, and the re-settling of the region. Indeed, many times did the King come himself, to watch the progress of his ministers and the beauty of their work.*
       Dwarves from the Ered Luin were also called to Fornost to help in the building of the palace and fortifications. More than thirty-years work was done on the Citadel and surrounding structures alone. At this time, the towers of Amon Sul were also rebuilt, as well as the houses and walls of Annuminas.

*It has been written (by Meriadoc Brandybuck, in The Tale of Years) that King Elessar, in the Fourth Age, 'comes north to his house in Annuminas restored.' This is true, as Annuminas was also restored at this time. But this 'house' of King Elessar is not the court of Arnor. Had it been the court, Meriadoc would doubtless have called it such. No, this house is but a sort of summer cottage (though a magnificent one) of Aragorn and Arwen—far from the heat of the stones of Minas Tirith, and near to the havens of the elves. Aragorn had also established his northern residence in Annuminas to avoid conflict with the court in Fornost Erain. A King residing, even for a time, in the palaces of his Prince, might create an intolerable situation; nor did it encourage the independent sovereignty of Arnor.

       Elessar chose Fornost as the capital of Arnor for personal reasons, some of which are enumerated here. But the temples and citadels of Annuminas were also rebuilt, and they served as reminders of past glory, and as pilgrimages. Chief among these, of course, was the Tower of the Sunset, built upon the eastern shore of Lake Nenuial.

Eldarion continued the work of this father, and by the second century of the Fourth Age, Fornost was already a city that even Arvedui would have been proud of, or Elendil himself. All the major stonework was by then complete. The trees that had been planted had reached maturity, and the streets no longer felt new. The people of Fornost Erain might look out over the white walls at hilltops fortified and waving with the banners of Numenor, and at fields richly planted and waving with the stalks of many grains, and at pastures brimming with kine, tended by fair shepherds waving back at them across the distance.
       Now, in the first years of the fourth century of the Age, Fornost began to rival Minas Mallor itself in splendour and might. The population of the district as a whole (including the hamlets lying just outside the gates) had in fact exceeded that of the city of the seven walls, having more room for expansion. In the south it was necessary, once Minas Mallor had been re-filled, to look well beyond the walls for overflow. Osgiliath, some miles away, was the first to receive this overflow, of course. But other towns in Lebennin and Ithilien had also benefitted from the new prosperity. All of Gondor, even to the hills of Pinnath Gelin in Langstrand, had grown markedly since the fall of Sauron.
       But in the North was this growth most to be seen, even by the living eyes of a single generation. At times it seemed to those who lived near the great roads that there was a continuous line of carts and wains and horses and walkers making their way to the fertile fields of Eriador. A few stopped and built their farms in Cardolan, where towns were non-existent and a man could do as he pleased with little or no oversight from authorities. But most continued on past Bree and the Great East Road, to be near the great cities of Fornost and Annuminas. It was here, between the Weather Hills in the east and the hills of Evendim in the west—and sheltered also to the north by the North Downs—that saw the greatest changes in the Reunited Kingdom. Fornost itself was the center of this expansion. No mountains stopped Fornost from spreading across the plain, as the Ered Nimrais stopped Minas Mallor. No great river acted as a natural boundary. Now that evil had receded, the only limitation upon the glory of Arnor was to be found in the cold blasts from the north that made farming, and living, more and more difficult as one proceeded past Fornost and the North Downs. At the time of this tale, the North Downs bounded Arnor almost like a sea; for although the King claimed the territory all the way to Forodwaith and the Bay of Forochel, no settlements or farms existed north of Fornost (save a hamlet or two on the Lune, far to the west).

The city itself was built around the Citadel of the Elfstone (the Ondo-lai)—so called because its plan was drawn to the shape of the green-stone (the Elfstone) that King Elessar wore about his neck. The main court was of an elongated hexagonal shape, that is, with the dais at one of the narrow ends, facing south. This court sat atop the last prominence of the North Downs, and the Citadel had been erected around it in various walled circles and semi-circles and curved passageways. Three main towers there were, the centermost being the loftiest; but the other two also reaching magnificent heights. The Citadel (also called the Green Tower) housed the Prince and his family. Smaller courtyards to right and left decorated the palaces and provided walled gardens where the children might play in warm weather. Here too were fountains and aviaries and many other wonders and delights too numerous to tell. But in the lefthand courtyard a scion of Nimloth had been planted—to ensure the continued health of that line, should accident or blight again take the tree in the south. It had at first been feared that the sapling would not like the cold of the North Downs; but the young tree thrived, and at the time of this tale it was tall and leafy—its white bark shining with sap and its new leaves sticky and pungent.
       The other two towers fronted the citadel and looked out over the city to the south. A green banner flew over the main tower, but the red and the white towers—as these were called—carried banners of their own colours. The White Tower was to the west. It was called Minas Ninque in the Numenorean speech. The Red Tower was Minas Carne.
       The first street of Fornost was Green Street (Lathe-lae). It ran from the gate of the citadel, between the two towers, to the gate of the city. It was a rather long road, being more than a mile from one gate to the other. But the cross street (Lathe Anann) was longer still, for it ran from west wall to east, and that was wellnigh a league. A small river also ran from east to west across the city, dipping south a bit to round the towers before essing its quick way beyond the walls and finally meeting the Baranduin some fifteen leagues on.
       The census of 300 had counted eleven and a half thousands living inside the walls. But another three thousands lived in the near environs—either in the districts of Fornost just beyond the wall (which most considered part of the town proper) or in the hamlets and nearby acreages. This made the city more than twice as large as Annuminas, and nearly as populous as Minas Mallor. Had that city not grown as well during the last three centuries, Fornost would have already passed it. But the same census found Minas Mallor with nearly fourteen thousands inside the walls. And Osgiliath swelled that number to at least twenty-one thousands.
       In the entire north kindom of Arnor, the King could count on population of almost thirty thousands. Nor did this include any hobbits within those borders. The little people were counted separately, and most census takers gave their total to the Shire, no matter what the borders of that land might be.
       Of course, not all these men were of Numenorean descent. Not even the new prosperity could invent thirty thousands of new people (just to take the numbers in the north) in four generations. There were some Dunlandings who had crossed the Greyflood and so been counted among those of Cardolan. And the other wild men of Eriador had likewise settled into the civilization of Arnor and added their blood to the rest. Even the men of the east, from beyond the mountains—the Beornings and the Bardings and the remainder of the Northmen—had come in fair numbers to share in the trade of the west. So it was not only in the south that mothers carried fair-haired children: the stock of Rohan had come from the northern vales of the Anduin, and many women of Arnor had been drawn to these tall men—these men who favoured so much the fair horsemasters of Anorien.

The Prince Kalamir had returned from the Council at Rhosgobel before winter had set in. He had been apprised of all the news from Imladris and Erebor before the new year. And on the third day of spring a daughter had been born to him. The Princess Culurien had been given the honour of naming the child. She had chosen to call the new princess Llaure, meaning 'golden,' for Culurien herself had golden hair and it was hoped that the babe's white-blond hair would remain that way as she grew older. Rosogod himself had hair of dark brown, which usually would trump the blond of his lady, in the colouration of the babe. But the child had been born very fair, and the mother insisted that Llaure she was and Llaure she would remain.
       It was now in the month of viresse, and the city was a-bustle with business, as well as with continued celebration of the birth of an heir. The celebration would likely continue all summer. Festivities were planned for loende (mid-summer), and many young maids and their mothers were already choosing the cloth for their dresses, though it was ten weeks yet.
       Balrogs and dragons were temporarily forgotten in the high mood that had prevailed in the past month. This is not to be wondered at, for no one then living could remember a time when danger was real and present, and the problems of the elves and the dwarves could be easily dismissed by those who nad never seen a representative of either people. The dwarves had left Fornost after construction was complete, and none had since been closer to the city than the Great East Road—not in a hundred years. So it should be no surprise—to those who know much of the ways of men—that the minds of the citizenry of Arnor could not take proper hold on the import of recent events. Their gaze was a short one, as the gaze of all folk is like to be in such a situation. The events at hand—no matter how small—took precedence over events afar—no matter how great. The arrival of a Vala himself was a thing of short memory—until the Vala should come within sight, or otherwise begin to affect the day directly.
       But not all in the city had been lost wholly in revelry, or in forgetfulness. The Prince himself had acted quickly and decisively in bringing the guard of Arnor up to strength. The borders had been put on alert. Amon Sul was now bristling with soldiery and weapons. The Ettenmoors were patrolled by large parties on horse. The North Downs were dotted with garrisons, heavily fortified. And Fornost itself was prepared for immediate war: the population had swelled by a thousand mounted guards sent from Gondor, as a shield to the Reunited Kingdom in the north; Rohan had likewise sent an eored to the aid of the North Kingdom; even the Shire had lent a number of archers to the city. And a great supply of food and other provision had been stored in cellars all over the city, lest an army of orcs or other unknown evil creatures should come upon them, overwhelming all outlying forces.
       The Prince had been very forward in seeing these things done. But even more to thank for all the preparations of war was Halfdan, the Prince's Viceroy. Arnor did not have a Steward, like Minas Mallor. The line to the throne of Arnor was already a rather complicated thing within the royal family, and when the rule of Arnor was re-esablished by Elessar, he decided against another legal position of authority. The eldest son of the King of Gondor was to be ruler of Arnor. When this son became King himself, either his son (if this son were of age) or his younger brother would become ruler of Arnor. The brother would rule as a Regent until the coming of age of the son. Now Elessar knew, from his readings of Numenorean history, that this might be a rather ticklish transference of power. It had happened that the brother, once enthroned, had refused to transfer the sceptre when the time came, and a civil war had ensued. Elessar therefore felt it best not to add another potential conspirator to the governance of the north. Faramir had not presented any difficulties when Aragorn had returned to Minas Tirith. But he might have done so, all the same. No, if there were to be any claims upon the rule of Arnor, Elessar wanted them to come from his descendants, rightly or wrongly.
       So Halfdan had no legal authority. He had no position or title. Viceroy was a nominal title, not a legal one.* Despite this, however, he was known to be the most powerful man in Arnor. He came from the line of a Ranger, and his blood was very near that of the royal house. Some in court whispered that one of his grandfathers must have taken an elf maiden to wife; or that, by some accident of nature, the elven blood of Elros—that he got from his mother Elwing—somehow ran stronger in Halfdan than could be accounted for by the charts. For he was passing tall and dark of feature, with long black hair that flowed over his shoulders like a mane. It was so black it shone blue in the out of doors, like the feathers of a raven. And Halfdan also liked to walk abroad dressed only in black. Some of the women and children shunned him, as if he were a sorcerer or a demon. But other women followed him, for they could see that his eye shone with no evil thought. And he was very handsome.
       The Prince had led the city well, as I have said; that is until his daughter was born. At which time he also fell under the spell of merriment that had so enrapt the court and the people of Fornost. Once the orders had been given for fortification and provision, Rosogod left the council chambers and retired to the nurseries and bedrooms and feasting halls. And as the months passed and no more news came from the east, Rosogod neglected his councillors and his captains. He left his father's messages from Gondor unanswered, or replied with trifles. The only time he left off lifting glass to his own good fortune, or strolling with his wife to the cheers of the crowds, or dandling his tiny maidchild—cooing and burbling in her longclothes—was to climb alone to his personal chambers at the top of the Citadel—where Halfdan imagined he must be waving still to his distant admirers below.

