From Library of the Randirim

~~by LOTRFan101

From the diary of Romendakil Radagorthor.

Contents 1 Entry One 2 Entry Two 3 Entry Three 4 Entry Four 5 Entry Five 6 Entry Six 7 Entry Seven 8 Entry Eight 9 Entry Nine 10 Entry Ten 11 Entry Eleven 12 Entry Twelve 13 Entry Thirteen 14 Entry Fourteen 15 Entry Fifteen 16 Entry Sixteen 17 Entry Seventeen 18 Entry Eighteen 19 Entry Nineteen 20 Entry Twenty 21 Entry Twenty One 22 Entry Twenty Two 23 Entry Twenty Three 24 Entry Twenty Four

Entry One

It seems strange now--strange that after many long weeks of travel, struggle and preparation that we finally stand on the verge of completing our mission--a mission that concerns all of us closely, that has made the individual threads of our lives a single tangled web.

I speak, of course, of the long-awaited assault upon Fornost. Even as I write, we are encamped in the Fields, not a half-day's journey from the Gates themselves.

The Valar work in strange ways. As I survey my friends and companions, I am struck by how strange it is that we have been brought together like this--how strange it is that we, who seem so different, share a common fate, a single great destiny.

Sparks fly as our leader, Tarandil, sharpens his blade on a whetstone. Tarandil. When I first met him, he was a young and arrogant, boastful of his deeds in battle, yet ignorant (and worse, uncaring!) of knowledge or lore. I never thought--none of us ever thought--that Tarandil would turn out to be our leader. Yet the blood of the Dunedain runs in his veins, and in a matter of mere weeks he has become worthy of it, growing, seemingly, in stature and wisdom. The Rangers call him Ruincrist, the Flame-sword, and having seen him fight I cannot help but agree.

Tarastor, meanwhile, sits soundlessly; immobile and unmoving, his hands folded in his lap. What can one say about this one? Tarastor is indeed worthy to bear the title Knight of Dol Amroth. Noble and yet humble, his very presence is enough to inspire men to great feats. He is the Hero of Trestlebridge, and fights not for honor or glory, but to free those of the town who have been taken captive. I named him Teginagor, the war-leader, for though he may leading this expedition, he will always be a great Captain of Men.

Breglebed puffs away merrily at a pipe, a thin stream of smoke rising into the air. I know little of the perian, except what I've seen of him. A jolly, cheerful fellow, his face alive with mischevious glee. He is no better than a thief, yet it is impossible to be angry with him for long. A interesting name of his, Quick-fingered. He claims that it was given to him by an Elf whose pockets he tried (unsuccesfully) to pillage! I don't doubt it in the least. He has joined us, it seems, to regain something that was stolen from him--a great club kept in the Mathom House of the Shire.

Dwror is not in the camp, but that is only what I've come to expect. He is unwearying in battle and travel alike, and can always be counted on to see what others cannot. I wondered that a Dwarf should bear a bow, and he admits it is a strange thing. Yet he learned from the Elves of Mirkwood (or Greenwood, as it was once called), and they call him Thoronchen, the Eagle-eyed. His eyes indeed are piercing and golden; they say that the light of Manwe is in them. The Dwarf-settlement, Orkthir I think it's called, has also lost its folk to the prisons of Fornost, and he goes to reclaim them.

Wolfhelm sits close by Tarastor; the firelight reflects the scars that run across his throat. A strange man, this Rohirrim is. He was with Tarastor when I met him; according to whom, he was a scout of Rohan, who was bested by some Uruks in a fight and nearly killed--would have been, if Tarastor had not saved him. He does not often speak (be it his injuries or his nature, I know not) but is fiercly loyal to his rescuer and a great warrior. I name him Draugthol in private speech (which is merely a translation of his name into Sindarin).

And now there is only myself to speak of--myself and my beloved friend Habrok. A particularly intelligent hawk whom I met in Imladris long ago. He understands my speech as well (indeed, often better!) than any human, and I in turn, through long practice, am able to understand his caws. Who am I? Just a tired old man. Some call me a Lore-master, and the Elves of Imladris call me Radagorthor, the Beast-master, though I don't take these titles myself. I am just a scholar, born in Anfalas and dwelling in Imladris these long years of my life. If not for the request of Master Elrond, I would have remained there still to the end of my days.

But I write far too much, for far too long. It is late; and in the morning, the time will come, at last, for the Orcs of Fornost to pay reckoning for their deeds.

Entry Two

From the diary of Romendakil Radagorthor.

It has been a hectic day--as one might expect when your foes are the evils within Fornost--yet night has come again, and with it, the pause in our attack.

A blow-by-blow account of the battles would be a waste of my time as well as the potential readers' (however much young hotheads like Tarandil would enjoy it!) The remarkable events of today, however, are worth recording.

We reached Fornost in mid-morning, as per our plan. With the sun climbing to its peak, our enemies would, most likely, be sheltering from the rays. The creatures of evil bear no love for the sun--or indeed the stars, all praise to Elbereth... but I forget myself.

We came upon the great gate of Fornost, then, to find it open. The courtyard beyond, however, was totally deserted. It pointed to a trap, and none of us felt like springing it. With a few whispered words, I convinced Habrok to wing high overhead, out of sight of any watchers, and report back to me.

This he did in due course. The prisoners of Trestlebridge and Orkithar, it seems, were being held in a corner of the lower courtyard. They were well-guarded by Orcs and the occasional Warg; their cells had been built deep in the natural shadows of the walls, so the sun would not irriate the guards. As for other foes, he had not seen a sign of them.

Fate was on our side--perhaps too well. I immediatley counciled caution, but Tarandil was having none of it.

"We must free the prisoners before night falls," he said, and then ordered, "We move in now. Habrok will be our guide."

It is getting late, so I must write rapidly of the fight that ensued. We were not detected until we approached the cells themselves. The Orcs and Wargs were nevertheless caught completely by surprise. Tarandil's battle-cries and the sound of his war-horn, I think, did more to demoralize them then our attack! They seemed to think an army was upon them; Dwror's rapid arrow fire did much to aid this assumption. It was but the work of a few minutes--bloody work, but quick--to drive them from the prison cells.

And thus we came upon the prisoners we sought, and quickly freed them. Great was the joy of the Men and Dwarves there, and loud were their praises for Tarastor and Dwror, whose purpose had been to rescue them. Once they had given their thanks, the prisoners hastened out of the city.

There is one curious event that I must tell of. For within a small cell of her own was a woman bent with age. Tarastor took one glance at her and uttered a cry of recognition. "Oakheart! Sara Oakheart!"

It came to pass that this Sara Oakheart had once been a captive of the Blackwold Brigands, and that Tarastor and Wolfhelm had saved her then. And now--here she was, in Fornost. The old woman was too confused to give much of a tale, but the strangeness of the matter is heavy on my mind--as it is, I think, on Tarastor's as well.

Well, the night is late, and I must rest my weary bones. We have made camp near the cells; tomorrow we must break into the upper courtyard, where we are sure to face greater resistance than before.

Entry Three

This entry was obviously made in great haste. The handwriting is not at all the neat script of the previous two entries.

I feel obligated to make this acount, yet I don't have much time. Night is fast approaching, and when it comes, we shall be fighting for our lives.

It seems an Age long past, yet it was but a few hours ago that we broke our camp for the morning. As we walked, we ate the bland travelling rations in our packs. Once again, it was decided that we should send Habrok ahead to scout; we halted our march to wait for his return.

Shortly after my hawk friend took wing, Tarandil finished his meal and turned to us. "Well, some at least of our quest is achieved. The prisoners have been liberated. To save others--I deem it may be the most important part of our time here. But we've a hard fight before us--"

Breglebed interrupted him. With a clear little laugh, he said, "We all know that the real reason we're all here is to get my club back from that nasty goblin who stole it--"

"The Mathom House's club, by all accounts," I said with a smile.

The hobbit airly waved his hands, ignoring my remark. "Whatever. The point is, enough with this doom-and-gloom stuff. Just because you're a Ranger doesn't mean you have to act like one! Now let's all have a relaxing smoke," he said, pulling a pouch of pipe-weed from his pocket.

"And who did you steal that from?" asked Tarandil with a chuckle.

Breglebed drew himself up indignantly. "Stole? I don't steal. I borrow. Anyway, I borrowed it from my cousin Redrogo while he was lecturing me about how I shouldn't steal things from people, or some such nonsense."

