Written By:
MP brennanYou can read the
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The stars were fading in the East—the first sign that sunrise was not far off. Herumor instinctively drew his mount deeper into the shadows of the hills. Time was running out. He could wait all day if need be, but if his minions were to fight at their best, they needed to find their quarry soon. Patience, the man reminded himself. Perched atop his black horse, dark cloak drawn tight against the night wind, Herumor could almost be taken for one of the fabled Nazgûl. But, there was nothing incorporeal about the grizzled hand that clenched his sword hilt or the black eyes that glared out from behind a sable mask.
His servants were growing restless. They sensed the approaching dawn. One, a particularly wretched beast dared to rise from his place of concealment. Herumor’s throwing knife caught the goblin in the throat. The orc fell without a sound. Herumor stalked up to retrieve his dagger. The fallen orc’s fellows ducked their heads and averted their eyes, clearly more frightened of their shadowed captain than of the approaching sunlight. The man wrinkled his nose in distaste. He would take men over these fell creatures any day of the week, but circumstances forced his hand. And besides, the beasts had their uses.
There. A stray gust of wind carried the sound he’d been hoping for; the faint rustle of leaves indicated an approaching party. Herumor signaled his minions. There was a low creak as bows were drawn. The approaching party was moving cautiously. Four scouts patrolled—one ahead, one behind, and one to each side. Between the scouts rode eight mounted men—no, make that six mounted men. The last two horses carried the gray-cloaked forms of elves.
Herumor suppressed a hiss of fury. Hearing that the traitors and their kin associated with the wretched Eldar race had not prepared him for seeing it in person. He forcibly stilled himself. He was not here to hunt elves. Leaving his mount behind, Herumor crept closer to the road. The first two men were engaged in some kind of debate. Their low voices should not have carried beyond the small party, but Herumor’s hearing was hardly average.
“I’ve told you too many times, Belegion, your nephew is too young to ride on patrols. Is it not enough that we must fight alongside sixteen-year-olds? Would you have us also endanger boys too young to shave?”
“Halpharn is young, but he is now the eldest in his family. And besides, it is not we who endanger them but the Enemy.”
“We are nevertheless responsible for their safety. Valar’s sake, Belegion, he’s not yet fifteen!”
“Yet already his family falls prey to the shadow. I don’t like it anymore than you do, my lord, but experience has taught Halpharn that the village will not protect him—or his loved ones. If we do not accept him in a patrol, he will find his own way of lashing out against the Enemy. I have lost my brother to this fight, and now my niece is gone as well. I do not want to also lose my nephew.”
Herumor tuned out the rest of the conversation and focused on the man Belegion had called “my lord.” The man was a Ranger, tall and thin like all the others, dressed in an unremarkable green cloak that was unadorned, save for the standard silver star at his shoulder. Herumor squinted to make out the man’s face in the dim light. It was gaunt and dirty, with gray eyes and three days of stubble, but even so Herumor could see the resemblance. He indicated his target with a quick wave of his hand, and the news passed quickly and silently from orc to orc. The horsemen drew near. Their scouts passed within twenty feet of Herumor’s concealed minions. Still, the captain waited. He savored the taste of the air, the anticipation of imminent death. It was nearly time. His work was almost complete.
Finally, when the leader of the party passed a mere fifteen feet from the hidden orcs, Herumor let out a shrill whistle. The leader’s head came up and turned, seeking the source of the strange noise. This proved a fatal mistake. A bowstring twanged and a black-feathered arrow buried itself in a silver eye. The man Belegion had called “Lord” didn’t cry out; he just grunted slightly and sank in his saddle, slipping from his gray horse almost in slow motion. The sight took Herumor’s breath away; silent, almost poetic death. The captain almost laughed. How easy it was, then, to slay a legend.
Belegion broke the spell. “Arathorn!” he screamed, trying to catch the dead man even as the Ranger slid beyond his reach. His cry seemed to awaken the rest of the patrol. Bows were strung in a flash; swords appeared from saddle bags as if by magic. The two elves drew their long knives and spurred their horses towards the source of the signal. Herumor’s orcs sprang out of their hiding places, almost a score strong, bellowing and swinging wildly. But Herumor himself sheathed his sword and stalked back towards his mount, swift and silent as the wraith he resembled. When the elves reached his former position, they would find only orcs.
The scouts joined the battle, and orcs quickly began to fall under steel and shaft. Those who remained were wild and chaotic. They looked for their captain, but he had vanished like vapor. Herumor was no fool. Though his force outnumbered the Rangers, ill-trained orcs stood no chance against outraged Dúnedain. His servants had served their purpose; he could find others to replace them.
Leaving the fury of battle behind, Herumor pushed his horse into a canter and raced away into the East. His task was almost complete.
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The first light of dawn stole across the worn floorboards and crept up the sleeping woman’s pillow. Gilraen groaned and rolled over, trying to steal a few more moments of slumber. It was no use. The light’s gentle nudging had not only woken her, but alerted her to the fact that her bed was cold. With a sigh, she pushed back the covers and reached for her thick dressing gown. Moving quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping toddler at her feet, Gilraen rose and quickly made the bed. The chore was painfully easy; none of the covers on the left side of the big bed had been disturbed. Aragorn slept on, oblivious in his little trundle bed. After a moment’s thought, Gilraen took an extra blanket from the foot of the big bed, folded it in half, and tucked it gently around her son’s shoulders.
Little Aragorn had his own bedchamber, of course—there were more than enough rooms to spare in the chieftain’s cabin—but when his father was away on patrol, as Arathorn had been for the past two weeks, Gilraen preferred to keep her son close to her. The two-year-old stubbornly held that he was much too old to share the big bed, so the trundle was their compromise.
The outer chambers faced west. Gilraen lit a candle to see by as she sparked the kindle in the big hearth. Winter was slow to release its grasp on the northern hills. Though March was almost gone and the earliest flowers were beginning to blossom, clear nights still left a hard frost on the earth and a chill in the air. As Gilraen patiently stoked the fire into a modest blaze, she was glad of the robe around her shoulders and the woven rug under her feet. She added another log. They were almost out of firewood. In another day or so she would have to choose between asking her brother to chop more or taking Aragorn to gather deadwood from the forest two miles away. When she estimated that she’d built the blaze up as much as was prudent, the woman stepped back to warm her fingers and admire her handiwork.