*I have employed the word 'viceroy' here, as the nearest translation. There is no English equivalent for the position Halfdan held at court. 'Chief Advisor' does not imply the importance of the position; nor does 'Chamberlain,' since Halfdan's authority often went well beyond court. 'Chancellor,' in the old sense, is perhaps more to the point; but I have preferred 'Viceroy' here, because it implies the Regency position Halfdan held while Rosogod was a boy and his uncle all but incompetent. Halfdan no longer acted a Regent, but due to circumstance, his authority in Arnor was still near to that of the Prince himself.

On this day Rosogod sat in the courtyard with Culurien and Llaure and their various nurses and ladies. The sun was shining brightly and the tree was lined with colourful (and rather noisy) birds and little white fluffy clouds drifted slowly overhead, as if to peek down upon the fortunate lodgers below in their little square of perfection. The clouds seemed to loll together and nudge one another, as if to say, 'It might not be so dreadful to be born a manchild, if one could be assured of being dropped into that crib!'
       But clouds are not always so perceptive as one would think; and though the scene below was certainly picturesque, and lacked nothing to a distant eye, in the close-up it was no more or less eventful, or cheerful, than any other. The shepherd and his bonneted wife, sitting over their babe in the byre, were likely more contented, and more deserving of the clouds' envy, than the Prince and his small family.
       For the young family was troubled, although the Princess was as ignorant of the source of this trouble as the babe in its white wrappings. At times the young wife would look at her husband sitting across from her in the bright sunshine, and her pretty brows would knit and the corners of her mouth would pull back almost imperceptibly. For she saw in Rosogod's face a looming threat, like a dark cloud—the shadow of a trouble that only a woman could see in her man's face. When Rosogod would return her gaze, Culurien would feign to smile, and then look back down at the child, to hide her concern. For she as yet had nothing to ask of her husband—no clue to lead her in questioning his state of affairs. Rosogod took ill any meddling of his wife in the ruling of Arnor, and she was so young that she had no inkling of the normal sources of a woman's power, and how to manage them. In their relations, which had begun less than two years past, when the girl was but fourteen, Culurien had only advanced to the point of gaining some power in private chambers—hence her small victory in being given the right to name the maidchild. But here in court she was still as quiet and naive as a girl of eight. She would be as little likely to demand an explanation for Rosogod's moodiness as the flag on the highest tower was likely to demand an explanation for the direction the wind chose to blow.
       It is true, she was not always so quiet, being given to occasional outbursts of temper or caprice, but these too were childish; and her passion was never yet directed at steering either herself or her husband in any direction whatsoever. It might have been better had she been more inquisitive or meddling—she might have prevented the waywardness that was to come. But such was the state of all Middle Earth at that time—not only in Fornost, but in almost every hamlet and and township of men from east to west. Each was led by a young hand, even when it might come from old blood. And all the ancient houses were untutored, for they had grown up in ease and carelessness. The War against Sauron having been won, the history of war was deemed to be at an end, and history itself was left to loremasters and other dusty personages. And in each house, the wives were as untutored as the men: the major pursuit being leisure, child rearing was left to nurses just as business was left to administrators. The entire kingdom teetered upon the shoulders of underlings; and were it not for the continuing goodwill of these folk, Arnor would have long since begun to disintegrate, even before the threat of Morgoth.

At that moment, Halfdan entered the court. Without bowing to the Princess, he addressed Rosogod directly.
       'Lord, we have news from the Ettenmoors. A rider just arrived, bearing a message from Captain Roland. A company of men has been routed by orcs coming from the mountains. It is said they were led by a wraith. None could withstand the onslaught, although our numbers in the area were not small. Our losses are believed to be low, but we have been forced to retreat into Rhudaur for the time. . . .'
       'Halfdan, is it now the custom of Arnor to speak of battle in the open, in front of maids and nurses? And to enter court without recognizing your Princess?'
       Halfdan stopped and stared at Rosogod for a moment, as if struck. His face tightened, as if in a struggle with himself, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he seemed to regain his composure, and he looked over at Culurien. 'Pardon my manners, Lady. I hope you are well. And the child.' He bowed. The Princess returned his obesiances, and he continued to the Prince. 'Lord, forgive my hurry, but I have already called your captains. We will meet as soon as it is your pleasure. I await your orders.'
       This last sentence seemed to be the most difficult for Halfdan, and he almost visibly flinched as it passed his lips. Not because he suffered from any insubordination, but because he feared that Rosogod's orders were unlikely to affect an immediate council, a council Halfdan deemed absolutely necessary. To Halfdan's mind, this latest debacle need never have happened. If the Prince had authorized the outlay of men and resources requested by Halfdan in the past months, no force of orcs could have withstood the onslaught of Arnor upon Gundabad, unless Morgoth himself had taken refuge there. Halfdan had counselled an all-out offensive upon Mt. Gundabad, believing it to be but an outpost of the New Enemy. If Gundabad should be taken, then all remaining energy might be directed at defending against Morgoth himself. Morgoth's lair had not yet been discovered, but the dwarves were scouring the northern wastes in search of it.
       The dwarves had sent to Fornost to ask for an alliance against Mt. Gundabad, believing it best to strike before the evil that was there had time to multiply. But Rosogod had refused this immediate alliance, believing the true enemy to be elsewhere, and yet unready for war. He had not even informed his father the King of all his sources of information and counsel, simply stating that his spies and counsellors in the north had advised against the attack. But this was not true. Rosogod had taken counsel from no one, including Halfdan, and rarely attended the meetings called by his captains. He had become accustomed, from about the time his child's birth, to making all the decisions of state alone, and without discussion of any kind. Halfdan took this as preoccupation and folly, but it was more than that. Something much more sinister was behind Rosogod's seeming arbitrariness and nonchalance.
       Halfdan left the company of his Prince and Princess and made his way sternly through the court, looking to neither side, but thinking to himself that something must be done. He was considering writing to King Elemmir directly, although this was a breach of protocol. It would certainly jeopardize his position with Rosogod when it was found out, as it surely must be—that Halfdan had been attempting to go over his head. But he could think of nothing else to do.
       At that very moment he met the Lord Ansur, the uncle of Rosogod and brother to the King. He would have passed him by, but Ansur had somewhat to ask of Halfdan and the conversation could not be avoided. At any other time, Halfdan would have put Ansur off with short replies, finding him to be a superfluous personage, and dissipated. But as he spoke with the man, he began to see that a conversation might be in his interest at the moment, and he formed his questions even as he replied cursorily to those of Ansur. This was the way of Halfdan. His relationships with most of those at court were based solely on efficiency, and he put up with no more than was necessary to avoid open hostilities. Only with regard to the Prince did his manner exceed this rule. Quite against his nature, Halfdan attempted to remain on good terms with Rosogod by feigning interest in him personally. He had no great regard for the Prince; nor was he being obsequious. But he deemed it necessary to the workings of the authority of the court—and therefore to the good of Arnor—that he do more than simply tolerate his Prince. Besides, the Prince, although not of the mettle of Halfdan, was yet keen enough to know when he was being patronized; and the mental strain between the two men, even despite all the efforts of Halfdan to feign friendship, was always a source of concern to those around them.
       It must be said that Rosogod, on his side, understood too well the attitude of Halfdan. And he both respected him and hated him for it. Halfdan's abilities made him a necessary part of court, but had Rosogod not been at heart a fair man, he would have rid himself long ago of the airs of this Ranger. At times it was all but insufferable to him to have about him a man who was naturally superior to him, and knew it. It seemed a mad trick of fate, that a Prince of Numenorean blood should be scorned (even secretly) by one of his own kin. But such was the fickleness of geneology; nor was it the first time, in the house of Elros or out of it, that a greater man had been ruled by a lesser.
       As if to confirm this beyond a doubt, Ansur, another Numenorean Prince, tugged heavily upon the sleeve of Halfdan and breathed upon him another question, heavily scented with ale.
       'Halfdan, my boy, what do you think, eh? Should I or shouldn't I? I think a buckle on the shoe is perfect for a midsummer's eve. The candles will shine on it so prettily you know, and sparkle, ha, ha. But some have said that buckles are not to be thought of this year, and that I am old-fashioned. Me, old-fashioned? Can you imagine?"
       'Old-fashioned? No,' replied Halfdan, hardly listening.
       'That's just what I said myself! Old-fashioned? Why, I have been the best dressed man at court for forty years together, have I not? Who will deny it? I think if anyone knows when to wear a buckle it is I. I will not be trumped by someone's tailor, someone's hairdresser! Who are these people? I snap my fingers at them. Bah! Nonsense!'
       'Yes, you are right, Ansur, as always,' said Halfdan, losing patience. 'But look here, your nephew, have you noticed anything different about him? Has the Prince seemed distracted to you since the birth of the child?'
       'Distracted? I should say so. Who would not be distracted with all this hubbub about the midsummer ball? Who could even think his own thoughts with everyone telling everyone else what to wear, how many inches a collar should be, how much a sleeve should blouse, how many lace holes belong in a man's shirt. Is it all to be taken with equanimity? Out with you, sir! It can't be done!'
       Halfdan stared at Ansur for several moments, his eyes afire. Then he looked down at the bottle in his hand. Without another word he turned upon his heels and strode proudly from the room. Ansur just watched him and nodded.
       'That's right, boy!' he said to himself, sneering at the retreating figure of Halfdan. 'There's no time to lose. You can't wear that coat to a ball. No one has worn black in fifteen years. You look a very ghoul. Go to! Go to, I say!'