In the midst of the hobbit's speech, Habrok returned. The conversation continued, but I heard none of it; I was concentrating on my friend's report.

"The upper courtyard, too, is deserted..." I spoke aloud, and instantly all conversation ceased.

"Are you sure?" asked Tarandil.

"Habrok is certain," I replied, "but he only knows what he saw. There were no enemies in plain sight, but that doesn't mean there weren't any."

Tarastor stirred; we all turned to face him. "It speaks too much of a trap. I have not been easy in my mind since we took the lower courtyard with so little resistance. Fornost has not earned its reputation as the scourge of the North by failing to provide for its own defense."

Tarandil paced up and down for several minutes. "All right," he said, finally. "Here's my decision. We will go into the upper courtyard--briefly, as long as the light lasts. If the courtyard is truly empty, all well and good. But at the slightest hint of a trap, we leave and return to our camp here."

And thus we came to pass through the second great gate, and we stood in the upper courtyard of Fornost. As far as I could see, it was truly deserted. I looked at Dwror; the golden-eyed Dwarf shook his head. Nothing.

"Well, this is certainly a relief!" said Breglebed cheerily.

At that moment, the gate slammed shut.

As one, we whirled to face it, drawing our weapons. It was not a deception: the gate had somehow closed. We had fallen into a cunning trap.

There was a slight noise at the large tower to our right. I faced it and saw a door in the stone face swing open. Standing in the shadow of the doorway was a figure-- a large figure.

Dwror's eyes pierced the shadows first. "Orc," he muttered, reaching for an arrow.

Upon closer inspection, we, too, could see. It was not just an Orc--it was an Uruk, one of the black folk of Mordor, and a particularly large Uruk at that.

Breglebed gave a loud cry. "Him! That's the filthy creature that stole my club! I'd recognize him anywhere!"

Tarandil stepped forward a pace. Raising his voice, he shouted, "I assume you are the Warleader of the Black Tide that I was sent here to quell."

"Yes!" the Uruk responded, in a voice harsh and grating. "Yes, tark. I am Mauash, leader of the great army of Fornost. Skah! You have fallen into Riamul's trap like a newborn babe. When night comes, I will slay you all."

Tarandil's voice rose in anger. "I tell you, Orc, that that will never be. We are En Cothin Uin Dond, the death of the darkness! I, Tarandil Ruincrist, shall put an end to you, and to the evils of Fornost! By my name and blood, I swear this!"

The Uruk's laughted. "When night comes, glob, we will see." And then he was gone.

And now the sun is sinking below the horizon, and I must stop writing, for very soon the Orcs will be upon us...

Entry Four

The ink of this entry is totally different from that of the previous three--darker and much more visible. This entry is plainly the most recent.

It has been some days since I made the effort to put pen to paper. My heart has been heavy, my mind elsewhere. It is nothing more than a painful sense of duty that drives me to write now. Perhaps Lord Elrond will one day read this, if I am unable to return to Imladris and live out my days there.

My account left off some three days ago...

At that time my companions and I were waiting for the inevitable attack. No words were spoken; none were needed. We knew full well what a trial we would have that night.

I could see plainly that Tarandil was uneasy. The young Dunadan had erred, and like most new and unused to command, he was guilty about it, blaming himself for our predicament. Would this guilt destroy him, or would he resume his rightful place at our head? Only time would tell.

And our time was running out.

As the sun vanished below the horizon, we stood. Even Breglebed's face had lost its cheer. Dwror piled wood on his campfire until the flickering light blazed like a beacon. Wolfhelm planted Tarastor's banner behind it; the silver swan of Dol Amroth rose up, and around this we gathered.

Tarandil's face, normally tanned from the southern sun, was deathly pale. Swallowing, he broke the silence. "No veren. Steady. Stand steady--"

From out of the darnkess came the leering voice of the Uruk warleader. "Night has come, tark. Flee now, if you wish to live..."

Tarandil's only reply was to draw his swords. Ah, these swords of his. Forged from the rarest ore, crafted in the likeness of Westernesse-steel of old with the aid of a Dunadan of great skill, they were. Glamdagnir and Garavgurth he named them, Orc-bane and Wolf-death. They glittered red in the firelight, thirsty for blood.

They would not be kept waiting for long.

"CHARGE!" bellowed the Uruk.

And with snarls and roars, the Black Tide of Fornost was upon us. First came Orcs, their rusty scimitars held aloft. Behind them sprinted fierce Wargs, their yellowed fangs sharp and deadly.

"An e Forven!" Tarandil threw himself at the enemies, his blades whirling and flashing. With no regard for his own safety, he hacked and slashed at the Orcs before him, black blood staining the ground around him. So mighty was the assault of this Dunadan that he drove back the foe almost single-handed. Yet there were many--too many. They began to encircle Tarandil, and if action was not taken, they might slay him.

I wrapped a damp cloth around my right hand. This cloth came from Imladris; some elven virtue in the art of its weaving kept it totally immune to burning. A gift from Lord Glorfindel, it had been with me as long as my hawk friend. With it, I snatched at the fire behind me, clutching at a burning ember. Juggling it in my palm, I took aim and threw. A Warg howled and fled, its singed coat speeding it on its way. Habrok knew what to do; he left my shoulder and darted into the fray, circling over the closest Warg. I grabbed another ember, hoping the creatures' fear of fire would take hold of them.

An Orc rushed me, catching me off-guard. Before I could seize my staff, Breglebed appeared out of the darkness. His daggers flashed, and the Orc died before he knew what hit him.

Tarastor and Wolfhlem stood side by side, their swords humming in tangent, two veteran warriors who knew each other as brothers. Dwror's bow sounded behind me, his silent shafts vanishing into the darkness.

We seemed almost to carry the day, but then the Uruk's voice was heard again. "Olog-hai! Bring in the Olog-hai!"

My blood chilled. I had studied enough of the Black Speech to know what that meant.... Troll.

And there the brute was, pounding out of the shadows. Armored, he was, a figure of terror, wielding an enormous hammer.

"Olog! Olog!" the Orcs chanted.

With a dull roar, the creature swung his heavy weapon. Tarandil threw himself to the side; the hammer smashed into the ground where he'd stood only moments before. Dirt flew into the air from the impact. The troll strode towards the Tarastor. With a loud cry, Wolfhelm hacked at the beast's arm, but his blade struck only the troll's armor. As if by an afterthought, the troll lashed out at the Man of Rohan, knocking him to the ground with a heavy fist.

"Khazad ai-menu!" Dwror's deep voice thundered through the courtyard. The stout Dwarf held a fistful of arrows; their tips glowed red with fire. Notching one, he shot it at the troll. The flaming shaft struck the creature in the shoulder.

Roaring in pain, the troll clutched at his wound. Another arrow flew, and another, the troll stumbling as it faced Dwror's onset. There was a loud caw, and Habrok darted in and out, in and out, his sharp beak gouging at the troll's eyes. It roared in pain and stumbled. Tarastor stepped forward, swinging his claymore up and striking the beast a mortal wound.

Dwror's final fire arrow buried itself in the troll's forehead, and, with an earth-shaking crash, the massive thing hit the courtyard floor, as dead as the stone it was born of.

With their champion slain, our enemies quailed, and we appeared to have won.

We were wrong...

Entry Five

We were wrong.

At the very moment that the Troll fell to the ground, at the exact instant our foes began to quail, I felt a sudden chill down my spine. The others felt it too. I could see them looking around uneasily.

It was Dwror who first discovered the source of it. He cursed in his own harsh tongue, then raised an unsteady hand and said, "Look..."

We looked.

Ringing the upper courtyard were dozens of pale figures. They seemed as skeletons, and I instantly remembered a book I'd read in Elrond's library. These pale skeletons... were Wights. Foul spirits of the Witch-king at the height of his power, sent to inhabit the bones of Men long-dead. It seemed not all of the creatures had been vanquished at the Battle of Fornost one thousand years ago...

Knowing what the things were did little to dispel my fear of them.

We again heard the harsh, cruel laughter of Mauash, the Uruk-general. There he stood, leering, fully armored, holding in one hand a scimitar and in the other the club sought by the hobbit. At his left, a twisted Orc hunched, leaning on a heavy staff. At his right stood the most terrible Wight of all, holding a pale sword.