The fire cast darting shadows over the big room—or the “hall” as Arathorn preferred to call it, though to Gilraen the grand name seemed incongruous with the humble wooden chamber. Still, she had to admit there was a certain splendor to it. Though stone was hard to come by and masons were few, the Dunedain who’d built this village had laid a foundation of granite that was built up into a large hearth and tall gray chimney. The wooden rafters curved upward, recalling the sweeping arches of palaces and fortresses long gone. The rough walls were hung with tapestries, many of them generations old, and here and there atop rustic furniture, one could spy a golden candlestick or a silver pitcher, memories of wealth long since faded. The Rangers had little, but they afforded their chieftain what honor they could.
That sentiment was reflected in the size of the rest of the house—in the wide, flagstone-tiled kitchen, the dining room with its long table, and the many smaller chambers and sitting rooms. Sometimes Gilraen wondered ruefully whether the size of the house truly reflected a desire to honor the Chieftain or whether it was rather a not-so-subtle admonition to the family to produce many children. If that was indeed the motive, it had proven woefully ineffective of late. Arathorn was the only son of Arador, who was himself the only son to survive childhood. These days, the big house was full only when Arathorn’s sisters came with their husbands and children at Midwinter.
All the more reason to break the trend. Gilraen thought with a sly smile. Arathorn’s farewell the night before leaving on patrol had been quite . . . enthusiastic. Though she had told no one as yet, when her husband returned in two weeks, Gilraen hoped to have good news.
The sun was now fully over the distant hills, and its rays were finally filtering into the hall. Tucking her feet into a pair of leather slippers, Gilraen stepped through the foyer and tugged open the front door. Seeing the small wooden pitcher in its usual place on the front step, the woman smiled. Her neighbor, Lothiriel, had mouths to feed and troubles of her own, but she always made sure that Gilraen had fresh milk for Aragorn.
Looking out over the collection of cabins, the woman couldn’t help but snort at the wild optimism that had prompted her forefathers to name this simple village Fornost Eden. It looked the farthest thing from a fortress of kings. At first glance, the dwellings were built to suggest a simple community of herders—and indeed that was how most Northern Dunedain supplemented their winter storehouses. Fornost Eden was a modest collection of about a hundred houses, built of roughly hewn wood on a broad shelf halfway up a bluff. The narrow streets were just dirt packed hard by the passage of men and animals. Smithies and armories were tucked back against the hill, out of sight until one had passed through the entire village. The large stable masqueraded as a simple storehouse, and houses of healing were hidden away in lofts or back rooms of unassuming cabins.
The trained eye, however, looked on Fornost Eden and saw immediately a town built for defense. The hills at its back were largely impassable and guarded the dwellings on two sides. A few trails cut through the heights, but they were narrow, allowing men to ride only two abreast at the widest points, and were so well concealed as to be nearly invisible. Aside from these trails, the only path to the village was up the eastern face of the bluff. The road there climbed and twisted, always within view of the village plateau. A few well placed archers at the edge of the bluff could defend the road from all but the most determined attacker, and though the town’s gate was usually left open, two young men stood by the palisade walls night and day, ready to bar the entrance at a moment’s notice.
Well, maybe “men” was the wrong word. Those on duty now had just begun their formal Ranger training. Though neither could have been older than fourteen, they stood proudly in their green cloaks, quarter staves in their hands and horns on their belts. As Gilraen watched, the shorter of the two raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he scanned the plains. Suddenly, he turned to his companion and tugged excitedly on the other’s cloak, pointing at something far below. The other youth stood still for a moment, then raised his horn to his lips and let out three short bursts; the signal for “Patrol Returning.” Gilraen frowned. Her husband’s patrol was the next one due back, and it wasn’t expected for another two weeks.
All around her, women and children were emerging from their houses with various expressions of curiosity or apprehension. Lothiriel emerged from her barn, sleeves tied back, apron dusted with hay. Gilraen put an arm over her neighbor’s shoulders. “Perhaps they’ve found some sign of Laleth.” Lothiriel’s only daughter, a girl of six, had disappeared nearly three weeks earlier.
Lothiriel shook her head slowly. “My heart bodes ill. I do not think they’ve returned for me.”
The party came into view, and Gilraen’s heart clenched as she realized the other woman was right. It was a mounted patrol. The men were not riding in their usual loose, scattered formation. Instead, the horses walked in two orderly columns of about six men each. The last horse was riderless. Towards the front of the line, two slender forms in dark gray stood out from their brown and green clad fellows. Even from a distance, Gilraen could recognize Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Elrond. So this was her husband’s patrol. Gilraen sighed. Arathorn always hated delivering bad news.
Later, when she was rational enough to think once more, she would wonder why it took her so long to recognize the obvious. She could only guess that pity had moved the Valar to blind her eyes for a few moments longer. Though the leader of the patrol always rode first in parade formations, the column was headed not by her husband’s dapple gray gelding, but by her brother Arandur’s dun-coated mare. As it was, the patrol was through the palisade and halfway up the sloping street before she realized the contradiction.
As her brother’s face swam into view, Gilraen’s throat constricted. Let it be a coincidence. Let Arathorn have joined a separate patrol, taken a message to the southern villages, stopped to go hunting, anything! As the riders slowed to a stately walk, her heart hammered a wild protest, as if trying to pound its way out of her chest. Let me be wrong. Let him be somewhere at the back of the line. Let him be holed up in a healer’s house somewhere. Let him be inside the cabin right now, ready to jump out and surprise me. Let it be a joke, a prank, a dream. Arandur reined his horse in a respectful distance from Gilraen’s doorstep. Desperate, Gilraen’s eyes raced across the faces of her neighbors, looking for anything that would contradict the pain in Arandur’s eyes. Don’t let it be true . . . Arandur reached into his saddlebags and removed something long and slender, wrapped in green cloth. Gilraen’s gaze finally fell upon her mother as she stepped from her cabin with Gilraen’s younger brother. Ivorwen seemed carved of stone. Her face was pale under a mass of dark curls laced with silver. Her expression was frozen. Something inside Gilraen seemed to be breaking. Arandur was standing a few paces away, the green bundle held out in the hands of a supplicant. It was true.
Ivorwen met her gaze and gave a single, solemn nod. A strange quietness came over Gilraen. Her eyes slowly swung back to meet those of her eldest brother. They were dry. She drew one deep breath, then stepped forward to meet the patrol leader. Those who saw her said later that she walked like one in a dream. Others claimed she moved as elves are said to do in sleep—in the world, but not of it. Her steps were even—measured. Her gaze never wavered. She halted a mere half-pace from Arandur and raised steady hands to take the shrouded item. As her hands closed on the damp wool and cool metal underneath, the slow breaking in her chest climaxed in a wracking wave of agony and the wreckage was complete.