Rosogod had remained in the yard with his family after the departure of Halfdan. The news from the north seemed to affect him but little, unless it were that he might have been seen to stare up at the Green Tower by and by, lost in thought. But this was not unusual. It had become one of the customs of Rosogod to stare upwards at the battlements when unoccupied, and no one any longer thought it strange. Culurien deemed it a trait of her husband, no more extraordinary than looking at ones fingernails whilst speaking, or smiling occasionally for no reason.
       After a short time, though, Rosogod arose and pardoned himself from the company of his wife and child. He told Culurien he must attend to the concerns of Halfdan and leave them for the time. Had Culurien been attentive, she might have noticed that Rosogod always excused himself like this after looking up at the Green Tower, and she might have wondered at this. But Culurien was not attentive to anything but her child in these months, as might be expected. And so Rosogod departed without explanations and without saying precisely where his errand took him. He went alone, without guard or attendant. And he made sure that he passed no counsellor or captain on his way to the top of the Green Tower.

For many minutes the Prince climbed the circular steps leading up to the top of the tower. His boots rung out dully against the paving stones, and the afternoon light slanted in dimly from the narrow fortified windows—just white slits, really, in the dark grey stone walls—catching the slowly falling dustmotes in its rays. At the top of the steps the Prince stopped and looked back down the staircase, listening. Then he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and selected a small silver one with an hexagonal barrel and capital in the shape of a eye. He turned the key in the lock and entered the room stealthily, though he had already made quite certain he was not seen.
       The door led into the cupola of the tower. Like the citadel in Minas Mallor, this room was ceilingless, and the roof pointed out some forty feet above the head of the Prince. There were trapdoors for various winged messengers, and grilled and shuttered windows north and south, topped by ogees and hung with dark drapery. This drapery the Prince pulled to before seating himself at a table centered in the precise middle of the round room. The only light remaining was the light that filtered down through small cracks in the stonework far above. It was just enough, in the bright afternoon, to keep the room from being pitch black.
       The Prince leant forward and put his hands on the cold smooth surface of the blackish stone that sat in the midst of the table. Immediately the stone glittered through his fingers and glowed a dull grey. The Prince gripped the stone tighter, and forrowed his brow, making the initial effort necessary to shroud the stone from the eyes that he could see looking up from the south. These eyes seemed to peer at him questioningly, saying, 'Are you there, son? Are you there?' But the Prince ignored these eyes and made no answer. He had learned over the past few months to block these eyes, to make these eyes believe that No One was there. This had been his first success with the stone. Only once this had been achieved, was he able to then turn the stone to other directions.
       This day the Prince turned the stone to the north and east, a direction to which it had become accustomed. It made the trip easily, like a lodestone seeking truenorth. It was the Prince's belief that his power to turn the stone accounted wholly for this ease, but the stone reacted to other forces than his own, though he knew it not. The first sight that the Prince was vouchsafed that afternoon was of Mt Gundabad. He saw his own men led up the winding road into the fortress, driven by foul creatures. But the vision then changed, and he saw orc bodies innumerable scattered on the plains of Rhudaur, picked at by carrion birds and wolves. It seemed to him that the dead orcs far surpassed the short line of prisoners filing into Gundabad.
       At first this cheered Rosogod somewhat, but it was not the information he had come for, and he began to feel that the stone was not in his complete control. For the first time, he seemed to notice a secondary movement of the stone's will; and once he noticed it, he began resisting it. He willed the stone to look beyond Gundabad. He wanted to see what was behind it, in the distance, behind something—what was it?—a mountain, a wall, a cloud? The stone began to penetrate the cloud, figures began to come into view. And then just as quickly the figures faded. New figures appeared—dwarves marching, talking of dragons.
       Again, Rosogod wrenched the stone back to his full control and pushed it beyond the dwarves. Again the cloud, again the wall. And then, for a moment, fire! Rosogod pushed hard toward and through the fire, and for a moment he thought he saw a horrible figure. . . a great bat wheeling, or a black dragon descending. He followed the dragon, chasing it down toward a mountain of ash and fire. The dragon became larger. He was near upon it. Soon it would alight and he would see where it had gone. A great presence awaited them both!
       The father was waiting. The father was waiting. The stone seemed to pull him in, as if he were caught in a strong current. But he did not want the father, now. No! He did not want to follow the dragon longer. He wished to block the eyes of the father. I am not here. I am not here. The stone is not being used, father! But the father knew better now. He knew the son. He saw the son. He would have the son in his claw and crush him. The punishment was just. The punishment was just. The punishment!
       Rosogod cried out and fell to the floor. The stone rolled from the table, fell heavily to the stones and crashed against the door.
       A few moments later attendants arrived from below, having heard the sounds. They tried the door but found it locked from within. After several unsuccessful tries at forcing it, Halfdan arrived to give aid. He ordered the hinges removed, and the palantir was pushed aside as the door finally gave way. Within the dark chamber, the Prince lay as if dead upon the stones. His eyes were open, and filled with a fell light. His mouth formed a ghastly shape. Halfdan dropped to his side, putting a polished dagger hilt to his Prince's lips. A condensation formed there, from the Prince's shallow breathing, and Halfdan knew that he yet lived.


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Chapter 6
Feognost and Finewort

It was only a few minutes after first bell, and the guard had just changed on the battlements of Meduseld. The sun was rising like a fiery ball over the grasslands of the East Emnet, and the guards, shielding their eyes, could see it flickering merrily and red from the waters of the distant Entwash. Between here and there, the Snowbourn snaked to and fro across the meadows, til it joined the larger river. Along the banks of the Snowbourn, and all across the endless fields, they could also see the horses of Rohan, already frisking in the morning dew, and giving chase to the wind. But one guard happened to have his attention drawn to the right, toward the Folde and the Great West Road arriving from the Fenmarch. There upon the road, not half a league on, the red beams were bouncing from objects neither watery nor grassy nor equine. Two riders, strangely attired, with tall hats or helms, were advancing slowly up the road. They were unescorted by soldiery of Rohan, and the guard called out to one of his fellows.
       'Hail, Tidwald! Do you see aught of strange shape yonder on the Road, or have my eyes been blinded by the sun, seeing but phantom specks?'
       'Nay, Odel, I see them fairly. Pointed hoods and bright-coloured cloaks they seem to have. Tis not soldiery of Gondor, or my eyes do deceive me. I think we must blow the horn, though they are only two. Is it not rule that any stranger unannounced draws the first warning. I will blow.'
       'Aye, Tidwald, blow thou away, and brightly!'

So it was that the wizards were met beyond the gates of Edoras by a mounted Eored, and ordered to halt.
       'Thou art in the realm of Feognost, King of the Mark, and do trespass most grievously 'pon his road! Thou art unknown to us and have no prior leave to pass. State thy purpose quickly or begone!'
       Ivulaine rode forward proudly a length or two and then stopped in front of the foremost guard. 'I understand your speech, my dear, but I do not understand why you do not use the common tongue if you expect an answer. Surely few who use this road to pass from east to west can speak the tongue of the Riddermark.'
       'This road is used only by the Eorlingas and friends of the Mark. The friends of the Mark know its tongue, and ask leave to the use the road before using it, Lady.'
       'I believe it not, soldier of the Mark.' At this, a murmur began in the ranks of the guard, and one or two regripped their spears.
       'Be at ease, my dears,' smiled Ivulaine. 'We are no threat to the Mark, nor her horses or kine. But if one must ride here to find permission to pass, and yet find permission to pass before riding here, I fail to see how the road is ever used. We do beg permission to ride on—most graciously and with all the proper respects to your king. But I fail to see how we could have begged this boon without first riding here to beg it.'
       'You make a mockery of our forms, Lady, and I have no way to answer you but to put you under arrest.'
       'It is all the same, gentlemen,' smiled Gervain, from behind. 'We meant to be taken to your king one way or the other. If it pleases your "forms" to take us to him under a pretense of force, that is the prerogative of your forms. Arrest us promptly and let us proceed. I look forward to breakfast.'*
       The guards looked dumbfoundedly from one to the other, then slowly surrounded the wizards and ordered them on.

*The wizards might have mentioned that they were emissaries of the King of Gondor. That they did not indicates that they were toying with the guard of Rohan.