"I warned you. You cannot hope to escape Riamul--" he indicated the Wight--"and his shades. I have but to give the order--"

The Uruk's speech was suddenly cut off, by a small, high voice. "That's my club you've got there!" Breglebed! Somehow the hobbit had moved unnoticed until he stood directly before his enemy.

At that point, things began to happen very fast.

Breglebed lunged and seized hold of the club. Triumphant, he hefted his pirze aloft, crying, "The weapon of the Bullroarer! You'll soon feel it on your mangy hides!" He swung it two-handed, striking Mauash a punishing blow.

As he reeled backwards, the Uruk bellowed, "GLOBASH!" and the Orc at his side sprang forward. Before the hobbit, unbalanced by the weight of the club, could recover, he raised his staff--and swung.The weapon caught Breglebed a harsh blow to the head. There was a loud crack, and the laughing halfling suddenly stiffened and fell abruptly to the ground. He did not stir.

"NO!"

Before anyone could react, Tarandil ran forward, and stood over the hobbit's still form. His swords in hand, he faced the three of them, shielding Breglebed from them.

"He can't fight them alone! Dol Amroth!" cried Tarastor.

Our young leader fought furiously. Parrying a blow from Mauash's scimitar, he swung wildly with his off-hand weapon, lashing to keep the Orc at bay. But he left himself open to Riamul. Swiftly, the Wight hefted his weapon. The pale sword struck the Dunadan's weapon with inhuman force.

And in a shower of sparks, Tarandil's blade shattered.

He stood staring in shock--for an instant too long. Globash saw his chance and swung his staff once more. Tarandil flung himself aside--barely in time; the staff struck his left shoulder, and his other sword fell from his limp hand.

Tarastor was suddenly there, his sword in hand. His blow was directed at Globash; the Orc, in his haste to retreat, stumbled and fell once more. Behind the Knight, Dwror rushed up, holding his bow like a sword.

The situation was rapidly getting out of hand. Now two of our number were down--dead or wounded, I could not tell--and the Orcs and Wights were closing in around us...

Entry Six

Something had to be done.

I had a trick up my sleeve, as it were--a trick that I had hoped to save until the very last resort, the final edge of need. Well, I guess this situation would qualify, I thought as I dug in my pack for the appropriate object.

I gave a low whistle, and Habrok flew to my shoulder. The noise did not go unheard by my companions. They knew what my last resort was--and what they must do. Dwror instantly flung himself to the ground; Tarandil and Tarastor turned their backs and ran.

To our foes, it seemed a retreat; they yelled and charged us, thinking that we were about to fall.

Not so. I threw the object at the center of them.

There was a crack, and a blinding flash of light that lit the entire courtyard. The Orcs--and even the Wights--had not expected it. Blinded by the sudden brightness, they stumbled about, seeking for us.

But they did not find us.

At the very moment of the flash, we had acted. Dwror stumbled to his feet, shouldered his bow and scooped Breglebed up in his brawny arms. Tarandil and Tarastor hauled Wolfhelm's still-limp form up; together, they were able to lift and carry him, despite Tarandil's injured arm.

And together, we ran for our lives, out of the upper gate and through the lower courtyard. Our horses waited for us.

Tarandil swung onto his stallion, Daeron, one arm hanging limply at his side. Tarastor mounted Foenalf, and heaved Wolfhelm into Steda's saddle. I called to Arroch and clambered up. Dwror shoved Breglebed onto the saddle behind me, before jumping onto Steda himself, propping the Man of Rohan with his body, and taking the mare's reigns.

We rode then as if the Nine themselves were on our tail.

And as dawn broke, we galloped through the gates of Esteldin, the hidden Dunedain sanctuary, escaping the scene of our defeat--against all odds--with a precious gift: our lives.

Entry Seven

The account of Tarandil Ruincrist.

I am done with having others doing what I should myself be doing--and this includes the telling of the Tale. Romendakil has said his piece, but I must take up the narrative here...

It was morning when we rode into Esteldin. Esteldin. The place of hope--the place where dwell the kin of my mother, Adaneth--the secret and secure home of the Dunedain of the North. By dint of my mother's blood, I am one of them. But if there is one thing that I have learned, it is that your blood means nothing if your actions are not worthy of it. Nothing.

Esteldin's gates are closed as a rule, but are ready to spring open to any friend of the Free Peoples of Eriador. So they stood when I led my companions through them that morning, the morning after my disgrace.

Our return, it seemed, had been looked for. No sooner had we dismounted then we were surrounded by Rangers. No explanation was given or required; Breglebed and Wolfhelm were born away to be cared for by the healers and the wise old men like Romendakil. I was pestered to tell the story of our attack, but left it to Tarastor and Dwror; I would tell my tale only to Halbarad himself. To this end, I sought him out, and found him sitting in a tent, awaiting me.

The sun was high in the sky by the time I finished. Halbarad's face was grave, but not unkind.

"An army of Orcs. Wights risen from battles long-past. This is ill news, Tarandil, ill news indeed. The Dunedain are stretched thin across Eriador; Lord Aragorn has bidden us so, and he himself is away on a great errand to Rivendell. We cannot hold back this tide and yet retain our watch on Angmar, our guard of the borders of the Shire, and our presence in Bree-land!" Halbard shook his head. "Tarandil, my friend, in this matter we cannot aid you, and yet Fornost must be dealt with."

He stood and paced the room. "You must ride foth at once, and gather allies to this end. Many travelers pass through Bree-land; enlist Saeradan's aid in this matter. He will know much of the goings-on, and perhaps be able to contact those who would be willing to fight with us."

I bowed--"Yes, my lord--" and departed. I had a great journey to prepare for, and every second I tarried in Esteldin was time I could be spending in my search. For where in Middle-Earth was there a company that would be strong enough--and willing enough--to aid in an assault upon Fornost itself?

Entry Eight

The account of Tarandil Ruincrist.

They waited for me outside of Halbarad's dwelling; I saw in their eyes the questions before they asked them.

"We shall gather our strength and attack them again," I said. Then I asked what I most desired to know: "How are they?"

"Wolfhelm is already on his feet," Romendakil replied. "As for Breglebed, that Orc's staff has some curse upon it, or so it seems. He is awake, but his body is still weak. The healers think it's some kind of fungus; they're searching for a cure." He glanced at me. "You were struck as well. Perhaps--"

"I'm not hurt," I lied. My arm pained me, but it would heal in time... which I did not have to spare. More of a blow was the loss of my swords. "I'm glad to hear that they're alive. Now I will ride for Bree-land at once." I strode towards the stables.

"Wait!" Tarastor cried. "You do not mean to travel alone!"

"No, my friend," I said, softly. "This matter concerns me, and me alone. The folk of Trestlebridge and Orthikar are freed. The Bullroarer's club is reclaimed, and the truth of Fornost discovered. Only my task--the slaying of that Uruk--has yet to be accomplished. From this point on, I will not let others get injured or killed fighting in my battles, on my behalf. If this is what leadership means, then I renounce it utterly."

My friends stood silent in the wake of my speech. At last, Dwror stepped forward, hefted a spiked mace of cunning craftsmanship, and said, "A gift from the smiths of my folk; we are most grateful for the freeing of our brothers."

"Give your people my thanks. I will wield it proudly until Glamdagnir may be re-found and Garavgurth re-made." I took the mace and bowed before them all. "I am at your service. Thank you... for all you've done..."

I left them then, and with a heavy heart trudged towards the stables, stopping only to fill my pack with enough rations for a long journey. But as I was about to saddle Daeron, I was surprised to see Halbard himself standing before me.

He smiled. "I thought that I would find you here... impatient as ever, Tarandil!" Before I could reply, he passed me a bundle. I shook it out to reveal a hooded cloak... the only words to describe it are magnificent: colored purple and gold, the cloth fit for kings. Inside, too, were a battle-horn and a finely carven bow.

"My lord..." I stammered, "How..."

Halbarad raised his hand. "May you wear these things proudly, so that all Free People know you are an errand-rider of the Dunedain, and that we are proud to count Tarandil Ruincrist a Ranger of the North." He bowed his head and strode away even as I muttered my thanks.

I fastened the cloak to my shoulders, hung the horn off my belt and shouldered the bow. I am a Ranger of the North... I am a Ranger... the dreams of my childhood were true at last. My mother's blood was noble. The folk of Esteldin had accepted me as one of them...