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Aragorn rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head. He didn’t want to get up. He was warm and comfy, but there were footsteps in his house. The pull of curiosity battled with that of sleep, and for a moment, he allowed himself to hang suspended between the two.
There was a slight creak as the bedroom door swung open, and the decision was made for him. Mama stood there in the doorway for a moment, just looking at him. Aragorn picked his head up. His mama was still in her nightclothes and that was strange because she always got dressed before she made breakfast and breakfast was always cooking by the time he got up.
Mama walked over and sat down on the little bed. Aragorn wiggled. Now he couldn’t sit up; she was smooshing the blankets together. He stilled when he saw her face, though. It was white. White like the papers in Papa’s study, white like the lilies they left for Grandfather Arador who had gone to the Valar. She tucked Aragorn’s hair behind his ear. Her hand was ice cold.
There was something in her other hand. She lifted it onto her lap so Aragorn could see. It was green cloth like the kind in Papa’s cloak, all pinned together with the shiny star Papa always wore on his shoulder when he went out to fight orcs. Aragorn reached out to touch the star. It was as cold as Mama’s fingers. He pulled it off the cloth. The ornament was almost as big as his whole hand. The cloth fell apart without the pin to hold it together. There was metal and leather underneath. Aragorn jerked his hand back. He wasn’t allowed to touch Papa’s sword!
Mama just smiled sadly and took the pin from him. She placed his hand on a hilt too big for his fingers to curl more than halfway around and folded both of hers around it. Her hands were freezing, but Aragorn didn’t pull away. His eyes began to fill, though he didn’t know why. He blinked furiously. He was much too big to cry. Nevertheless, the tears welled up and made his silver eyes gleam even brighter than usual. He looked up at Mama and swallowed a sniffle.
“When’s Papa coming home?”
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Aragorn fidgeted a little by his mother’s side. The strange clothes Mama had dressed him in were scratchy, and they fit all wrong. The tunic was made of a strange fuzzy material that Mama had called “velvet,” with lots of black threads crisscrossing over the front—except she’d called those “brocade.” The clothes were all the same color—a dark gray that matched Uncle Arandur’s eyes. Mama had called them “mourning clothes,” but that didn’t make sense because they looked nothing like mornings and sunrises and besides it was past lunchtime.
Aragorn looked down at Papa’s stone. Mama had explained to him what the stones meant; now that Papa had gone to live with the Valar and Grandfather Arador, the people put his name on a big granite block and set it here on this pretty hilltop above the village, facing the West. Mama said it was there so that people could look at it and think about how much they loved him.
The boy looked down at the flower Lord Elladan had given him. It was a white lily—Papa’s favorite. He remembered picking with Papa beside the riverbank. “See, here, it looks like a trumpet,” Papa would say, “But don’t tell your uncles we’ve been talking flowers!” Secretly, Aragorn didn’t think Uncle Arandur or Uncle Thorondir would have minded. They were both standing behind Mama now, and they both had identical flowers in their big hands.
Grandfather Dirhael was speaking, but it was in Sindarin, and Aragorn didn’t know all the words. Aragorn stared at his flower. Were there lilies on the riverbanks where the Valar lived? Was Papa picking them with Grandfather Arador right now? His eyes were stinging again. He scowled furiously. He was not going to cry again. It was too late, though; he couldn’t hold back a loud sniffle.
Mama’s hand came down to brush his face and pull him against her. The hand was like a block of ice, but it was Mama and she was there. Hiding his face against her rich skirts, Aragorn let himself cry at last.
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As evening fell, Dirhael’s cabin was filled with raised voices.
“He is all that remains of the line! He will never be safe here!” Elrohir’s voice was almost desperate. A fierce light, such as Gilraen had never seen, came over his face as he and his brother argued with Dirhael and Arandur.
“He is a son of Isildur. I’ll thank you to remember that as you rearrange his life!” The bitter accusation in Arandur’s voice did not go unnoticed by Elrohir. The Elf Lord flushed.
Elladan stepped in before his brother could respond. “What Elrohir means is that all peoples have a vested interest in seeing this bloodline preserved. Here, the child will be ever subject to the whims of the Wild. In Imladris we could protect him, we could educate him . . .”
The source of all this contention slumbered in Gilraen’s lap. The long day had taken a belated toll on little Aragorn. After the farewell ceremony, she had refused to take her son back to the chieftain’s house. Instead, she sought shelter for a little while in her parents’ tiny cottage. Yet, trouble followed, even to her childhood refuge.
“Bloodlines? Don’t speak to me of bloodlines! That child is my grandson. Am I to sacrifice my blood so you can protect your precious bloodline?” Dirhael. Gilraen had rarely heard her father so angry.
Elladan tried for a placating tone, but his indignation was clear. “Aragorn is a son of Elros. We are his kin too. We would treasure him no less than you . . .”
“But you cannot teach him who he is!” This time, it was Arandur who was indignant. “Can a fish teach a bird to fly? No more can an Elf teach a child to be Dúnedain.”
“If you would but—“
“Gilraen?” Ivorwen cut Elrohir off as if the Elven Lord were nothing more than a disobedient student. “You’ve been very quiet tonight, my daughter. Do you wish for your son to go to Rivendell?”
Gilraen took a deep breath. Her eyes darted from face to face before coming to rest on Lord Elladan. “You believe he will be hunted.”
It was not a question, but she waited for an answer. Elrond’s elder son nodded emphatically. “Some evil has been growing for several generations, now. It was no coincidence that your husband alone of our company fell to the ambush. The heirs . . . heir of Isildur is in danger.”
“It has always been so, my child,” Dirhael interjected gently, “Arathorn was sought as a child and Arador before him. They survived and grew to manhood in this very village.”
“But they were not the last of the line!” Elrohir exclaimed. He would have gone on, but Ivorwen silenced him with a look.
Gilraen returned her attention to Elladan. “If I take him to your city . . .”
“To Imladris,”
“Yes. Will he be able to visit Fornost Eden? Will his uncles train him when he’s old enough?”
Elladan’s expression grew distinctly uncomfortable. “Arrangements . . . would have to be made. We won’t know the full details until we discuss the boy with our father.”