The horsemen with their two willing captives clopped noisily up the stone streets, back up past the battlements of Meduseld and to the hall itself. Gervain and Ivulaine saw the way open in front of them into a well-groomed courtyard, centered by a great horsehead fountain of grey and red stone. To the left of this fountain was the King's Hall, Meduseld, a low, golden-roofed palace of relatively modest proportion. The climbing sun was reflecting brightly from the golden shingles, redding the colour, and making all that neighboured the hall warm with red-golden light.
       But the guard did not stop at Meduseld, being informed by the doorkeep that the King was with Eosden and several other captains, falconing in the lower foothillls beyond Edoras. So the troop proceeded through town and beyond, exiting through the far gates into upland pasturage and rock encircled grassland. A fair stream ran down from the mountains to meet the Snowbourn, and this they followed, climbing gently upward all the while. In front of them the Starkhorn raised his massive shoulders, and this fertile valley ran long and narrow to his very feet. To their left the road to Dunharrow could be seen hugging the eastern hills before it climbed swiftly into the mountains, but the company had left the road in favor of the greenest part of the valley. After maybe an hour, they approached rockier terrain, and the lead guard blew one short blast on his horn. It was answered by another horn from above and to the right, beyond the rocks. Upon passing these rocks, the company saw a group ahead, near a falls and a wood. The water roared loudly down the short canyon, and the air was full of mist, catching the morning rays and softening them into a beautiful yellow light amongst the branches.
       The lead guard, who had first spoken to the wizards on the road, now rode ahead to talk to the King's party. The two wizards could see the King and his men studying them from above. After a time they were motioned to advance, which they did, still mounted. As soon as they arrived the King spoke to them directly.
       'Hail, friends!' he said in the common tongue. 'Know you aught of falcons and other birds of prey? We seem to have lost a little merlin in these woods.'
       'Have you tried moving away from the falls, my Lord?' cried Gervain over the noise of the falls. 'It may be that your calls are being drowned out by the sound of the water.' The wizard suddenly spurred his horse beyond the rocks, and at first the alarmed guard made as if to follow. But the King raised his hand and bid them wait. In a moment the company heard a piercing whistle, and minutes later Gervain reappeared with the merlin on his sleeve.
       'You see, Lord, he was only out of earshot. Resting in the quieter branches.' Gervain returned the falcon to the King's gauntlet, and the King indicated that the group should move away from the falls so that they might speak without shouting over the noise of the falling waters.
       At a short distance, the King pulled up his horse and turned again to the wizards. 'Hail once again I say, and thank you for your help with my merlin. He can be a shy little devil at times. We have as much trouble catching him as we do the doves. More, I warrant. We should train the doves to find the falcons—'twould be more to the point I sometimes think. But leave that—doesn't interest you, and why should it? You obviously have important business, and here I am rattling on about doves and who knows what else. I do like to come down to these falls, though, as you see. The Maiden Falls we call them. No maidens here now, as you'll notice, and more's the pity. But if it were warmer, this is the place for them.'
       The King was in the middle of his men, still mounted, talking loudly and merrily, waving his great arms, enjoying the spring day and the sunshine. He was obviously in high spirits, and the wizards made no move to interrupt. But the two looked about them as he spoke, taking in the mood of the rest of the group, and the stories that their faces told. Most were guards—paying little attention to their king's words, only looking about them, studying the sky and the nearby foothills. Perhaps thinking it would be nice to be off-duty on such a day, enjoying the new warmth with a lissome maiden—perhaps bathing in the stream or just walking among the trees. One or two of the men seemed to be captains—indicated by their livery and even more by their sterner countenances. They were more circumspect than the younger guards; their visages under a finer control. They did not so easily betray their thoughts. And yet the wizards could read somewhat of their minds even so. Impatience flickered there, even mild irritation. And these directed at the still talking King. Directed at the wizards was mistrust, fear, and a prejudice against all things foreign.
       Only one of the King's hunting companions showed no fear or mistrust. This was Eosden, his son. He had met the wizards at Rhosgobel and so knew of their histories and characters. But of all the companions his irritation was clearly greatest. He visibly fidgeted at his father's side, casting embarassed glances at the wizards. Then he would sit up very straight in the saddle, as if about to break in upon the monologue, to turn it to a more efficient path. But then, after finding no opportunity to speak, he would fidget once again, and look away angrily.
       'Yes, Maiden Falls it is, and a name I have always found to be picturesque to the highest degree,' continued the King. 'It was named by Baldor himself, long ago. As a boy I had imagined he had caught some maidens bathing here, and it had stuck in his mind, as it well might. And that how it had come to be named, don't you see. But there is a story behind it, after all—a story better by far than my boyhood imaginings. Baldor had met a maiden here, it is true, though we are not told she was bathing. Perhaps that part has been lost being told by the older women, you know. (At this point, the King almost winked at the two wizards, but, seeming to notice at the last moment that one was an 'old woman', he stopped, almost mid-wink, as it were, and continued his story in somewhat of a fluster.) No, anyhow, you know, he met a maiden here, whose name was Widena, it was. And they made their troth here, it is told. And during all that summer did Baldor meet Widena at this place, and he came to call it the Maiden Falls. After that, others came to this place also, to make their promises to eachother.
       'But Baldor went away come autumn, to search the Paths of the Dead. He thought to find a gift worthy of his bride-to-be in the treasures there, and to offer her the center piece of that great trove. A diamond as large as a man's fist, it was said. But Baldor never returned. And Widena threw herself down the falls in the dead of winter, when the water was all but frozen, for she could not live longer with her grief. It is said that if you sit on the edge of the falls, near to the bottom where the water crashes, on the shortest day of winter, you can still hear her crying. I have not done so, for it would break my heart to do it. . . .' He paused for a time, but Eosden could not interrupt at a moment such as that. Then the old King continued, 'But I do like to come here when the weather is fair, for then I can remember the beauty of the story, and not think too deeply of the crying, you see.'
       At this, Eosden finally spoke. 'Father, we should return to Meduseld. Perhaps the wizards are tired from their journey. And it is near to the dinner hour. See, how the sun rides high? Tida will be looking for us. You can tell more stories at table, where we will all be more at ease to hear them.' Eosden looked over at the wizards again, and they could now see that though he was impatient and high-blooded, yet he was not without care for his father and king.