"Tolo hi, Daeron!" I cried, and leapt into the saddle. I rode forth as one of the proud Dunedain, to seek aid for my quest. Where or if I will find it, I know not. But one thing is certain--when I return to the North Downs, I will put an end to Fornost!

Entry Nine

No sooner had the sound of Tarandil's horse faded into the distance than the remaining members of the band, who were assembled at the gate, turned to leave. No words were spoken, but the same thought was in the mind of each of them. Silently, they made their way deeper into Esteldin, and entered the building which held the ill and wounded.

Wolfhelm was there, lying with ill grace in a bed. Upon seeing them, he hastily sat up. "Well, what news? Where is Tarandil?"

"He has ridden south, seeking aid," Romendakil replied. "Yet I fear he shall find none of it... tell me, how is he?" Wolfhelm shrugged and winced as he did so, clutching his side. "Much the same. He sleeps, and breathes, but nary a sound I've heard out of him."

The old man crouched beside the hobbit's bed, laying a concerned hand on his forehead. "Breglebed..."

The door swung open, and slammed shut again. The band turned to see Halbard standing in the doorway.

"My lord!" Tarastor made as if to bow, but the Dunadan waved him upright. "There is a pressing matter which I must speak to you of," he said, and paused. "Romendakil, what has become of that hawk of yours?"

"Habrok? I sent him after Tarandil, that I might remain informed of his movements."

"Ah, that is ill news. I had thought to send him to Evendim, to see if any of my kin there might come to our aid. No matter." He sighed, and drew himself up. "If you would permit me, I seek your assistance."

They looked to Tarastor, who lowered his head and spoke for all of them. "My lord, we are yours to command."

Halbarad smiled slightly. "Thank you. Now, here is what I propose... as I said to Tarandil, we here in Esteldin cannot muster the strength to march upon Fornost in battle; yet the place is a scourge on the north-lands, and it is our duty to deal with it... We are not, however, without allies. The Men of Trestlebridge, the Dwarves of Orthikar, and the Elves in the southern swamp-land... perhaps they shall help us." He looked at each of the band in turn. "I bid you to ride as messengers to each of these factions."

"We shall," said the Knight of the Swan.

"Then I am in your debt." Halbard bowed. "I assure you that our healers are doing all that they can for your hobbit friend. I hope that he shall make a full recovery." He left then, closing the door softly behind him.

"Orkthiar's folk know me well," said Dwror. "I will go at once."

"And I to the Elves," said Romendakil. "Their leader, Gildor, is an old friend of mine."

"And I," said Tarastor, "to Trestlebridge. They call me their captain; some of the men may follow me--yea, even into that dread city, if need be."

"I ride with you!" said Wolfhelm fiercly, leaping to his feet. "I will not sit idle here--" But he swayed as he stood, grabbing at his side with a low moan. "No, my friend," Tarastor admonished. "You are wounded, and must rest."

The Man of Rohan bit his lip, but sat. "At the very least, Dwror shall borrow my steed, Steda. She shall bear you to your people far swifter than your legs." The Dwarf laughed. "My legs have served me well these sixty years! But I thank you for the loan of the horse. May you soon be healed, and ride her yourself!"

And so it was that some hours later, the two Men and the Dwarf found themselves passing through Esteldin's outer gate... each to seek a different ally of the Rangers.

Entry Ten

It was night, and the pale half-moon was high in the sky by the time Tarandil dismounted. He stood before a small cottage, set against a steep rock wall. Acting as if he was very familiar with the place, he tethered his horse to a stump and walked to the cabin door.

He only had to knock once before the door flew open. A man stood there, tall and grim of face, a weary look in his eyes.

Tarandil bowed, and said, "Suilaid, Saeradan."

The man's face did not lose its sterness, but there was a slight softening of his eyes as he responded in kind. "Mae govannen, Tarandil." He paused, and his eyes flicked up and down, taking in the mud-splattered clothes and the purple cloak, damp from a rain shower earlier in the day.

"What brings you here?" he asked. "I have heard some word of your actions since you rode north two months ago. You'll be glad to hear that the Orcs have not again mustered in the numbers that you and your companions fought--not in the Bree-fields, at least--and, less welcome perhaps, there has been no word of the one called Bill Ferny. But again I ask--what brings you here?"

Tarandil's face was as stony as Saeradan's as he replied with a single word: "Fornost." The man stiffened, as if the name had been a sword blow. Finally, he said, "Come in," and stood aside to let him enter.

It was only after the two Dunedain had finished a meal that Saeradan leaned back in his chair and said, "Tell me--everything."

Tarandil obeyed, telling the other man every detail about his journey. How he'd ridden north, and encountered a band of travelers under attack from Orcs under the command of Ferny. How he had parted from them at Trestlebridge, and ridden alone to Esteldin, the hidden sanctuary of the Rangers. How he had discovered his true bloodline--his mother Adaneth had been a Dunadan. How he had heard tell of Orcs gathering in Fornost, and how Halbarad had charged him to investigate them. How he had been shocked when--by some strange stroke of fate--he encountered upon the Fields of Fornost an old friend, Tarastor of Dol Amroth, and four others with him. How together, they had entered Fornost--how they freed the prisoners, both Dwarf and Men--and how they had been defeated, fleeing in shame, leaving behind a broken sword and bearing two of their number back to Esteldin, injured. Finally--by this point, dawn was breaking, and his voice was hoarse--how Halbarad had charged him to ride south and seek aid, wherever it could be found, for a second attack upon Fornost.

Saeradan spoke not a word throughout the entire tale, but upon its conclusion, he got to his feet and began to pace the cabin.

"I would have told you that you rode here in vain," he said, "for apart from we Dunedain who patrol here, the ordinary Bree-folk are no warriors--and would not care to aid you. However..." he let the word linger in the air--"Word has reached me that there is a company of great size here, composed of warriors from far-away lands... and they are calling themselves the Red Arrows."

Tarandil cast about for a half-forgotten memory. "I have heard those words before... the Red Arrow is a token that the Steward of Gondor sends out when he seeks aid in wars--to Rohan--though it has not been used in my lifetime."

"That may very well be why they have taken that name," said Saeradan, "for they are lead by a Lady of Dol Amroth, one of the noble house, according to what I've heard. Perhaps she seeks aid against the Enemy in the east. In any event--they are the only armed force, as far as I know, in Bree-land--and your only hope, should you wish to gather allies here."

The younger man got to his feet. "Then I shall ride for Bree at once, to investigate--" But he swayed as he stood, his weary limbs threatening to collapse. Saeradan caught him and led him over to a small bed in the corner of the cabin.

"Later, you will ride," he ordered, "But for now, you must rest."

Tarandil thought about protesting, but an overpowering weariness seemed to swarm up around him--and he was asleep before he could do so.

Entry Eleven

Steda, the great mare of Rohan, did indeed bear Dwror swiftly—too swiftly for the Dwarf. He was a steadier hand at the reigns than the majority of his folk—his quick eye had served him well as he rode behind Wolfhelm—but he had not lied when he claimed to prefer his feet. By the time he reached Orthikar, he was greatly shaken.

Luckily, Dwror did not have to remain mounted for long. He had been spotted; by the time he eased Steda into the stables, a young Dwarf was there to take her reigns, and another to help him down. Their movements were very respectful; as a veteran of the Battle of Five Armies many years before, his status among the younger generation was nothing less than sheer awe; they had been raised on tales of the fighting.

“I must speak with Lord Dori at once,” Dwror said to them now. They glanced at each other but were silent for a long while. At last, one replied, “You had better see Hannar,” and offered to lead him there.

Hannar was an elderly Dwarf, and to say the look on his face was grave would be a gross understatement. Folding his arms across his chest upon sighting Dwror, he said, “I must once again offer you my thanks for freeing those prisoners. I and they are forever at your service.”

“You shall do me a great one,” Dwror replied, “if you tell Lord Dori that I must urgently request an audience with him.”

Hannar shook his head. “That is what I was about to tell you. He has been captured... by the Dourhand army to the west.”

“How?”

The old Dwarf’s expression turned to one of fury. “They claimed that they wanted to treat with us. Lord Dori agreed to meet with their leader... as a symbol of good faith, both were to come alone.” He growled, “The worthless shorn-beards broke their vow... their leader came to the meeting place with many followers. We could only watch from here as they captured Lord Dori and carried him off.”

“When?”