Gilraen turned her gaze on Lord Elrohir, hoping that the other elf would give her the honor of a straight answer. Elrohir’s jaw worked for a moment under her steady gaze. His eyes flicked from hers to his brother’s and back. Finally, he spoke slowly, “Lord Elrond would have . . . concerns with such a situation. It has been many years since the Rangers frequented Imladris. If there were a sudden traffic of Dúnedain in and out, or if a large group suddenly took up residence, it could tip off the Enemy’s spies. That could bring the Enemy’s wrath down on Rivendell—on all of us.”
Predictably, it was Elladan who broke the tense silence that followed. “You have to understand, my father must protect his own people as well. Enemy forces grow ever more numerous and more widespread. Our best defense is in secrecy, as he has always said.”
Gilraen didn’t respond. She continued to meet Elrohir’s gaze steadily, suspecting that there was more to be said. There was a flicker in his eyes, and she arched one eyebrow deliberately. Elrohir sighed and looked at his feet. Gilraen had almost given up on further information when the elf murmured almost inaudibly, “Secrecy . . .” Slowly he raised his head and met each pair of eyes in turn before finally resting his gaze on Gilraen. His voice was strained. “Your son is the youngest chieftain in the history of the Dúnedain. Protecting his identity from the Enemy . . . will be difficult. I do not yet know what action my father would take were we to raise the child in Imladris. But, if I were advising him, I would ask that the boy’s identity be kept a secret even from Aragorn himself. Only you would accompany him to Imladris, and no other could visit for some time. The child is young enough that we can raise him under an assumed name, imparting his true heritage to him only when he comes of age. It will be as though Aragorn son of Arathorn never existed, and if, as we suspect, the Enemy already knows of his existence, he will conclude that the boy died of some childhood accident or illness—that the line has truly failed.”
For a moment, Elrohir’s words hung on the air. Then came the sudden clamor, as everyone found their voice at the same instant. Arandur and Dirhael were on their feet, arguing fiercely with Elrohir as Elladan tried to calm all three. Even Gilraen’s brother Thorondir, only twenty years old, had joined in the debate. Their voices grew louder. Elrohir stuck a finger in Dirhael’s chest and Arandur balled his fists. Gilraen drew a protective arm around Aragorn, who was finally stirring, a sob building in his small chest. “Enough!” Ivorwen’s voice cracked like a whip, silencing all five men. The matron’s imperious gaze skimmed over each of the debaters before finally coming to rest on Gilraen. Her tone brooked no argument. “The decision belongs to the child’s mother.”
Aragorn, still only half-conscious, rolled into a ball and buried his head in the front of Gilraen’s dress. The woman carefully shifted him to her hip and stood. “It’s been a long day. I need to put my son to bed.”
To their credit, the men promptly looked ashamed of their thoughtlessness. Dirhael spoke quickly. “Of course, Gilraen. You should take the master bedroom.”
Gilraen shook her head quickly. “That’s alright, Papa. My old room will be fine
By the look in Ivorwen’s eyes, Gilraen knew she understood. “I’ll get the bed linens.” The two women left the sitting room together and climbed the steep stairs to the tiny loft that had once been Gilraen’s room. Everything was as Gilraen remembered—the narrow bed with its faded quilt, the old, battered boudoir, the moth-eaten curtains. Though she hadn’t been in this chamber since marrying Arathorn, it would always be home.
Ivorwen briskly stripped the bed and laid down clean sheets. Gilraen carefully set Aragorn down on the mattress. The child stirred, and his grandmother soothed him with a gentle hand on his brow. As she arranged the blankets around him, the older woman spoke in a quiet, conversational tone. “No one’s expecting you to make a decision tonight. The peredhil’s proposal deserves careful consideration.”
Gilraen tugged a woolen blanket up to Aragorn’s chin. “I cannot think of a life outside this village.”
“Perhaps you should.”
Gilraen straightened slowly and turned to face her mother. She swallowed. “What have you foreseen?”
Ivorwen avoided her gaze. “It’s best not to speak of it.”
“Mother!” Gilraen’s voice caught, and she quickly lowered it to avoid waking Aragorn. “This is my child we’re talking about! I must know.”
Her mother sighed. “You do know, Gilraen. You know that so little can be known from visions and dreams. It is not the nature of the gift for things to be clear and precise. Often in trying to predict we do more harm than good.”
“But to speak so, you must have some idea?” Ivorwen didn’t respond. “The peredhil are right, aren’t they? They said he’d be hunted?”
The other woman nodded slowly. “But your father was right, too; we have faced such evil before.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“Gilraen—“
“Tell me!”
The old woman closed her eyes, suddenly very weary. “There are two paths now before your son, and the choice lies with you. If he goes to Rivendell he will be protected—sheltered. The Elrondion weren’t lying; they consider the children of Elros their family. He will want for nothing, but he will not know his past, and so his future will ever seem frightening and tenuous. When he finally learns of his heritage, the knowledge will be a burden, perhaps too great to bear.” The woman ran a hand through her gray-streaked hair. It was coming loose from its orderly braids. “If he stays in Fornost Eden, he will ever be in danger. Like all our sons, his childhood will be short, his life difficult. He will know constant peril, and the Enemy may yet claim him. But he will be Dúnedain, raised in the traditions of our people, and perhaps that will be enough to ground him for the trials to come.” Her eyes watched something far away. “Sometimes, the sight is more a curse than the gift we call it.”
Gilraen swallowed past the lump in her throat. “You knew.” She said suddenly. “That’s why Papa opposed the marriage. You both knew Arathorn would fall. But you talked Papa around . . .” There was a long silence. “Why?” Gilraen burst out suddenly. “Why did you let me marry him? How could you let your own child become a widow?”
Ivorwen’s hand reached out to cup her daughter’s cheek. “It had to be somebody’s child.” She slowly let the hand fall. “It always does.” Without another word, Ivorwen turned and hurried down the stairs. For a long moment, Gilraen stood where she was, forcing herself to inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Then she turned just as silently, lifted the covers, and slid into the bed. As the wind howled outside and muffled men’s voices rose once more, she pulled her child to her and longed for the ignorance of sleep.
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Another sun was rising in the pitiless East. Gilraen had forsaken the comfort of her bed but was not yet ready to face her family. Instead, she sat on her aged, hickory trunk and watched her son sleep. He was so perfect in the faint light—so peaceful and innocent and . . . vulnerable. Gilraen sighed and rested her head in her hands.
A soft knock startled her. She looked up to see her brother Arandur at the doorway. The Ranger’s ever-present sword gleamed at his waist, and he had yet to change his clothes. Gilraen tried to force a smile onto her face for his sake. After a moment, the man crossed the room and sat beside her on the chest. He kept his voice low, minding the sleeping toddler. “Did you get any rest?”