The company returned to the Golden Hall and prepared for the midday meal. A great table, hewn from ash and wondrously carven, was at the center of the dining hall. It was surrounded by heavy ash chairs, all low-backed save those of the King and Queen. The walls of the hall were decorated with tapestries and banners, all of an equestian theme. The most prominent hung at the east end of the hall: Eorl the Young astride Felarof the Fleet. The great man's flowing yellow hair streamed out behind, and his lips were pressed to a blowing horn. Felorof glowed whitely in the midday sun, and a viewer almost imagined he could smell the sweat of the straining steed—until it was remembered that the smell more likely wafted in the open windows, from living horseflesh stabled all about the hall.
       The wizards took their seats at the right hand of the King. The table was already laden with meats and cheeses, fresh loaves and clear mead. There were also some early season berries, and clotted cream. It was a simple feast, but unlikely to generate complaint.
       The repast began with little ceremony, and less conversation: There would be time for talk once the table was clear. For now, the only sound was the scraping of plate and draining of cup. But sooner than you might think, the plates and cups were emptied, and the wizards began to hope they might finally be asked their business.
       Oddly enough, they were first addressed by the Queen. When Eosden had mentioned a 'Tida', the wizards had assumed he meant a sister or a servant. But Tida was his mother and Queen, whom he addressed familiarly as was the custom of the Rohirrim. His father he always addressed as 'Lord' or 'Father', but his mother was 'Tida'. This custom held down to the lowest ranks, where cottage children commonly addressed their fathers as 'Sir', but their mothers by first name (or by 'Dal'—the local word for 'Mum'). This was seen not as a sign of disrespect, but of affection.
       The Queen Tida had been eyeing the wizards throughout the meal. Her face was full of mistrust and suspicion. Her withering glance fell even more heavily upon Ivulaine than Gervain, though it was not clear at first why this was. The Queen chewed her food loudly and aggressively, and drank from her cup with much show of swallowing, as if to dare the wizards to take acception to her manners or her expressions. She was passing wrinkled and wizened, browned by the suns of many summers and shrunken by the chills of many winters. She looked older than her husband next to her, aye, older even than the wizards themselves. Her teeth were yet strong and white, and her hair full and long, though grey. And she was unstooped. But her forehead had been wrecked by the constant frown she wore, and her mouth had fallen far at the corners, more than could be accounted for by the burden of the years.
       'I did not know that witchcraft had become a distinction, in the world at large,' she said aloud, looking to Ivulaine. 'Has it really come to that?' This last to the whole table.
       'There are no 'witches' present, Lady,' answered Ivulaine calmly.
       'Oh, what do you call yourself? You traffic in magic, do you not?'
       'Some might call it that. But it is no different in kind than the magic of the elves. You need not alarm yourself, Queen Tida. If it offends you, we will do nothing that you might call 'magic' in your halls.'
       'Elves? I want no elves here either. We do not need elves. Who are the elves to us, to be held up as examples of virtue?'
       'I see I chose the wrong comparison. Pardon me. Once we do you some service, perhaps you will be less severe. We come only as friends and allies.'
       'Service? Yes, Saruman did us some such service, in his time. We need no service from witches and conjurors. We have done well enough without them, I think.'
       'No doubt you have. Still, Gandalf did you some service, in the time you speak of, did he not? Theoden, at least, thought so. As did Eomer.'
       'Yea, truly. The White Council cleans up a tithe of its own mess, and takes the whole credit. The Mark would have required no witching service were it not for the prior meddling of witches. We need no witches here, white, black or grey.'
       'Woman, hold your tongue!' interrupted the King. 'I am Feognost son of Deornost and you are Tida. Remember that. I may be old, but I am not a figurehead yet, to be bypassed in favor of your tonque's regency. These are our guests, and I say they will be treated as such.'
       Tida sat silently and worked her mouth. Her thin lips tightened and her eyebrows pressed together, but she answered nothing.
       'Pardon us, guests,' King Feognost said to Ivulaine and Gervain with a small smile. 'My queen's reservations are not my own. I grant you the service Gandalf did the Mark. But let us talk of other things. It is too fine a day to squabble about the past. Tell me, my friends, why do you ride through the Mark in the spring? The Eorlingas need no excuse to ride among the fragrant grasses and look up at the mountains, maybe, but unless you go to visit the dwarves in the caves, your road takes you nowhere. There is nothing beyond our western borders until you come to the southern reaches of Arnor. Tell me, do you travel to Arnor?'
       'No, Lord Feognost,' answered Gervain. 'We do not. Nor are we seeking conversation with the dwarves of Ozk-mun. There is one other destination you have not mentioned. We go to Isengard, at the behest of King Elemmir of Gondor. Ivulaine and I go to inspect, and perhaps to re-inhabit, Orthanc—to help guard the lower reaches of the Misty Mountains.'
       'That sorcerer's abode, haunted by magic trees, it is said, and walked by ghosts!' cried Tida. 'Save us!'
       'Calm yourself, Dal,' said Eosden, stroking his mother's arm. 'There are no ghosts there, as I told you. I have been there, remember? It is deserted. Naught but stone and mud. I do not understand these wizard's desire to live there, but if they will go, it can do no harm to Rohan.'
       'That is true, Prince Eosden,' said Ivulaine. 'It will not only not harm you, it will benefit you, though you see it not. King Elemmir will send a garrison of soldiers to follow us within the month, if Isenguard is re-opened. It will be rebuilt and fortified. Dwarves will come and long labour will remake the circle in its old form. Gervain and I will be but lodgers, sharing the Tower with the captains of Gondor. More than that, there will be trade with Rohan, if Rohan desires it. Gondor will purchase horses, no doubt, and other provision. Rohan will have protection from the north and west, without new treaty or obligation.'
       'Aye, Saruman might have said the same. And did, for all I know,' answered the Queen, with a scowl.
       'Tida. Please,' said Eosden. 'These wizards have served Middle Earth since the times before the Great War. Think of my report from Rhosgobel. You do not consider what you say. But for the wizards of blue and green, the Mark would have been washed away. They deserve honour, not harsh words and recriminations.'
       'The Mark would have been washed away, say you? By whose report? You only told us what these wizards told of themselves. Who can say what the truth of that is.'
       'The other elders at the council did not question this report. It is common knowledge, Tida.'
       'Common knowledge of other sorcerers and conjurers.'
       'Enough, Eosden!' cried the King. 'I will hear no more of this. Your mother may think what she likes, and to the depths that suit her. The wizards have informed me of their destination. I find it agreeable. No more needs to be said. Now (to the wizards), do you need further provision? Are your horses fresh? Is there aught else that the House of Eorl can do for you? I put the city at your service. And I will send an escort with you to Isengard.'
       'That is not necessary, Lord, unless you wish it. We will be untroubled. But if you desire to have your guard report back to you, they will be welcome to accompany us: to scour Isengard, and remap it, and discover its true situation. Isengard will be no secret from Rohan, nor will its gates ever be closed to you or your messengers or servants. King Elemmir bid me say this especially.'
       'Ah, then, all is well. I will send those I think proper to escort you and to make report afterward, as you say. You are welcome in Edoras until your departure. May we show you our city and our stables? You may know that our horse are the finest in Middle Earth. They are like our own children—we have grown together always, since the time of Eorl in the north, and the Great Felorof, Prince of Horses.' He gestured to the tapestries proudly. 'They have come with us here to the south and prospered as we have prospered.'
       'Yes, Lord, the tapestries are very fine,' commented Ivulaine. 'I have not seen lovelier outside the halls of the elves.'
       Tida winced at this remark, but Feognost answered, 'They were sewn in the time of Elfwine the Fair, the second king of the Third Line, nine generations ago. His mother Lothiriel designed them, and she and her ladies sewed them, in the years after the death of Eomer Eadig. She was the Queen Mother, you see, and had naught else to do in her dotage but decorate the halls of Meduseld. This she did, quite grandly. Lothiriel was the daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, where, 'tis said, the elvish blood is mixed with that of men—though the lineages are forgotten. So I should not be surprised to find some similarity between the fair creations of Lothiriel and those of the elves proper. Lothiriel, you see, had inky black hair, as none of the sons or daughters of Eorl in the first or second lines had. But the hair follows the blood, and we have in every generation several in the royal house who are morisseme—to use the elvish term. They are now the brothers and sisters of Dwimmerod and his line!'
       'Dwimmerod? And who may he be?' asked Gervain. 'It sounds unfit for a Prince of the Mark.'
       'Perhaps it is unfit,' answered Eosden with a smile. 'But for a beast of his colour and temper, 'tis passing fit. You see, he is the Prince of the Mearas. Never until now has the Lord of Horses been black. Lothiriel brought the colour to Edoras, and it passed into the fields at last.'
       'But you have had black horses before now, surely?' asked Ivulaine.
       'We have, but none such as Dwimmerod. Now, at times, our kings have black hair, as did Elfwine; and so now do the kings of the Mearas!'
       'I suppose if the kings of the Mark begin to have two heads, the horses of the Mearas would have two also, so that we might ride both forward and backward without turning around,' added Feognost, and all the table laughed—all but Tida. The King continued, 'Come, let us to the fields once more! 'Tis no afternoon to be hiding below timbers in front of a fire—not when the sun herself can warm our heads.'
       'Thank you, Lord Feognost,' answered Ivulaine, as he offered her his arm and they strode together down the flagstone steps of the Golden Hall, now almost blinding in its glory. Indeed, the guards on either side of the door, posted only a foot away from the reflecting goldleaf of the portico, seemed to be cooking in their armour, though neither made any sign of complaint in his face or his posture. 'It would please us very much to see how the Rohirrim live,' continued Ivulaine, paying no attention to the guards. 'Gervain lived long among the Woedhun, in the distant east, beyond those you call the "Easterners". I believe the Woedhun were also people of the plains, and bred fine horses, although Gervain himself can tell more of it than I. And I was with the Moserai, beyond Harad—a dark skinned people who cared for their camels as you care for your horses. Often, the camels would take shelter from the sun under the tents of the Moserai, and man and beast would sleep together.'
       'Camels?' interrupted Eosden, as he and the King led the wizards from the hall. 'What sort of beast is this? I have not heard tell of the camel. I remember something of a great Mumak, as large as a house. Surely this is not the same beast that sleeps in the house?'
       'No, Prince. No Mumak could enter a house, or even the Golden Hall. The camel is a much smaller beast, little taller than a horse. It has a golden coat, and a long neck, and it may go without water for long periods. It is not as fast as your horses, but it is a very reliable friend, especially in the desert.'
       'A horse that needs little water is no great improvement,' replied Eosden. 'Water is always at hand. Rather give me a horse that needs no stable-mucking. That we could use in the Mark!'
       The party laughed, but Ivulaine continued, 'That would be a blessing indeed, for the camel herder as well, I warrant. But in the south, the water is scarce, and the camel is a dear beast indeed. Without him, travel would be wellnigh impossible, in many regions and at many times of the year.'

The group passed by a long line of stabled horses, all of them mares or fillies. The King talked the while, pointing out the peculiarities of each beast: the individual markings that set off each one, and the conformation that showed them all to be the finest of the line of the Mearas, the lords of horses.
       Beyond the stables was a high-fenced pen, perhaps a furlong square. In it ran a single horse. A stallion tall and lean and coal-black, glistening to a blue reflection in the afternoon sun. His mane and tail were silky and untrimmed, the latter flowing almost to the ground. About his hooves the hair was likewise long, like to a plowhorse of the north. But the similarity to a plowhorse ended there. For he moved with subtle grace, his long legs beating the springy grass with barely a thud. His back hung on a level as he ran, and it seemed to those who watched that he might be ridden with nary a jostle. And this was true, provided he agreed to carry you, and did not throw you to the ground in his pride and contempt. Eosden clicked his tongue, and the stallion galloped to the gate, blowing and snorting.
       'This is Dwimmerod, "Swift Illusion" in your tongue,' he said to the wizards, stroking the beast's chin. 'For at night he dissappears like a dream, and runs the West Emnet unseen by waking eyes. It is said by some that he becomes at such times wholly invisible, and leaves our world to return to a land ruled by horses, only to reappear at dawn. Whether this be true, I cannot say; but on moonless nights he may not be found, even by myself or the King, though he is in this very pen at dusk, and the gate under constant watch.
       Gervain admired the great horse, patting his flanks; and Eosden continued, smiling and gesturing with his arms back toward the stables, 'Dwimmerod is the chief of the Mearas and all these mares are his. Though at most times they run freely, in the early spring we bring them in to breed. This has two advantages, as you may know, Gervain, from living with horse-breeders. It prevents the top stallions from being wounded, since in the field there are a few who would try to fight Dwimmerod, foolish as it may seem to us. Their blood is up in the spring, and stallions do not measure the cost well at such times. Also, having Dwimmerod here frees up the other mares in the field for the lesser stallions. Were Dwimmerod at large he might take the entire fold for his own, and the number of foals would lessen. Even Dwimmerod cannot sire all the horses of the Mark, try as he may!'
       The great stallion seemed to understand the speech of Eosden, for he rose up and beat the air with his hooves, neighing until the wizards must put their hands to their ears. Then he galloped off, making a circle about the enclosure, blowing all the while in his pride. The group could hear the mares in the stables answer Dwimmerod: they whinneyed and kicked the wooden stalls in their excitement.