“Not three hours ago.”

“And nothing has been done?”

Hannar sighed. “Our numbers have been bolstered by the return of those captured at Fornost, but still we have not the strength to defeat the Dourhands in open battle.”

Dwror angrily grasped his bow. “So you propose we leave Lord Dori a captive?”

“No—”

“The Dourhands, you say, outnumber us? So be it. We do not have to face them in a prolonged battle—that will come later. We have merely to launch a surprise attack, and keep it up long enough to free him.”

“But—”

Dwror was busy stringing his bow. “Gather a score of the stoutest Dwarves here, and tell them that they are to prepare themselves to leave with me as soon as night falls.”

Entry Twelve

Romendakil urged Arroch on to greater speed. Sired in the Valley itself, the mighty stallion did honor to his namesake: the very steed of Hurin, greatest warrior of the Edain of years long past. The old scholar smiled to himself; it would be good to stand once more alongside those who had knowledge of such things.

He had been born in a farming village of Anfalas, he now recalled, but Romendakil had never grown attached to Gondor. He had been a young man still when he left to study the ruins of the North. Rivendell had been his home for most of his life, and he had grown towards it. “I am,” he was fond of saying, “very much like an Elf myself—except much uglier.” This remark was generally followed by a dry and wheezy chuckle.

Soon enough, the buildings of the Elf-settlement were rising around him. Dismounting, he strode towards the highest of the structures and pushed open the door with the air of one who has visited many times before. Inside stood two Elves, deep in conversation; both turned to face him as he entered.

The more richly dressed of these turned and inclined his head. “Suilaid, Romendakil Radagorthor.”

“Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo,” the old man replied with a low bow. “It is good to see you again, Gildor Inglorion. I had thought you left for the Shire long ago... I did not expect to encounter you here.”

“Events move swiftly,” the Elf replied. “Not long ago I encountered three Hobbits of the Shire... they were, I fear, pursued by servants of the Enemy, yea, some at least of the Nine. It was imperative that word reach such allies as we have.”

“And yet you still remain here?”

Gildor frowned, and gestured at the second Elf who stood next to him. “I had been about to depart, having sent my message to Halbarad, but...” He bent forward and lowered his voice. “Orcs. A great host of them are encamped between here and Trestlebridge. We believe that they have come from Dol Dinen to the east.”

Romendakil spoke at once. “We must get word to Esteldin—and go there ourselves, I think. Indeed, that is why I have come—the Dunedain request your presence at a council of the free which shall soon assemble.”

The Elf-lord nodded slowly. “Your advice is, as ever, wise, my friend. We, and all of the folk here, shall depart at once.”

It was some hours later, and the column was well under way, when a scout hurried up to the head of it, where Gildor and Romendakil stood, this latter holding Arroch by the reigns.

“Yrch!” he cried in the Elvish tongue. “A portion of the force has broken off and is pursuing us!”

“How many?”

“More than double our number.”

“Press on to Esteldin!” Gildor ordered. “But some of you will remain with me. We shall delay them as long as is possible. No veren! Go quickly, and give them news of our plight!”

Entry Thirteen

Tarastor and Foenalf made good time as they journeyed south and west from the gates of Esteldin. Of the three, he knew that his ride was the longest, for Trestlebridge was nearly within Bree-land itself; its people were settlers from that region.

He was in some confusion; for he was overwhelmed by a feeling that he could not explain—a sense of vague uneasiness with no tangible source. Upon pondering it, he realized that it was the silence: no sound could be heard apart from his horse’s hooves. The familiar pace of Steda was absent. Wolfhelm, he knew, was still in Esteldin. This fact pained him; he felt as if he lacked an arm without his herald at his side, for the two men had been through much together...

A bright midday sun cast its rays upon the sweet grass of Rohan—and yet Tarastor of Dol Amroth had not been comforted by the weather. For upon his ride east and north, he had, as yet, encountered few men, taking old paths that had been almost forgotten and inhabited only by wild beasts. He was now journeying along the very northern border of Rohan, in sight of the Emyn Muil... and yet among the bare rocks he thought that he heard, very faintly, the clashing of steel.

Tarastor spurred Foenalf in the direction of the sounds and saw their source. Two enormous Orcs were bending over a fallen man, while the third cruelly tethered a horse that struggled to break free and run. The man had not, it seemed, given up without a fight; two more of the brutes lay dead beside him.

All this the knight saw and judged in an instant. He drew his long sword in one hand and hefted in the other a banner, with a silver swan upon a field of blue.

“Dol Amroth!” he bellowed, digging in his spurs. The Orcs were cast into total confusion by his cry, and he thundered up to them unopposed. He lunged, and the creature by the horse fell dead; Tarastor wheeled his horse about to have a clear shot at another’s head. The last Orc broke into a run, but not swiftly enough to outdistance his foes; he met his end as Foenalf’s heavy hooves struck him to the ground.

Tarastor dismounted in great haste and hurried to their victim’s side. He was a young man, fair-haired and blue-eyed, dressed in armor like that of the Riders of Rohan. The Orcs’ swords had left cruel slashes across his arms, chest and neck; he drew breath still, but it was faint.

He did not remember exact details of the days and nights that followed—he knew only that they were spent in unceasing vigil as he cared for the young Rohirrim’s wounds—until, one day, the man awoke.

Tarastor had been in the midst of preparing a stew when he sensed someone at his side. Without saying a word, the injured man crouched over the pot and slowly shook his head. He took the spoon from the knight’s hands, gently but insistently, and reached into a pouch at his belt. The man of Dol Amroth was not one to waste words; he resolved to let the other proceed at his own pace.

Three days passed, and the only thing he learned was that the man of Rohan was an excellent cook. No words passed between them, and he knew not for what purpose the other had journeyed so far north... nor why the Orcs were there, and whom they served. He reasoned that the wounds the man had sustained left him incapable of speech.

At last, Tarastor felt a desire to be on the move again. The purpose that had brought him all of those leagues—the search for Tarandil—had fallen completely by the wayside. He felt an acute pang of guilt for having forgotten his friend of over five years. And thus, on the dawn of the fourth day, he prepared Foenalf for travel, watched, as ever, by his silent companion.

“My name is Tarastor of Dol Amroth. I am only riding through Rohan on my way north.” There was no response. “In search of a friend of mine.” Silence. “I will be leaving today—”

“I am Wolfhelm,” interrupted the other, “and this is Steda.” He pointed at his horse. Tarastor stared in shock; the man’s voice was hoarse and weak, but despite his injuries he could indeed speak. “I ride with you.”

“Very well.”

Tarastor swung himself into the saddle and began to ride off. Only after a few moments did he remember that the banner of Dol Amroth was still stuck in the ground, where it had been flying over their camp for many days. He moved to retrieve him, but Wolfhelm, riding behind him, hefted it into the air.

From that moment on, he had been Tarastor’s herald...

The knight smiled as he looked back over his many adventures with Wolfhelm at his side. His herald had more than repaid any debt he owed his rescuer; Tarastor could count four separate occasions where he would have perished if not for him. And yet the man of Rohan remained. He had changed a little from those early days, and he spoke more easily and freely than before, but there was still a shadow upon his past, and Tarastor had never learned why he had been at the foothills of the Emyn Muil.

So lost in his thoughts was the knight that he was oblivious to the sound of Foenalf’s hooves on wood. It was not until Sergeant Trotter, leader of the garrison, came to is side that he realized he was in Trestlebridge.

“Captain Tarastor!” Trotter cried frantically. “Thank the fates you’ve arrived! We have just received word of it: an army of Orcs is even now marching towards us! Our scouts estimate that they shall be here by nightfall!”

An overpowering weariness seemed to spread through him, along with the words: Can these people do nothing without me? It was an uncharacteristically ugly thought, and the knight quickly pushed it from his mind.

He remained seated on Foenalf but issued orders to Trotter. “Muster the garrison, and arm every able-bodied man who is willing to fight. You will find me at the Trestlespan; send the men to me there. Move yourself! We have little time.”

Entry Fourteen

In the distance, the sun was sinking behind the hills. Orthikar was a bustle of activity as its folk scurried about, talking excitedly and preparing for the attack. The young Dwarves who were to form the rescue band received arms, mail, rations, and advice from their elders.