Gilraen shook her head. “You?”
Arandur grunted a negative. “Council meeting.”
“All night?”
“It was a subject of some import.” The man paused. “Have you considered the peredhil’s offer?” Gilraen groaned and ran both hands through her knotted black hair. That was all the answer Arandur needed. “They’re right, you know; Elrond could keep him safe.”
The woman studied her hands. “Do you think I should take him to Rivendell?”
For long moments, Arandur didn’t answer. His eyes seemed a thousand leagues away. “Gilraen,” he said at last, “Did you know I was not the first of our line to bear the name ‘Arandur’?” The woman raised her eyebrows, surprised by the sudden change of subject. She shook her head slowly. The man continued, his voice slow and pensive. “I went out on my first patrol under Arador when I was sixteen—back when Argonui was still Chieftain. Mother was furious; we had just begun the practice of sending boys who had not yet come of age. But, Arador requested my presence. That was the only time I’ve ever seen Father overrule Mother.”
Arandur stared off into the distance. Gilraen waited, not sure where he was going with this. “Before I left, Father pulled me aside. He asked if I wanted to know why he agreed to send me with the Chieftain’s son. I was just a boy; it would never have occurred to me to ask.” A slight smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “He told me then of Arandur the First, our ancestor. His father was Aranarth—the first Chieftain in exile. Aranarth had two sons. The first he named Arahael—wise king. Arahael was Chieftain after him and his son after that, down the line to Arathorn, and now Aragorn. The second son was called Arandur—servant of the king.”
Gilraen stared at her lap. She’d always taken her brother’s name as a matter of course, understanding, but not pausing to ponder, its Sindarin translation. She kept her tone carefully neutral, “It sounds like Aranarth was playing favorites.”
Arandur truly smiled at that. “Perhaps, but perhaps not. Father told me that the name ‘Arandur’ was the greatest honor he could give his son. We are, all of us Dunedain, merely servants of the exiled king. Our lives—even our deaths—revolve around him. And we are fortunate; we, alone of all the Men of Middle Earth, remember and preserve the living splendor of Númenor.” Arandur picked absently at his frayed sleeve. “Now, the elves speak of preserving that splendor by hiding it away in a foreign land, unnamed and unrecognized. For us, who have devoted our lives to service, that would be nearly as bad as losing him for good. What good is it to serve the king if he is in some far-off country, bereft of even the knowledge of us?” Arandur closed his eyes. “It might be the death of the Dúnedain . . .” He murmured almost too low to hear. After a long moment, he looked at his younger sister. “And yet, you must worry for him as a mother as well as a subject. I . . . don’t envy your position.”
Gilraen looked away. “Do you think he will be safe here?”
Arandur was silent for so long, Gilraen thought he wouldn’t answer. Finally, he spoke reluctantly. “The only promise I—or anyone else—can give you is that if he is slain, in all likelihood I am too.”
Gilraen’s hands twisted in her lap, but her voice was steady. “Thank you for your honesty, Gwanur.”
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
One all too brief hour later, Gilraen met again with her family and the sons of Elrond. Few of them had slept; Arandur, Dírhael, and the Elrondionnath had just returned from a council of the village elders and Ranger captains. Ivorwen had been called to the Houses of Healing to treat an infected arrow wound, while Thorondir, who was good with animals, had spent the night in the stables treating the minor wounds of the patrol’s horses.
Still, all six pairs of eyes were bright, alert, and fixed on Gilraen. The woman looked away self-consciously. To put off having to speak, she watched Aragorn playing in the corner with Dírveleg, Arandur’s four-year-old son, under the watchful eye of Dírveleg’s mother Rían. The clink of marbles and their childish laughter filled the otherwise silent room. Aragorn’s hands were still too small and uncoordinated to play properly, but he tried valiantly to shoot the marbles like his cousin did. His cousin. His family. His home.
Gilraen turned and met Lord Elladan’s steady gaze. Her voice was firm. “My son will stay in Fornost Eden.” Arandur’s and Dírhael’s faces immediately split into relieved smiles. The men’s voices overlapped as they congratulated her on her wisdom. Elladan didn’t respond. His eyes sought his brother’s and the two seemed to reach a silent consensus. They stood—their identical faces expressionless—and left the cabin without a word.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
“Are we being banished, then?” Elladan could tell his brother was trying to control his temper, but, as usual, Elrohir was failing spectacularly. And, for once, Elladan didn’t blame him.
“Don’t be ridiculous, the peredhil have always been welcome in this village,” Was Elladan imagining things, or did Arandur’s voice hold a note of haughtiness? “But Arathorn fell two days ago, and word has yet to reach Lord Elrond. We cannot spare riders of our own as messengers, and the two of you know the road to Imladris better than anyone.”
Elladan kept his tone neutral. “I can take word to my father. Elrohir wishes to stay and aid the village. He could be a great help to you.”
“Your offer honors us, but the road is too dangerous for a single traveler. Fornost-Eden can take care of itself.”
“Fornost Eden is about to be a war zone!” Elrohir exclaimed, “You think the orcs will not come to finish what they started?”
For a moment there was silence. Arandur spoke slowly, his voice laced with simmering anger. “So we return to it,” he paused. “You reject Gilraen’s decision. After all, what is the will of a simple woman—even if she is Dúnedain—when compared with the infinite wisdom and foresight of the Half-Elven?”
Arandur’s tone was taunting, but Elladan refused to be goaded. His voice was firm. “Gilraen’s decision, right or wrong, was hers to make, and we will respect it. We merely wish that you, as acting-chieftain, would have a little more care for the one who is to succeed you. “Arathorn’s death—“
“Was a tragedy.”
“Was an assassination!” Elladan tried to silence his brother with a look. Predictably, he failed. “Or do you really think it was coincidence that of a dozen riders only he fell? There was a signal. Arathorn died because the orcs knew who he was!”
“Arathorn died because of you!” The last vestiges of Arandur’s control broke. The man’s face twisted. His voice reflected pain and rage in equal measure. Elladan gripped his brother’s wrist, warning him to keep his peace. He needn’t have worried; for once, Elrohir was speechless. His brother’s eyes showed the same agony Elladan knew flashed in his own. Arandur panted, looking from face to face. “I told him we shouldn’t patrol so far out. It was wild country—let the orcs have it. But my brother-in-law always trusted you. You said the patrol was necessary to protect the road and he believed you. Now the village weeps and my sister grieves. She doesn’t need you forever haunting her steps, hovering over the child. For the Valar’s sake, let her have her mourning. You’ve taken enough from her.” The man’s eyes darted, looking for some repudiation of the words he’d spoken. He found only pain and guilt.