At supper the wizards met Vortigern, Second Marshall of the Riddermark. He would accompany them to Isengard on the morrow with an escort of five other riders. Vortigern had red hair—cut straight to the shoulders—and the colour of iron-rust or evergreen pollen or wet clay dug straight from the earth. He also had a short pointed beard in colour a bit darker, and eyebrows darker still. His eye was sharp, and he looked at the wizards silently over his meal, without expression. When addressed he answered in few words, saying only 'yay,' or 'nay.' But he did not seem mistrustful of the wizards; nor did he seem to them to be a pawn of the Queen, for he never looked her way. Gervain assumed he was naturally taciturn, and thought no more of it. Ivulaine watched him closely, but she could not unlock his thought. She concluded that the King, trustful and direct, would not choose as the leader of the escort a man prone to discord or secrecy.
       Tida still sulked, but remained silent for the evening. Eosden was not at table.

In the morning the travellers breakfasted in the dark, with only a few taper candles to light them. They sat about the same large table, eating and making some last-minute conversation in preparation for their journey. Ivulaine served tea from her samovar; Gervain smoked, having no appetite in the early morning. Vortigern answered the questions of the wizards between bites of bread, though he was no more talkative than the previous evening. The King and Queen were yet asleep. Nor was Eosden with them, for he had not been in his chambers that night.
       The guard were already mounted in full arms, with spear and shield as well as sword. Provision was carried on two pack horses—beasts somewhat less grand, but still fit to shine in any stable outside of Rohan. The wizards left the table, Ivulaine carrying her samovar, and strode into the darkness of the still morning. Their boots fell lightly on the moist paving stones about the fountain, making little sound in the heavy air. A fog had come down from the mountains, and the hamlet was wrapped in mists. As their own horses were made ready, the wizards looked to the pen of Dwimmerod, to see if they could make out his great shape in the gloaming. But nothing could they discern in the pre-dawn shadow of the mountains. The pen was empty, for aught they could tell.
       Finally, as they approached the gate, a single horn sounded, and the King walked down the path in his chamber robes and his slippers. Still yawning, he wished them good speed on their journey, and bid Vortigern once more to make report as soon as may be on the state of the lands about Isengard. For the first time, Ivulaine noticed a bit of concern in the tone of the King; and it seemed that despite Eosden's words and his assurances to Tida, the old man still harboured a nameless fear of the wizard's vale and the ents that guarded it.
       'Lord,' answered Ivulaine, to allay his fears, 'All messages we send to Gondor we will also send to thee. Once the tower has been made hospitable again to visitors, we will invite you to travel to Isengard yourself, to meet the treemen and look upon the beautiful valley with your own eyes. Remember that Orthanc was not made by Saruman: its stones were not laid with sorcery, either for good or ill. It is a building of passing beauty, erected long ages ago by the men of Gondor. Any evil that came there was only a temporary occupant, unable to mar or transform its structure. Neither the wrath of the ents against Saruman could mark its outer stones, nor the evil purposes of that traitor could unpolish its inner chambers. The outside world has passed over it like wind; and inside, the webs of the spinning spiders who make their home in the rafters have worn deeper grooves than the feet of Saruman and Wormtongue and the orcs. All such traces may be swept away forever with a stiff broom!'
       With that the company rode away, even as the day dawned and the birds began to sing.

The journey to Isengard was uneventful, and will not be told here. The party did not stop at Ozk-mun, the wizards having no immediate business with the dwarves. As the latest tenants of the Ered Nimrais, the dwarves were suffered to abide there by both Gondor and Rohan, and their permission and goodwill was not necessary to the re-opening of Orthanc. The alliances would be made in the proper time, of course, but for now the wizards were anxious to come to what they considered their new home. Also, Vortigern and the riders of Rohan had no desire to stop at the Hornburg, much less the caves. They led the wizards off the road some leagues from Helm's Deep, choosing a little used track that led directly northwest across the fields, and making the journey some half-day shorter. The land was even here, and cut only by small, easily fordable streams between the road and the river Isen. This larger river they would cross close to its beginnings in the mountains above Nan Curunir. The only bridge over the Isen was further to the south, where it made a great turn to the west to join the Adorn before rushing into the sea. And at this distance from the mountains the bridge was necessary, for the river quickly gained strength from the smaller waters of the reaches of the West Emnet. But Vortigern knew that by hugging the foothills to the north, they might come to shallower crossings that required no bridge.
       On the seventh day from Edoras the riders reached the vale: wizards had returned once more to Nan Curunir. As they rounded a final shoulder of rock, their horses stepping gingerly over stony terrain and patches of loose bagshot, Gervain and Ivulaine looked up suddenly. Before them the mountains divided, their purple sides cut by falling water and clothed below by dark green trees, row upon row down to the ancient circle. Then their eyes fell upon the tumbled walls of Angrenost and the great tower rising within. It was like nothing they had ever seen in Middle Earth. Even the Citadel of Minas Mallor did not compare to it. Though it had nothing of magic in its foundation, it yet seemed to have been built by the Valar themselves. And indeed it was one of the finest creations of the Numenorians after the fall of Andor.
       It was said that Elendil himself had designed it and overseen its construction. It was wrought of a greatness of conception of hand and mind that no longer pertained in the world. It stood like an outcropping of the mountain itself, as if it had risen of its own mysterious accord. In colour it matched the faces of the surrounding cliffs, being quarried from their black stones. Only the very hardest granite had been selected, and this cut in a way to utilize the natural compression of the stone. The outer faces of the walls, that is, were made of slabs that had been turned from horizontal to vertical: the vertical face on the outside of the tower, that one could touch by hand, had been facing the center of the earth in the cliff wall of the quarry. It was therefore flattened by the forces pulling from below as well as the weight of the mountain above. Granite was of course incredibly resistant to hammering from any direction; but cut in this way, it was harder still in the direction of compression than at any other angle. Much harder than iron, in fact. Even mithril was not so hard.*

*The difference being that mithril was malleable where granite was not. Mithril could be forged into rings and swords. Granite, being non-metallic, was not malleable at all.

The Numenorians discovered that granite had only three material faults (as they had been warned by the dwarves). One, it was nearly impossible to cut from the mountain. They had worn out blade after blade, even ones made from tempered mithril. Two, it was too heavy to transport any distance. Four Mumukil had been bought from the Harad to assist in the building of Orthanc, but even so the process had taken many years. Three, the structure was brittle, provided that a great enough force could be borne against it. This last was proven at Amon Sul—the only other tower in Middle Earth made of granite in this way. Amon Sul was foolishly built atop a rather small hill. And it was of narrow proportions. Although four hundred feet tall, it was only ninety feet in diameter at the base. The structure consisted of a single spire, with eight facets. The Witchking was able to cause enough concussion to the hill and tower to bring it down.*

*Smaug and his brothers buffeted the midpoint of the tower while trolls launched great stones at the top of the hill. It is reported that orcs also set off firey explosions beneath it, causing tremors.