In the general clamor, none noticed the lone Dwarf who sat brooding atop a high hill to the west. Dwror looked across the plain towards the Dourhand fortress, but he saw it not. The mood of Orthikar--a bizarre mixture of anxiety and excitement--was not unknown to him. He remembered it well...

For on that day, a raven had come to Dain--one of the ravens of the Lonely Mountain, or so the elders said.

In time the news spread like wildfire across the Iron Hills: Thorin Oakenshield had returned! Smaug the Worm was slain, and there was King Under the Mountain once more! However, in the very hour that victory was won, the Men of Dale and the Elves of Mirkwood, seeing that Erebor was defended by only a few, thought to seize the treasure and carry it off. Thorin was appealing to Dain his cousin for aid.

Not a Dwarf in the Iron Hills wanted to be left behind--so great was their joy in the restoration of the treasure. Yet Dain saw well the need for haste to be made, and limited the number to five hundred of the most battle-tested warriors. Among these was Bror son of Glain, whose skill in battle was a legend among that folk. And he, Dwror, was the younger brother of Bror.

He had been only thirty at the time--barely of age among the race of Dwarves, and Dain refused for him to be among the five hundred; and in this matter Bror agreed, saying that he was far too young. Yet so great was his desire that he hid himself among the band and by the time he was discovered, it was too late to send him back.

For new messages had come from Thorin--the Elves and Men were even now putting the Mountain to siege. Dain ordered his Dwarves to march through the night, taking no rest, and so they came at last to Erebor. Dwror's breath was taken away, so great and beautiful was the mountain peak. Yet there was no time to admire it. Negotiations with the other army went ill; battle was about to be joined.

Suddenly an old man appeared before them. "Stop!" he cried, "You are undone. For goblins are coming--a great host of them. Bolg son of Azog leads them. They ride upon Wargs and have wolves in their train." At that, an alliance was forged between Dain, Thanduil of Mirkwood and Bard of Dale. For the old man was the wizard Gandalf, known as Tharkun among the Dwarves, and none doubted his council.

Dwror recalled few details of the fight that followed. The goblin-host was great and terrible, and the defense of the Mountain semeed to falter. Even as the free peoples wavered, however, a great cry was heard: "To me, my kinsfolk! To me, Elves and Men!"

There stood a Dwarf of noble bearing glad in gleaming mail. Dwror had never seen him, but he knew that it was Thorin Oakenshield; and behind him, dressed alike, were twelve more of his band. With battle-cries the free peoples gathered behind Thorin as he led them in a charge, straight at Bolg himself astride a great Warg.

But Thorin's charge was too reckless, and the goblins too many. The attackers drove the foes from the mountainside, but they were cut off and surrounded. The charge became a desperate defense as goblins swarmed about them.

In that hour, Bror proved his worth as a champion. Mighty were his cries in the harsh Dwarvish tounge, and many were the goblins who fell before his twin axes; and Dwror fought at his side, wielding a shield to cover both of them. Yet Bolg's bodyguard had come, Orcs of great size, and slew all before them. Three of them came to the sons of Glain, and pierced Bror savagely. Dwror stumbled and fell; and all would have been lost. Yet at that moment, a company of Dale-men fired their yew bows, and the arrows struck the Orcs and laid them low.

Great eagles of the North came to the aid of the free peoples, yet still the goblins were triumphing. Dwror stood in the line again, his brother's axes heavy and unfamilar in his hands, crying his rage and grief at his foes. Thorin himself had fallen to the Orcs' spears; all hope was lost.

At that moment, there was a mighty roar, and a bear of immense size bounded from nowehere into the fray. Dwror heard afterwards that it was none other than the skin-changer Beorn, but knew none of it at the time. He only saw the bear crouch and gently lift Thorin out of the fray. When it returned, its fury was so great that none could stand before it. Bolg the goblin-leader was no match for his claws and teeth.

And so the battle was won, but at a great cost. And a young Dwarf who had, he realized now, not been ready for battle stood weeping over the limp form of his fallen brother...

In silence, Dwror watched the sun's last rays sink below the hills. Picking up his bow, he strode down to where the rescue party awaited him. They were eager for battle, as he had been those long years ago; they knew only songs of glory and valour. They knew nothing of the true horror of war.

But they will learn.

Entry Fifteen

Harsh rang the voices of the Orcs; loud and ominous was the pounding of their marching feet. But for their company, the land in all directions seemed still and silent, as if the very birds feared to disturb their march.

Now the trackers began to return: orcs of small size, but swift and silent in their movments. They made their reports to an uruk tall and lean, who carried a yew bow of man-size.

"No sign of them to the east," said one tracker. He recieved a cuff to the face and sprang aside with a yelp. The next in line grinned and reported, "I spotted them, right enough. Headed north, they are, and going slowly." The one with the bow commanded in a rasping voice, "Lead on, snaga."

He turned to face his troops, a deadly gleam in his eye. "Listen, you maggots. I might not be the commander of the horde, but I've got power, and plenty of it. Besides, with battles the way they are, who can tell? Mauash may not last. In which case, you'd be wise to back Kalus, for he can help those who help him, see?"

The Orcs listened to Kalus' speech with blank expressions. Yet another of the Mordor-folk scheming for power, they'd heard it all before. The Uruk-general's trusted seconds would do his bidding one moment and plot to overthrow him the next. It mattered little to the northern Orcs; they would simply continue to follow whoever came out on top. ______________________________ ______________________

No trackers were deployed by the remainder of the Orc-host which marched upon Trestlebridge--none were needed. Or so thought the one who marched at their head, a broad-armed, stoop-shouldered uruk who held two curved and blackened blades.

"Leave Mauash his ruined city and filthy ghosts," he was saying to those around him. "Dulug will lead you to softer lands, and easy meat. Only a ragged band of tarks stand between us and the south."

"Maybe," said another Orc, "But their defenses are strong, and they will await us. Their scouts were abroad earlier."

"Garn," spat Dulug. "Run back and hide in the City, if you're frightened. Defenses, you say? We'll burn 'em to the ground, and the rabble of leaderless peasants with 'em. Now shut up, and follow me. We march."

Entry Sixteen

It was in silence that Gildor, Romendakil and the Elven hunters went swiftly back the way that they had come. If any among them had any doubt that they were being pursued, it soon vanished. The sounds of the marching Orcs could soon be heard, and, then, the sound of their voices as well.

Gildor motioned for the Elves to hide themselves in the trees, and they did so, concealing themselves so well that not even the sharpest-eyed Orc could detect them. He and Romendakil sheltered behind the crest of a hill, from which they could plainly see the path that the Orcs would take in their advance. There was nothing to do now but wait.

The Elf spoke softly in Sindarin, "My friend. You should have gone to Esteldin with the others. This is not your fight." But the man grinned and replied in the same tongue, "I was too tired to keep hobbling on. At least this way I get to sit and rest my weary bones for a while."

"Besides," he added, "I've got an idea that will slow these Orcs down considerably. Listen..."

_________________________

Tarastor remained upon Foenalf, his sword drawn and held loosely at his side. It was with relief that the Men of Trestlebridge glanced at him, as they took their places along the Trestlespan, fumbling with their weapons.

The very presence of their Captain gave them a faint spark of hope, even though they knew they faced the settlement's darkest hour. It was his fearlessness, perhaps, even in the face of the Orcs; or their trust in him had become a habit. Some would say, however, that it was nothing he did or said, but simply his bearing. The blood of Numenor, however faint, could yet be felt among the Knights of Dol Amroth, even those not of the noble house.

The sky darkened, and the men lit torches to dispel the shadows. They shifted uneasily in their positions, men-at-arms to the front, archers behind. When would the enemy come? The wait was unbearable; fear of the unknown a surer weapon than any the Orcs could devise.

Only Tarastor sat without moving, sword held in a steady hand.

Entry Seventeen

Wolfhelm, despite all the cautious words from the Dunedain-healers, refused to remain in bed. He walked lopsided, wincing every other step as pain shot up his ribcage, still sore from the troll’s fist. His sword was at his side, more out of habit than anything, for he did not expect to encounter any enemies as he paced in front of the gates of Esteldin, his eyes roving southwest, where his Captain had gone. Thus it was that he heard the sounds of movement, and turned to see the column of Elves from the south, hastening for the gates with great speed, as if they were pursued.

He did not wait for them to arrive, but turned and half-ran half-limped inside the hidden sanctuary, calling out to every Ranger he saw to follow him. When he had rounded up all he could find—no more than forty—Wolfhelm lead them back to the gates and saw Halbarad deep in conversation with one of the Elves.