Elladan spoke at last. “We will return to Imladris and inform our father of your plight. Our kinsman we leave to you, to protect and guide according to your customs. I hope that if we return you will find it in you . . . to forgive us.” Without another word, Elladan mounted his horse and turned towards the village gate. After a moment, Elrohir fell in beside him. Here and there, the Dúnedain watched their passage from windows and doorways. Wives paused in their washing. Children looked up from their games. All followed the peredhil with solemn gray eyes until they passed through the gate and began their passage down the bluff.
When they were out of range even of sharp Dúnedain ears, Elrohir spoke, his voice soft but intense, “I can’t believe you’re just leaving them! You know the Enemy will be close behind.”
Elladan didn’t respond immediately. When he did, he kept his tone conversational. “Your horse is lame.”
Elrohir stared at his brother as if he’d grown horns. He looked down at his mount’s withers, as though expecting a gaping wound to suddenly appear. “No he isn’t. He has that little arrow graze on his leg, but Thorondir treated that, and it’s almost as good as new.”
“Still, I think it best that we not take chances. We’ll go to Imladris, but we’d best take a . . . leisurely pace, don’t you think?”
Elrohir’s face reflected dawning comprehension. For the first time since Arathorn fell, Elladan’s brother smiled.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
In the darkest watches of the night, Gilraen was awakened by a hand on her shoulder. “Gilraen, wake up.” The young woman opened her eyes to see her mother’s drawn face, illuminated by a single candle. “The village is on fire.”
Gilraen sat up quickly. Aragorn rolled over and opened a bleary eye. Whisking the quilt off the bed, Gilraen rolled her son in it and scooped him up. It took her only a moment to stuff her feet into boots while Ivorwen draped a cloak over her shoulders. The two women hurried down the stairs and out into the street. The light of a half moon was supplemented by the many torches and lanterns in the hands of the villagers. Men and women ran back and forth through the streets. Children wandered aimlessly, the younger ones crying. Now and then, a woman or group of women would come by with small packs of children in tow, picking up more as they went. Smoke drifted through the air.
Ivorwen briskly pulled her hair behind her and secured it with a leather thong. “Rían,” she called. Gilraen’s sister-in-law hurried over, her long brown hair loose and blowing in the acrid air. The woman had a baby one arm, Dírveleg in the other, and three or four older children in nightclothes trailing after her. Ivorwen’s voice was brisk. “You and Gilraen take the children back towards the smithies. Loriwen is there taking count of the little ones. Those from the houses that caught flame are accounted for, but it’s dangerous to have so many wandering.”
“What about you, Mama?” Gilraen tried to keep the panic out of her voice.
Ivorwen smiled. “Peace, ield-nín, I’m going to help fight the blazes. Three cabins have caught fire. Your father and brothers are already there.” As calmly as if she’d announced a trip to the market, Ivorwen turned and strode away towards the gate, tying her sleeves back as she went. She called over her shoulder, “Get to the smithies and stay there!”
Gilraen drew a steadying breath and had turned to follow Rían when a slight figure nearly collided with her. Taking a quick step back, Gilraen was surprised to recognize Halpharn, Lothiriel’s eldest. The boy’s face was grimy and flushed, his eyes panicked. “Please, miss, my little brothers are back there and they’re scared and they’re too little to know what’s going on and I can’t . . .” The boy suddenly trailed off, and his face paled. Gilraen took no note. She ran up to Rían and the two exchanged a quick word. The older woman put Dírveleg down and took Aragorn’s swaddled form from Gilraen.
The widow turned, but the youth was nowhere in sight. “Halpharn?” She called his name several times, coughing and hacking on the smoke. It did no good; he was gone. Gilraen stumbled down the street in the direction her mother had gone. She hoped she was going in the right direction. Halpharn’s brothers were twins, only three years old. On this darkened street, there were countless places where they could get lost or stuck.
The smoke was getting thicker. Men and women were running past in all directions, most wearing a mask of dampened cloth over their mouth and nose. Gilraen held a sleeve over her face, but the dry cotton did little to protect against torrents of smoke. She rounded a corner and froze in her tracks. She’d found the fire.
Flames showed through the windows of Lothiriel’s cabin. Another house was beginning to smoke. And between them . . . Gilraen’s house, Arathorn’s house, the chieftain’s house was ablaze. Flames licked the heavy wooden supports, spurted from windows, and lapped hungrily at the roof. As Gilraen watched, half the roof caved in and flames shot up, reaching skyward like hungry fingers. Men and women scurried to and fro around the three structures, trying to douse the flames with buckets of water and baskets of dirt. More people crawled over the surrounding cabins dumping water on the roofs, trying to keep the blaze from spreading.
For a full minute, Gilraen just stood there, watching her entire life go up in flames. She hadn’t been in the house since leaving for Arathorn’s funeral. It had hurt too much to walk in his childhood home, surrounded by memories and the little gifts he’d brought her from the south and west. Never had she dreamed that she would never see them again.
A high-pitched wail broke through her stupor. Gilraen turned to see two tiny forms huddled in the shadows of an alleyway. Two identical faces stared out with wide, tear-filled eyes. She’d found Halpharn’s brothers. After that, there was no time for reflection—only action. Turning from the blaze, she swept down on the pair of toddlers and hoisted one onto each hip. The children screamed and kicked, but Gilraen didn’t loosen her grip. She turned and ran up the street, away from the flames and the smoke, the terror and loss.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
“Maybe Lord Elladan was right.” Arandur’s back was to Gilraen. Her voice was timid. “First the ambush, now the house . . . you don’t think it’s an attack?”
Arandur splashed a little more water on his face, trying to dispel both soot from the fire and the weariness that comes from three sleepless nights. He sighed and turned to face his sister. Gilraen had not washed. She was not as filthy as he, but grime nonetheless clung to her hair, her nightgown, and the furrows in her face. Beneath the soot, that face was pale, and Arandur doubted she was feeling much more rested than he. It had taken all night to quench the flames, and in the end both Gilraen’s and Lothiriel’s cabins were lost—ordeal enough for two young widows. Lothiriel had nearly lost two of her children as well. The young woman had told Arandur how she had given up hope of seeing her tiny sons again when Gilraen walked, soot-streaked and shell-shocked, into the makeshift camp with both children in tow. That was not how Arandur would have chosen for his sister to learn of her home’s destruction.