So Orthanc was the only granite tower still standing in Middle Earth. The Citadel in Minas Mallor was of marble, as was the elf tower at Mithlond. Beyond that, Orthanc had been built to far different plans from the tower at Amon Sul. Four spires there were, as was told in The Red Book, joined at center. What has not been told is that this joining was not simply a matter of convenience, linking the chambers of the towers to one another. Nor was it only a means of lifting the center platform seventy fathoms above the plain, where a man could stand and survey the Gap all the way to Ered Nimrais. No, it was an architectural reinforcement, to offset the structural brittleness of the granite. Each spire was more than eighty fathoms high and eighteen fathoms in diameter. But joined, the four towers had a combined base 40 fathoms from corner to corner—in the shape of a square, not a circle. Orthanc could therefore withstand the buffeting of another Ancalagon the Black, nay, forty Ancalagons. Nothing short of a second rising of the seas could threaten Orthanc, and it might be that it could withstand even that. Not until the mountains around it fell would Orthanc fall.
       It was upon this magnificence that the wizards and their companions gazed. Not even the crumbled walls and pitted circle, overgrown with thorn and creepers, not the still-clear signs of battle, not the ancient litter of the dam-breaking could dim the effect of the tower. Isengard was a place of majesty and mystery yet.
       The group advanced, passing beneath the fallen arch and past the rotting wood of what was formerly the gate. The day had been cloudy and darksome, but as they entered the circle a flash of lightning broke over the northern peaks, and thunder rolled down the valley to meet them, as if following the waters of the Isen. Almost at the same time a lower rumble was heard to their right, much more near at hand than the lightning flash, and their heads turned to see two yellow orbs reflecting the failing light of the canyon. These orbs were within what the party had taken to be a sentinel tree, standing by the lane, among the weeds. The rumble also came from there, and the men of Rohan started, and one of them lifted his spear. But Ivulaine rode forward, her hand lifted. She spoke strange words, long and slow, in a low voice; and in a moment the ent answered her, in like language. Then he turned to Gervaine and spoke to him also, as to an old friend, though the men of Rohan knew not what was said. The ents eyes twinkled and his limbs shook, as if a spring wind had blown through them. Finally, the ent turned to Vortigern.
       'And hal!, Eorlingas, welcome to Angrenost!' he said in Westron. 'It has been many years since you came here. Is that Eosden, or one like to him? The horsemen look the same to us, I fear to admit. Your horses are easier to recognize, with their different colours.'
       'Nay, I am Vortigern, Second Marshal of the Riddermark. Eosden is my Prince. His hair is not my colour, Sir Ent. That is the clue you look for.'
       'Yes. Very smart. Ha, hummm. Your hair is rhodisseme, as the elves would say. Ho, hmmmm. I should have noticed that, given time. We don't have hair, as you see. Our beards are "hair-like"—as some have said, maybe—but it is not hair, you know. No, sir. Not hair at all. Rabbits would be glad to eat it, they would, and rabbits don't eat hair. Ha, humm. No they don't. We have to keep our beards off the ground for fear of being munched. That's the way it is, ha-ha! But where was I? . . . Hair. Yes, we don't have hair, as I said; but most creatures do, for some reason. That is the way to tell them apart. That and size. Ah, ho. But I am forgetting, in all this talk, to say what needs to be said first. I should have started with introductions, to be proper. I am Finewort, in your language. Or I should say in the common tongue. I don't know Rohannish, or whatever you call it. Not likely to learn, either. Though I don't think I will apologize for it. You're not likely to learn Old Entish, are you? Hmmm, ho-ho! Not likely, even if you wanted to. Wouldn't have the patience for it. Hommba, hommmba, hoooo. Well, well, welcome again, all you men, rhodisseme and rhesseme, and lorisseme and baranisseme. Everything accounted for except morisseme. . . oh, and thisseme,' he added, looking to the grey-haired wizards. 'But I can recognise you two by your hats, mayen't I?—blue and green, proper colours I must say.'
       As he finished his long slow speech, chuckling to himself in rumbles, like a purring tiger, the rain began to fall, dotting the armour of the men and bouncing from the high hats of the wizards.
       Gervain took this opportunity to ask Finewort if they might retire indoors. 'You don't mind the wind and wet, I daresay, but we smaller creatures get tossed about a bit more than we like at such times. We have trouble keeping our colours, not to say our hair, about us. I suppose you have the key to the tower? May we take shelter there?'
       Finewort only chuckled again and said, 'Of course, of course, what am I doing? Forgetting myself again. Growing sleepy, without company in this old circle. Come with me. The west tower is for you—a fireplace and everything. Although you will excuse me if I don't join you. We ents don't have much use for fireplaces, you understand. Nasty things really. Baroomm, barum!'
       They rode up to the tower, following the long strides of the ent. Finewort was a youngish example of his kind, which could be told by the way he held his head and the way he carried his various limbs. Some have said elsewhere that ents have only two arms, like a man. But this is not true. They have two legs, assuredly, but the number of arms may vary—anywhere from two to eight*. And any number of twigs (that is, smaller, unmoving branches), growing from head or trunk, or even from arm or leg. Finewort had five moving arms, and three major twigs—one on his left shoulder, one on his right thigh, and one sprouting out of his 'head', like a very convenient hat-rack. Being a sort of copper-beech ent he had lovely smooth bark, which looked all the better under the cloudy, threatening skies now overhead. It being spring, his leaves were a dull red-brown, and these he had a-plenty. I have seen drawings of ents (by supposed experts) without a leaf on them—as if anyone could mistake an ent for a tree if he had no leaves. He might be mistaken for a stump, but never a tree. Did Finewort drop his leaves in the fall? He did. Did he have edible nuts? He did. Did these nuts grow into beech trees? They did not. Would these nuts be collected by entwives? They would, if entwives were around of the proper sort, and in the proper temper.
       Two of Vortigern's guards rode off in search of firewood (having been warned strongly by Ivulaine to gather only deadwood already on the ground). Meanwhile she went inside with the rest of the guard and began tidying up. The mess was awful. Some of Saruman's furniture was still at hand—pieces that he and Wormtongue hadn't been able to carry away, and that the ents had not found a use for. The tower had been under their watch continually for over three hundred years, so nothing had been pinched by orc or troll or man. All 'man-things' were just as they had been left after the war. Everything here at ground level had been soaked by the flooding of the valley: it had been tossed against the walls by the waves, then eaten by molds and fungus, or gnawed by rust, and finally worn away by cold and the ravages of time. The tables and chairs were unusable, when they were recognizable at all; but a few things were still servicable, at great need. The firedogs, for instance. And an old black kettle, no longer on the hob, but overturned in the fireplace, its lid washed across the room under a pile of refuse. As the men rummaged through the waste searching for a spoon, maybe, or something that might serve as a stool, they scared up a number of rats and mice, who scurried out the door or into dark inner chambers, unlit by the high windows.

*Fangorn himself only had two arms, indeed; so this may be the cause of the confusion.

Ivulaine had soon cleared out the fireplace and blasted out the flue, singing a few chimney swifts in the process. The guards returned with two armfuls of fairly dry faggots, and the party immediately had a merry fire going, turning the old musty room to orange, and throwing light on many a dark curtain and tapestry that had not been looked upon in centuries. Vortigern made a torch of one of the faggots and began exploring the other rooms, to see if anything else of use had survived the years.
       Gervain remained on the front steps, just out of the rain, talking to Finewort. The ent rested one of his great rooty feet on the first step. This step was cracked and worn, the largest crack being just beneath his longest toe. Had this ent toe been unfortunate enough to have rested itself there some three hundred years earlier it might have found itself crushed by the falling palantir, thrown by Wormtongue himself. But Finewort had not been at hand then (although he had taken part in the ent muster) and knew not of the import of that crack. Nor did Gervain, though he might have been mistaken for Gandalf returning to the scene of his parley with Saruman.

The irony of this scene was not lessened by the sudden arrival of another rider—this one in the livery of Minas Mallor, wet and muddy.
       'Hail! I am named Gwydion son of Lydion, messenger of King Elemmir of Gondor and the Reunited Kingdom,' he began, addressing the wizard but looking sidelong at Finewort in some obvious discomfort. 'I bring you this letter, if you are Gervain the Green, as I suppose from your attire. Also, the King bid me give you this.' Gwydion dismounted, untying a large leathern bag from his saddle and giving it over to the wizard.
       Gervain immediatlely opened it and peered inside. It was the palantir of Denethor, like in every way to the one that had made the crack that lay beneath the toe of Finewort.
       'You carried this alone, with no other guard?' Gervain asked in disbelief.
       'Yes, sir. The King bid me guard it with my life. But he did not apprise me of the contents of the bag. It is very heavy. I would have thought it only a worthless rock, but for the words of the King. Or is it some sample of shot from the slings of the enemy—a museum piece from the wars?'
       'Your guess is off the mark, my friend. It is no fodder of Sauron's, nor of the Haradrim. It is only a parting gift from your King to a pair of wandering wizards. A house-warming offering toward the re-opening of Isengard. A pretty bauble for the mantelpiece. We are here, you see, to prepare Orthanc to be occupied once again by Gondor. I suspect some of your fellow soldiers will be transferred here by the end of the year.' Gervain had much more to say on the matter, but he did not think this messenger the proper ear for his comments. He only offered him thanks, and bid him come in out of the rain.
       'Oh, no sir, I cannot linger,' answered Gwydion, looking again toward the ent uneasily, and quickly remounting his horse. 'I must report back to Minas Mallor immediately.'
       'Nonsense my good man. They will have a roaring fire going inside by now, I believe. And you won't have to chat with wizards and ents, never fear. There are six young men of Rohan inside who would be glad to trade stories with you. No need riding about in this rain. Eat something hot here, and rest. You wouldn't make it far before evening anyway. You can ride in the morning. The rain won't last. Will it, Finewort?'
       'Not if I know anything about it. Hrmm, hrmm. Best guess is it will stop sometime in the night. Never will amount to much, anyway. Hardly enough to water an enting in the bower.'
       Gwydion looked at the ent again, and then up at the sky. It was dark grey, and lightning still flashed on and off over the far peaks, although the thunder lagged well behind and faint. Finally he dismounted again and tied his horse with the others. But he gave the ent a wide berth as he made his way into the tower.

That evening the two wizards sat outside on the portico, Gervain smoking and Ivulaine having her tea. The little samovar steamed into the night air, sending a delicious aroma out into the valley to mingle with the crisp smell of mountains and the sap of the pines in the surrounding hills. Inside the men huddled round the fire, comparing life in Gondor and Rohan. The smell from their supper was also still wafting into the night air, further confusing the keen noses of the animals lurking outside the ring of stone. Finewort had retired for the evening, leaving the wizards to guard the valley. He had strode over to the western edge of Fangorn, to stand among the trees and share the dripping sound of the rain with his friends.
       'These western kings are quite mad, I begin to believe!' said Gervain, clicking his pipe between his teeth to underline the exclamation. 'Imagine, plopping a palantir into a bag and trusting it to a single rider, like a letter in the post. One would have thought that the attack upon Erebor, and upon Glorfindel, would have taught the world some caution. Does Telemorn think that Gondor is beyond the reach of the enemy? Does he imagine there is no possiblility of treachery, or accident, in his own realm?'
       'Yea, 'tis strange,' replied Ivulaine. 'Were it not that we had already agreed that we are in no position to tutor the King, having been in the west so short a time, I should say that this one deserves a good scolding. But how may we make complaint to one who has just delivered a great gift?'
       'We may not. We must reply with thanks and hold our tongues—for the time. But I begin to fear for these people, so naive and trusting are they. Was not Feognost equally naive? He seemed more a poet than a prince, caught up in his imagination. If battle should come upon these realms, how shall they fare? It makes me shudder. Perhaps we must rethink our counsels. It may be that we shall soon be forced to be more outspoken, and more forceful in our teaching. We seem to have arrived among children.'
       'They are heedless indeed.'
       'Aye, and what is more they have no foresight, living only for the day. Nor do they follow the old forms. Gwydion spoke to me most familiarly, all but asking me what was in the bag. I was so taken aback, I knew not how to answer. These young men know so little of manners, one is forced to lie to them. They know not when to be silent. I could not tell him what the palantir really was—we know the temptation of the stones. Remember the halfling Peregrin Took, and his scrape with the twin of this stone? I told Gwydion it was a decoration for the mantelpiece. I haven't told as many lies in my life as I have been forced to tell in the last month. It is absurd!'
       'A decoration for the mantelpiece! You might have disguised the matter better than that. Only someone who never lies could be so foolish in his stories. If they will act like children, treat them like children, Gervain. Make up some fabulous tale, the more outlandish the better. That is what children like. They will sooner believe something that is absolutely preposterous than something that is half a word from the truth. Then you will be guilty only of a nursery tale, rather than a lie. Is it a lie to tell a child who asks where babies come from that they drop from the clouds at night, when everyone is asleep? This is the story of the Moserai in the south, and they add that the belly of the mother gets big because the child falls into her lap from high—the mother must have a cushion to keep the child from harm. Is this lying to the little brown children, gathered around the fire? No, it is only to tell them a story they will believe, and can understand.'
       'What was I to do, then? Tell Gwydion that this weight in the bag was a great hailstone, dropped by a magic cloud?'
       'At least he would not then look for it on the mantelpiece. That is the beauty of the fabulous—it requires no proof. The mystery is its own explanation.'
       'Perhaps,' answered Gervain, relighting his pipe with a green spark from his staff. 'But all this storytelling is not to my liking. I prefer conversing with the elves, with whom one may be honest.'
       'Honest, say you?—as in letting them think that the Arkenstone is simply a large gem found by the dwarves at the heart of Erebor?'
       To this Gervain made no reply, only scraping a bit of mud from his boot.