“There is troubling news to the south,” the Dunedain said in explanation. “A great Orc-host marches on Trestlebridge. Furthermore—” he raised a hand to forestall Wolfhelm’s cry—“A number of them overtook the Elves as they headed here. Some stayed behind to fight, but they’re vastly outnumbered.”

“Then, lord, the Rangers and I will go to their aid at once,” said the Man of Rohan.

Halbarad looked thoughtful. “Ill it seems to me to leave this sanctuary practically defenseless. Yet if I am not mistaken, the threat is in this Orc army, and the force that harries the Elves—not elsewhere. Go then, with all the haste you can muster.”

Kalus paused and bent to the ground. Behind him, the other Orcs waited impatiently, clashing rusted blades on shields, eager to catch up with their quarry.

“These tracks are theirs, all right,” said the Uruk-archer at last, getting to his feet. “You can smell the stink of those filthy elves right off.” He pointed with his bow. “They went this way. Come on.”

Now the Orcs ran, silent but for the occasional jangle of mail or weapon, bent low as they followed the Elf-tracks. Abruptly Kalus stopped again; a few Orcs did not stop in time and cannoned into his back. He growled and shoved them away.

“The tracks disappear right—here,” he jabbed his bow into the ground for emphasis, and looked around, eyes narrowed. “Trees. That explains it. They’re probably hiding in there, waiting for us, thinking we’re foolish enough to keep on the straight path. Well, I’m not falling for that old trick.” Kalus turned to his Orcs. “Listen up, maggots. We’re going straight into those trees in a group, see? So as the dirty Elves can’t run or hide. On my command—”

Gildor poked his head up enough for a brief look before he ducked back down behind the hill, saying, “You were right, my friend. Their leader has halted them just before he would be vulnerable to our ambush. I think he means to attack the archers.”

Romendakil grinned. “Perfect.” He was unwrapping a bundle that he held gingerly in his hands. “No signal needed, friend Gildor... I believe this will suffice.”

Standing, he drew back and threw the object. It spiraled over the Orc band—none of them seemed to notice—and landed on the road behind them. The moment it hit solid ground, there was an almighty crack.

Kalus whirled at the sound, as did all the Orcs, some jumping a foot into the air or flinging themselves to the ground, others dropping their weapons, a very few even looking as if they wanted to run.

“There’s nothing there, you fools,” spat the Uruk. “It was just some kind of trick—”

Too late, for at that moment, arrows began to fly from the trees. A volley struck the confused Orcs, who had massed together in their fear of whatever had caused the sound. Now they broke apart and stared wildly in all directions, looking for their attackers. They’d forgotten Kalus’ warning of the trees—or most of them had. The uruk-archer himself remained calm but hastily moved to the rear of the group. Drawing his own bow, he waited for a target.

Entry Eighteen

Under cover of night, the Dwarves of Orthikar had moved undetected through the hills. Dawn found them camped not fifty yards from the old ruins that the Dourhands were holding Lord Dori in.

Dwror announced that he was going to scout the place and left without waiting for anyone to reply. The young Dwarves shifted uneasily and waited for their taciturn leader to return. The minutes wore on into hours; still there was no sign of him. They began to talk to one another, breaking the silence with numerous conversations of (as they now seemed) petty matters.

Finally one of them, his beard golden and wispy, asked, "Who are the Dourhands, anyway?"

The question puzzled them, for they had never asked it. They had only been told that the Dourhands were the enemy of Durin's Folk, and that was as much as the elders would say.

"I don't feel right fighting against our fellow Dwarves," said the young one who had spoken. "I mean..."

"You'd better get that idea out of your head, lad."

They all jumped at the sound of Dwror's voice. The older Dwarf had returned unnoticed by any of them and now sat, turning his fierce golden eyes upon the young Dwarf.

"It wasn't always like this," he said almost to himself. "Once all the Dwarven families were united. Durin's Folk, the Longbeards, were chief among them, but the others were our close friends and allies. Any hurt done to one of the families was done to all seven of us. So it was when Thror was slain by Azog--all the Dwarves who heard of it united together against our foes."

Dwror sighed and fingered his bow. "But in times of peace, such alliances fell by the wayside and were forgotten. Our relationships deteriorated; families became rivals for resources and mines. Some of the members other six grew jealous of the prosperity of Durin's Folk in the Lonely Mountain. This greed and resentment would be the tool of our Enemy."

"We call them the Dourhands because they are not any of the seven families of the Dwarves. Rather they are a group of thieves, murderers and bandits, drawn from of all of them--all but Durin's Folk, who will never again heed the Enemy's lies, or serve him in any way. Great wealth and riches he must have promised them, for they have been our bitter foes ever since. They have even stooped as low as allying themselves with goblins..."

Dwror's voice was barely controlled; his hands wrung up and down his bow. He fell silent for a moment, then mastered himself. "They are no longer Dwarves. They have rejected their heritage and their duty. Have no pity for such traitors... for they will have none for you."

He stood. "Come. I've found where they're keeping Lord Dori."

Entry Nineteen

With the mingled curses and orders of Kalus ringing in their ears, the Orcs strove to press forward against the hidden enemy. Some still fell to the relentless rain of arrows, but the others, with the cunning natural to their kind, used what advantages they could. Shields, branches, even the corpses of their fellows--for they had no love of each other--all could be used to block a shaft from striking home. Slowly but inexorably, they proceeded towards the trees. They had taken heavy losses, but still half their number were on their feet.

Up on the hill, Gildor and Romendakil watched with sudden dismay. The distraction had worked, allowing the Elven archers precious time to cut their enemies down. But it had not worked well enough. The Orcs still outnumbered them, and if they came upon the Elves in the trees, it would be all over. Horrified, the old man peered over the crest of the hill and saw what he dreaded--the front rank of the Orcs only inches from the source of the arrows.

Kalus sneered and let out a great laugh, "Har! See? It wasn't so bad, now was it? Get in there and slaughter them, now!"

But his laughter was short-lived, because the Orcs, far from charging, were falling back in dismay. Unnoticed and unlooked-for, marching silently in from the left flank, came a company of the Rangers of Esteldin, garbed all in green. Swiftly they fell upon the Orcs, scattering them with their spear-tips glittering in the sunlight. Behind them came Wolfhelm of Rohan, crying with a great voice some words in the language of the Rohirrim.

This fresh assault was too much for the Orcs; they turned and fled. Not even the shouts of the Uruk could restrain them.

Romendakil leapt to his feet, waving his arms and shouting, "Aiya, Dunedain! Hantale mellon! Aiya!" He knew not that he had made himself a clear target to the one foe remaining on the field.

Kalus knew well that the fight was lost, and that he could only hope to run before the Rangers turned their attention to him. But upon hearing the old man's cries, it came into his mind that he could yet do some malice to the free peoples. It was but the work of a moment to fit an arrow to the string.

"Foolish tark," he spat, and drew back to fire.

Some sense of danger, perhaps, was on Romenadkil in that instant, for he turned away from the Dunedain and saw his peril. His heart sank as he realized that it was too late, far too late, to---

A loud screech split the sky, and there was a flash of brown and gold. Like lightning a great hunting hawk hurtled out of the air and directly towards the Uruk. Kalus peered up in shock, slackening his grip on his bow. The bird's talons tore across his face, and the creature's beak probed and dug for his eyes. With a shriek of pain, the Uruk pushed the hawk away from his face and, finally, went the way of his underlings, running east with all his might.

Gildor now looked to man at his side. "Radagorthor indeed, my friend. That hawk just saved your life."

And Romendakil simply grinned and said, "Aye. Now we are even, Habrok and I."

Entry Twenty

The Men of Trestlebridge were not kept waiting much longer, for the uruk Dulug was not the sort to enjoy waiting for battle to be joined. With one last, contemptous glance up and down the bridge, he turned to his soldiers and ordered, "All right. We won't have any fancy schemes or plans here. Just follow my lead... and remember I'll gut the first one to turn tail."

With that, he raised his curved swords and charged--for neither was he the sort to command from behind. He wanted the blood of men, and plenty of it! And the Orcs, caught up in his mood, sped after him with reckless abandon.