“Muinthel-nín,” he murmured, drawing Gilraen into an embrace, “You’ve lost much in a short span of time. It is natural to look for reasons. But there was a watch on the gate. No strangers, orc or otherwise, have entered Fornost Eden. That fire could have been caused by anything: a wet haystack, a forgotten candle, a stray spark from the hearth. It could have smoldered for days before breaking out. Do not create more enemies for yourself; you’ve enough already.”
Gilraen nodded against his chest. But always, he could feel her doubt growing.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
“Elladan?”
His brother’s voice jolted Lord Elladan out of a half-dreaming state. “Hmm?”
“I’ve been thinking,”
“Never a good sign.”
“Ha ha.” Elrohir pulled his horse alongside Elladan’s as they made their way through the forest. “I’ve been thinking about what I heard.”
“The signal at the ambush?”
“Yes. At first I thought someone had blown a high note on a pipe or whistle, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Yes?”
“It sounded more like a voice—a person whistling.”
That got Elladan’s attention. “Orcs can’t whistle; their lips are rotting.”
“I know that, it’s just what it sounded like.” The two rode in silence for a few moments. “So then I started thinking—“
“Uh oh.”
“Thinking about the pattern of attacks lately—how the orcs have been moving in smaller companies deeper in Ranger territory. It’s almost as if they have a strategy.”
Elladan sighed. “We’ve talked about this, Elrohir. The Enemy never moves without a purpose. The orcs are here to accomplish some end; they always have been.”
“I’m not talking about a grand battle strategy; we’re still trying to puzzle that out. I’m talking about . . . tactics. The orcs move in smaller groups so that they’re harder to detect. They lay ambushes with specific goals in mind every time. Does that sound like typical orc behavior to you?”
“They’re soldiers, Elrohir. They’re poorly-trained and barbaric, but soldiers nonetheless. Such tactics are a part of any war.” Elrohir didn’t respond. “You think there’s more to it than that?”
“Don’t you? Improving tactics, heightening casualties, and now a signal that couldn’t have come from an orc? Do the math, Elladan.”
The other elf cursed softly. “You think they have a new captain? A Haradrim or a Variag . . .”
“Or worse.”
“Worse? What could be worse than . . .” Elladan paused. “No. It can’t be. Ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Elrohir, there hasn’t been a Black Númenorean this far north since . . . before the founding of Gondor!”
“Yet many things have changed since the founding of Gondor.”
“The race is extinct, Elrohir.”
“We can’t know that.”
“If you’re right . . .”
“If?”
“If. Arandur will never know what hit him. All their tactics are designed for battling hoards of undisciplined orcs, not troops under the command of a tactician.”
“Should we go back?”
Elladan hesitated a long moment. “And be tossed out on our heels again? I say not. We’re a day’s ride from Maldir’s patrol; we can alert them to our suspicions as we pass through.”
“You still don’t mean to stay?”
“We can’t. We’re here only on the chieftain’s sufferance. And besides, some compulsion draws me homeward.”
The two elves pushed their mounts to greater speed and were soon flying through the silent forests.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Herumor stood with his arms crossed over his armored chest. His hood was pushed back, allowing ebony hair to ripple in the night breeze. His mask stayed in place, though; a simple black cloth covering his nose and mouth. The wind brought the reek of orcs to his sensitive nose, but he forced himself not to shudder.
Two of his largest orcs approached, with a slender form clutched between them. The orcs staggered up and deposited their burden with a grunt at Herumor’s feet. It was a human figure swathed in a green cloak, a battered sword belted at its waist. Slowly the figure raised itself to one knee, silent with bowed head and hunched shoulders.
“Look at me, boy.” Herumor hissed. The figure slowly raised his head, revealing a boy of thirteen or fourteen summers with the characteristic gray eyes of the Dunedain. “It seems we have a problem.” Herumor remarked mildly.
The child trembled. “My . . . my lord I did as you commanded. I set fire to the house at nightfall.”
“Indeed you did; we could see it from the valley. And yet, we’ve been watching this past day, and your village seems quite cheery for a town in mourning; no laments, no wailing, no somber gatherings upon the hilltop. Which leads me to wonder, why wouldn’t your people mourn the passing of the last of that revered line?” Herumor paused. “Unless, of course, it has not passed. Look at me.” The boy stared as if transfixed. “The child lives.” It was not a question, but Herumor saw the answer in the boy’s eyes. “Fortuitous, isn’t it, that one so young should survive so fierce a blaze. It makes me wonder . . .” His eyes drilled into the boy’s, “If we were betrayed.”
The child’s face paled. “N-no, my lord. The mother and child didn’t return to the house that night. I didn’t know. I didn’t tell them, I swear!”
“Do you think to double-cross us, boy? Do you need another reminder of why you are here?”
“No, my lord! I remember . . .”
“Bring out the dog!” Herumor called. Chains rattled, the boy trembled, and an orc slowly stepped to Herumor’s side. In its gnarled talon, the goblin clutched not an animal of any kind, but a tiny, whimpering scrap of a human clad in torn, filthy skirts. Herumor swung his hand in a lazy backfist and smiled when his gauntleted fist made contact with a bruised cheek. The little wretch gasped, but knew better than to cry out.
The kneeling boy swallowed hard and fixed his gaze on Herumor. “I didn’t betray you, my lord.”
“I believe you,” Herumor answered slowly, “And it’s the only reason she’s still alive. But, nonetheless, you have failed. It seems I will have to take matters into my own hands after all.”
What little color remained quickly drained from the boy’s face. “No, please. Not the whole village. Please, my lord!”
“Silence! You had your chance to settle this with less bloodshed. You now leave me with no other recourse.”
For a moment, the boy was silent. “Then, please, may I have your leave to return?” The boy looked down. “I won’t sound the alarm. I just want to see my mother and brothers one last time.”
Herumor strode to within a pace of the unfortunate lad. “You wish to die at their side and forget all your sins in one last glorious stand.”
The boy didn’t look up. “Yes, my lord.”
Herumor laughed and reached out a hand to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Nice try, little hero. Am I to believe that you would choose one family member . . . over three? Do not insult me, boy. You will stay here until all is accomplished. The boy’s face broke, and a solitary tear trickled down his dirty cheek. Herumor turned to the waiting orcs. “Take him away!”