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Chapter 7
Baldor's Door

Now when the wizards had left the gates of Edoras, they had been bidden farewell by none but the King Feognost in his nightclothes. That the Queen Tida should have failed to appear that morning came as no surprise. But the absence of Eosden was marked by both Gervain and Ivulaine. For (as they were told later by Vortigern) Eosden had not been in his chamber that night. Nor, if you will remember, had he been present at dinner the previous evening. The wizards found this strange, but having no other knowledge of the matter they had to assume that he had a previous engagement—one that outranked the visit of wizards. It was spring and Eosden was unmarried, so this leap to such a conclusion was not a leap of any great distance.
       But Eosden had not been at the Maiden Falls on any tryst that night, though the falls do play a part in the tale that follows. His father's story of Baldor, told to the wizards at their meeting near the Maiden Falls, had put into Eosden's head once more the information he had gained at the Council of Rhosgobel. That information being that the Paths of the Dead were now unguarded. In his report to his father of the minutes of the council, he had omitted this single fact, keeping it to himself. For it seemed likely to him that the treasure that Baldor sought was still within the caves of the mountain, somewhere along the Paths of the Dead. A treasure that might soon be his own.
       Eosden was not a greedy or a grasping man by nature. Like his distant ancestor Baldor before him, he was a proud man and a learned, high and puissant, by the standards of his people. He valued treasure no more, and likely much less, than horses or valour on the field or friendship or the honour of someday ruling Rohan. But great wealth, easily obtained—requiring neither battle nor work nor treachery—was not a thing to be dismissed from the mind. All argument being for and none (that he could see) being against, the treasure preyed on his mind until he could no longer bear it. He must venture the ride into the dark.
       The arrival of the wizards gave Eosden an opportunity. They would likely stay another three of four days, at the least, he thought. While they were being entertained, he would not be missed. In the course of a normal day at Edoras, the duties of the Prince were heavy. All eyes were on him, wherever he might go. But now, at last, the eyes of his people were turned toward these strange visitors in the tall hats, carrying the outlandish staves and turning the table of Tida upside-down, by some accounts.
       So Eosden took his horse in hand that evening after the others had retired from the stables. He mounted behind it a small two-wheeled cart or gig—one used at times to pull the children about in a sort of joyride. Into this gig he threw a number of torches and a dozen burlap sacks, as well as two loaves, a joint of meat, and a jug of water. As soon as the sun went down he snuck from the city and took the road to Dunharrow. He continued on past that ancient place til he came to the end of the way, blocked by the shoulder of the Starkhorn. When he had come within sight of the dark door in the side of the mountain, he unhooked the gig from his horse, for that beast would nowise be led within the caves, empty though they may be. But Eosden had foreseen this: he would pull the light gig himself. Unladen, it would be no burden at all. And upon the return, loaded as he hoped it to be with gold and gemstones, the way was all downhill. It would be difficult, no doubt, but manageable for a strong man. The gig only needed to be kept from running away down the hill. Unless the treasure was very much greater than he imagined, or the distance very much farther, this would be within his strength and endurance.
       Eosden tied his horse to a tree, thinking to be gone only a matter of hours. Then he lit one of the torches and shouldered the stays of the gig. But a small stream crossed the path in front of him, and as he waded through the cold water, he heard a voice. Surprised, he turned and raised his torch. In the flickering firelight he beheld a man—or manlike creature—seated on his haunches upon a rock near to the little stream. The man had sat so still, Eosden had been unaware of him until now.
       'What do you want of me, little man? I have nothing for you but the sharp point of a sword.'
       'Me ask nothing you, horseman. But Pah-wit have message for you from Otton-roh. He say do not go Paths of Dead. Sacred site, it is: gods go only. No men, no woses there. Nothing for you.'
       'Who is Pah-wit? And who is Otton-roh? And why should I, Prince of Edoras, take heed of them?'
       'Me Pah-wit. You Eosden, horseman. Otton-roh is god-of-waters. You must listen god-of-waters. Elf call him Ulmo. Elf listen Ulmo. Man must listen also.'
       'You say that Ulmo forbids me to enter this door?'
       'Yes, horseman.'
       'How is it you know the will of Ulmo?'
       'Otton-roh speaks through waters. Pah-wit listen. Otton-roh say you come. Say Pah-wit should warn.'
       'Ulmo speaks through the water? I thought Ulmo was the god of the sea. We are very far from the sea, little man.'
       'Otton-roh father of all waters. This water also,' he added, bending down until his forehead nearly touched the surface. 'Woses hear. Woses speak. Horsemen do not hear. Horsemen do not listen.'
       'Horseman has message for Pah-wit. Horseman learned from another "god", the Maia Ivulaine, that the path is clear. The dead are gone. If the woses want to keep the treasures of Baldor for themselves any longer, they will have to fight the horsemen.'
       'No, horseman not listen. Woses not have treasure. Woses go not into caves. Otton-roh forbids it. Sacred place. Dead gone, yes. No more dead of men. Only bones. You go there, make gods angry.'
       'If the gods are there, they can tell me themselves. I am going on, little man.'
       'Pah-wit fulfills his prophecy. Horseman fulfills his. Otton-roh will also fulfill his. Farewell! Pah-wit renames this way, Paths of the Deaf.'
       Eosden drew his sword, but the pukel-man leapt from the stone and disappeared among the bushes.

Unperturbed, Eosden continued on into the caves. The way was rough at first and the cartwheels snagged on every stone and crevice. The torch seemed to cast its light only a few feet in every direction, as if the air were heavy, or full of fog. Eosden trained his eyes on the floor in front of him, to make sure that no fissures opened up under his feet. In the beginning the path was fairly level, but soon there were steep passages that worried him, and loose stones that slid beneath his boots. The gig was light but unwieldy, and he began to understand for the first time the cares of a draught animal.
       After a time the air cleared. The light from the torch fled along the low dark passage and bounced glowingly from the walls, now nearer, now farther away. In places Eosden heard the trickle of a tiny stream, and in others he heard the drip drip of water into some unseen pool; but he crossed no water—the stones remained dry. Listening to the strange gurglings made Eosden thirsty, and he stopped to have a drink from his jug. He had been in the caves for many hours. How many he did not know. Time did not seem to exist in this black place. Here, where the sun did not march overhead, or even the moon, there was no way to measure time, save perhaps by the drips of water. But these lulled the mind into a dreamlike state, where counting became impossible. He continued on his way, grudgingly.
       Already Eosden was weary. The incline of the path was steeper than he had accounted for, and the stays of the cart cut into his shoulders. He began to realize how unprepared he really was. It might be several-day's journey to the treasure, for all he knew. And what if he passed it in the dark? He would not know for certain until he reached the path's issue at the far end of the mountains. If that should happen, he must abandon the cart and seek help from the people of the high mountains of Gondor, if any such existed. And what of the treasure? What if it should be hidden behind some cave walls, like the mysterious drippings and trickles of water? In fact, it surely would be. No one would hide a treasure in plain sight, not even in such a remote place. There would be no sign posted, 'Treasure here!' Digging might be required, and he had brought no shovel. Eosden began to think that Baldor might not have perished at the hands of the guarding dead. Perhaps he had simply become lost, or had overtaxed his strength.
       Eosden struggled to put such thoughts out of his mind. More likely the treasure was somewhere near. It was not distance that had prevented its finding til now; it was the wraiths of the dead. And they were gone. A man only needed courage and their treasure was his!

Outside in the open air, the night passed. The moon finished her blue journey and returned from whence she came. The day dawned and the wizards departed Edoras. The sun rose to its peak, burning brightly and yellow in the vast skies of Middle Earth, and then fell back into the dark waters that surround her. The King and Queen looked for Eosden in the chambers of Meduseld and in the stables and in the fields. But they did not find him there.
       Beneath the weighty masses of Ered Nimrais he struggled still, roofed by an expanse of stone beyond the measure of man. This weight he felt, though he might not number it.  It crushed his spirit as thoroughly as any fear of the dead. At last Eosden fell to the ground, exhausted beyond hope, and slept. He slept for many hours. When he awoke, he rose with a terrible hunger and thirst, and he ate all his food and drank the rest of his water. He fumbled in the dark for his flint, for the torch had gone out. He lit another, and part of his fear was quelled, for the time. He looked about him, thinking to refill the jug, but no sound of water now came to his ears. He thought of turning back. If he left the cart it would be easy to return to his horse from here. But as he sat, some of his courage returned. If it was easy to return from here, he might just as easily continue on for a bit. It seemed a waste to have journeyed this far into the caves, only to leave empty-handed. Besides, his strength was returning after the food and water. His mind began to clear. He would continue on.
       The pain in his shoulders was now awful. Large blisters had formed there, and he moved the stays to one side and the other, to keep them off the raw skin. But this only caused further blisters. At times he simply drug the cart along, holding the stays with his hands. His gloves kept his hands from blister, but he could not hold his fingers together after an hour of this. He must return the stays to his shoulders.

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