As the orcs dragged the boy away, Herumor watched his retreating back thoughtfully. In the three weeks he’d been cultivating this little minion, Herumor had become almost fond of the boy, in spite of himself. After all, it was not the boy’s fault that he’d been born to a family of blood traitors—denigrates who consorted with elves and other such undesirables. If Herumor’s Master moved quickly to his final victory, perhaps he could even keep this young one. He would make a fair servant; he was half-broken already. Herumor smiled. Yes, the boy would make a good slave. Once the Isilduroni were dead and their kin cast down forever.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Thorondir shook Gilraen’s shoulder insistently. “You must wake up, muinthel-nín. We must leave quickly.” Gilraen opened her eyes blearily. She’d only meant to rest her head for a moment . . . somehow she lay once again on her narrow pallet, with Aragorn slumbering beside her. Thorondir was dressed for a patrol in Ranger leathers under a dirty cloak. One hand rested ever on the hilt of his sword, and a bow and quiver were slung across his back.
“Thor? Wha’s going on?”
“There’s no time, Gil. The village is under attack.” Gilraen sat bolt upright. Thorondir pointed to a shirt and breeches draped over her boudoir. “Dress quickly. I’ll prepare the child.” Thorondir scooped up Aragorn who squalled slightly; the interrupted nights were taking a heavy toll on him.
Gilraen stepped behind a dressing screen and quickly stripped off her nightgown. As she dressed she pelted her younger brother with questions. “How large is the raiding party?”
“It’s too dark to tell for sure. At least thirty, probably more.”
“Why wasn’t the alarm raised?”
“We don’t know yet. Halpharn and Sarnbarad were on duty. They’re only boys. It’s possible the enemy crept up on them and overpowered them before they could wind the horn.”
“Are they still alive?”
“We don’t know. Hurry, we’re evacuating all the women and children.” Gilraen stepped out from behind the screen, pulling her boots on as she went. Thorondir already had Aragorn arrayed in play clothes, a tiny cloak wrapped around his shoulders. “Take your weapons.” The young Ranger pointed to the bow and dagger Gilraen had trained with as a child. Though she hadn’t practiced in longer than she cared to admit, the woman quickly belted the long knife at her waist, threw on a cloak, and strapped the bow and quiver to her back. She took Aragorn from Thorondir and followed him down the stairs at a run.
Ivorwen waited by the doorstep, similarly clad with a bow in her hands and an arrow on the string. “Come quickly,” she said, her voice soft but intense. Unlike the previous night, there were no torches or lanterns in the street. Shouts, the clang of swords, and the twang of bows reached them from the direction of the gate, but this street was almost eerily quiet. There was no panic—no children running to and fro—the stakes were too high for that. Instead, armed, silent women led their offspring in orderly lines towards the hills and the safety of the western passages. They’d prepared for this.
Aragorn cried and kicked against Gilraen’s shoulder. His mother shushed him as best she could before falling in step behind Ivorwen. Thorondir, his sword loosened in its scabbard, brought up the rear. Ivorwen set a quick pace, her long legs eating up the distance. Before long, Gilraen was panting for breath, trying to keep up with her mother even as she sagged under her son’s weight. “Mama,” she gasped, “We’re going the wrong way. The evacuation groups meet by the north face.”
“Hush. We’re not meeting the evacuation groups.” Gilraen didn’t have long to wonder at that statement; their goal was in sight. Ivorwen cut down an alleyway and into the big, red structure that served as the Ranger stables.
It took a moment for Gilraen’s eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they did, she froze in her tracks. Three horses stood saddled in the trestles: Arandur’s dun mare Mallorn, Thorondir’s yearling Begilaith, and Arathorn’s iron gray gelding Rohiridan. Arandur himself stood at the gelding’s side, adjusting the tack and saddlebags. Ivorwen strode up and helped her elder son tighten a girth strap.
“You have the provisions?” She asked.
“Three days food and water, just as you said.”
“Valar willing, you won’t need them. If you ride fast you can meet up with Maldir’s patrol before daybreak. Come, Gilraen.”
Thorondir took Aragorn from her yielding arms and sat him atop Rohiridan. Ivorwen strapped something long and thin to the saddle horn. Gilraen stayed where she was. “What’s going on?”
Arandur’s voice was brisk. “We’re getting you out by the swiftest road, now come quickly.”
“You’re coming with me?”
“Thorondir and I are to guide you to the nearest armed patrol.”
“But, you’re the acting-chieftain!”
“And this is my first duty, now come.”
“But Arandur, what about Rían?”
“My wife will follow with the regular evacuation groups, now get on the horse, muinthel-tithen.”
Gilraen turned, confusion in her eyes. “Mama . . .”
Ivorwen took her only daughter by the shoulders and rested their foreheads together. “You must take Aragorn to safety. That is your first duty as a mother, and ours as Dúnedain. Your father and I will follow, no more than a day behind you.” There was a sudden shout from outside the stable and a clang of weapons. Ivorwen raised her head. “Go.”
Gilraen raced to Rohiridan and dragged herself up into the saddle, pulling Aragorn close. Behind her, the stable door flew open, and two young Rangers stumbled in, pursued by nearly a dozen orcs. In a motion so smooth it seemed effortless Ivorwen drew her bow, released an arrow into the eye of the leading orc, and had another on the string in an instant. Arandur and Thorondir drew their swords, wheeled their horses around, and charged in, cutting down two more orcs as Ivorwen’s bow claimed yet another. Though both were bleeding freely, the younger fighters found their footing and planted themselves on either side of Ivorwen as her sons came around for another pass. “There’s no time!” Ivorwen yelled, “Go!”
Though tears were streaming down Thorondir’s face, he and his brother turned from their mother and galloped out into the street, sweeping Gilraen along in their wake. Swift as wolves in a forest, they flew down the street, the horses’ hoofs thundering beneath them. In less than a minute, they reached the first of the mountain passes where women, children, and the elderly were assembling to flee on foot. Thorondir raised his voice, “Make way for the Chieftain!” As one, the crowds pressed back against the cliff face, leaving a broad track through which the three horses tore. Now the horses’ hoofs were clattering against stone. Boulders and rock faces were flashing by at an alarming rate. Aragorn had finally stopped crying. He seemed cowed into silence by this frightening new experience.
As soon as she felt it was safe, Gilraen reached down to touch the slender bundle her mother had strapped to the saddlebags. Her hand encountered cool steel, richly engraved. She swallowed hard. Ivorwen had sent her with Arathorn’s sword.