The yelling hordes of Orcs was almost enough to completely unnerve the Men of Trestlebridge--almost. Many trembled as they stood; a few even turned as if to run. Yet none did, for Tarastor strode among them, unhorsed, sword in hand. Among the front rank of shieldmen he went, and he gave words of comfort to the defenders. His complete calm soothed the nerves of the men, and they thought no more of running, but only of defending their families and their town.

In a disorganized mass, the Orcs threw themselves up the bridge and onto their foes. Yet their charge was halted by the front rank of men, shields locked in an impenetrable wall. Tarastor's voice was heard, crying "Arrows! Now!" Behind the shieldmen, the archers bent their bows and rained thorny death upon the sundering Orcs.

Still the shieldwall held firm. Now Tarastor brought forward a second rank, holding spears and pikes. Their weapons' long reach allowed them to jab and poke at the Orcs over the heads and shoulders of the shieldmen. And the foul creatures, not expecting such an organized defense, were falling back in disarray.

Dulug screamed at his soldiers to stand and fight, but it was no use. They heeded him not; they thought only of saving their own skins. In a furious, unthinking rage, the Uruk hacked and slashed at the shieldwall. His great strength and fury allowed him to break through, hewing two men to the ground.

But he had no time to order his Orcs back. For at that very moment Tarastor, sensing the danger, sprang swiftly into action. Seizing a spear from a man at his side, he drove it with all his strength in the Uruk's direction.

The weapon caught Dulug in the shoulder, and he stumbled backwards in sudden shock and doubt. Pain had overcome his fury and he realized that his only option was to run while he still could; and he did.

The Men of Trestlebridge raised a great cheer as they saw the Orc-host fleeing into the night. The battle--if such a short skirmish deserved the title--had ended so quickly as to take them by surprise. Tarastor smiled and went about congratulating the defenders on a job well done.

Trestlebridge was saved.

Panting and gasping, the Orcs slammed to a collective halt. The bridge had long since disappeared into the darkness, and there had been no sign of pursuit; but they had not stopped until they were certain that they were a safe distance from their foes.

One of the biggest spoke up. "We were fools to have listened to Dulug. We should have done as Mauash ordered, and stayed in the City, not run south. Soft indeed! Why, those dirty tarks put up a better fight than he said they would!"

"And you're a filthy coward, Naur," Dulug snarled. He was furiously angry--still more because he could sense the mood of his soldiers, and knew that it had turned against him.

"You say so," the other sneered back at him. "But look where your leadership has gotten us. I'm heading back to the City, where it's safe, and the boys are coming with me, see?"

"Go on and slink back!" raged the uruk. "Garn! Go face whatever punishment that slug Mauash will give! But I'm not crawling back to the likes of him, not on my life, I'm not! I'm through with him and his grand schemes, you hear me? Through!"

Dulug turned on his heels and ran into the night. With a collective shrug, the beaten Orc-army began their march back towards Fornost.

Entry Twenty One

Quietly, Dwror led the force of Orthikar Dwarves along the edge of the ruins, making certain that the party was always out of the sightlines of any Dourhand who happened to be standed atop the ramparts. As anyone who has spent time with them knows, asking Dwarves to move stealthily is akin to asking a Hobbit to skip his second breakfast: in a word, not likely to happen. Still, knowing the grave signifigance of their actions, they did their best.

"We've been fortunate," Dwror whispered as they inched down the walls. "Lord Dori is being held very close to a particularly ruined section of wall; furthermore they have only assigned a few guards. Overconfident, as always."

Soon enough they came into sight and saw that the older Dwarf's words were true. They could practically walk right up to where Dori was standing, tied by his hands and sitting on the ground. Three Dourhands were probably supposed to be keeping a close eye on their prisoner, but were instead lounging about sleeping or starting into space.

"The instant I fire," Dwror ordered, "I want four of you to get over there and unite Lord Dori as swiftly as you may; then bring him back to the rest of us, and we will be on our way."

Not waiting for any replies, he bent his bow back and sighted down the arrow for his target. There was a faint rustling noise, a low buzz, and a Dourhand toppled to the ground with barely time for a cry.

"Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!" Dwror's roar made the two remaining guards jump with shock. One tried to run, but another arrow caught him in the back. The last positioned himself in front of Dori, but was hewed to the ground in the righteous wrath of the four young Dwarves. Quickly they cut the prisoner's bonds and shepherded him back to the remainder of the Longbeard force.

"Thank you, thank you," Dori was saying to everyone in sight.

"Dwror Thoronchen at your service, Lord," said he with a low bow. "But quickly, we must get back to the safety of Orthikiar. I do not know why no alarm was raised, but we can be sure the Dourhands will be on our tail."

______________________________

It was only when the stronghold of Durin's Folk came into view that Dwror realized the truth. For Orthikiar had been ravaged.

The Dourhands had, it seemed, used the capture of Dori as bait to lure the fighting Dwarves out of their enemy's camp. When the coast was clear they had fallen upon it like wolves onto sheep. Old Longbeards lay murdered with looks of shock and horror on their faces; old relics had been smashed with no purpose; chests had been looted for every scrap of wealth they could contain.

For the young Dwarves, the sight was more than they could bear; they turned their faces away, shoulders shaking. Dwror and Dori looked evenly at the carnage, but even their hands shook.

At last Dwror spoke. "Lord Dori... Halbarad of Esteldin has called a Council of the Free Peoples... that we might deal with our mutual enemies in the North..."

"Yes," said the old Dwarf in a whisper. "Yes. We shall go at once--to Esteldin".

______________________________

So the Dwarves set out. So too did the remaining Elves make their way to the Dunedain sanctuary; and so too did Tarastor lead a large company of the fighting men of Trestlebridge.

The Free Peoples had been assembled. The Council of the North would now begin.

_____________________________

There follows a brief note in another's hand:

Thus ends the tale as written by Romendakil Radagorthor, scholar of Imladris.

Entry Twenty Two

This tale was yet unfinished when Romendakil Radagorthor breathed his last. I was not at the Council of the North, and know not what passed there. But I will finish this account the best that I am able, in memory of the old man...

The sound of horses faded into the distance, along with all sight of their riders; about ten in all, perhaps slightly less. One figure remained standing by the fire, drawing his hooded cloak tighter about his shoulders against the night-time chill; beside him his horse pawed the ground, impatient to be off.

But Tarandil Ruincrist had no intention of following the Red Arrows on their journey south. Not yet. Certainly, he would eventually; but he was not yet finished with his business in the North Downs.

A smile played about his face as he remembered all that had happened over the past few days. It seemed such a very long time ago that he had parted from his friends at Esteldin, and so much had happened...

He had come to Bree-land seeking aid for an assault on Fornost, and the Ranger Saeradan had suggested he try to locate a certain Company led by a Lady of Dol Amroth. He had expected to spend days asking around and searching himself, yet he had stumbled upon them his very first night in Bree-town. Luck he called it, Fate the old man would say; whichever, it had served him well.

There followed a certain period of gaining the trust of these Arrows, while he looked for another military force in Bree-land. His search was in vain; it was this Company or none.

Quickly he found that even the Red Arrows were not a perfect solution. They were often scattered, their members riding far afield from one another. But luck (or Fate) was on his side again, for Fornost was the destination of one Landuin of Gondor and whomever would follow him. Tarandil joined in their journey north, knowing not its purpose.

And thus they had come to Fornost, and Landuin confronted a shade of his ancestors and cast it down. The entire situation was rather confusing to Tarandil, but he knew one thing: the attack had dealt considerable damage to the Wights of Fornost. The Uruk-general's forces had been weakened.

If the assault against the evil city was to come, it must come now.

Entry Twenty Three

As fortune would have it, Tarandil had barely begun to swing himself into Daeron's saddle when he began to hear a series of sounds in the distance: marching feet, and voices raised high in song. Unless his ears decieved him, a veritable army was marching through the fields and towards the Gate of Fornost. He would have thought they were Orcs, and made haste to conceal himself, but for the singing. There it was again, louder still; not the harsh voices of Orcs but the clear tones of Men, the deep baritones of Dwarves and the high wonder of Elves. And above all came the cry of a hunting hawk that has sighted its prey.

He had not heard wrong, and he stared in astonishment and disbelief as they came into view. It was an army, and it was filled with the Free Peoples of the North Downs. Elven hunters marched side by side with Dwarven warriors; the Men of Trestlebridge were on an even pace with the Rangers of Esteldin in their hooded cloaks of green. There in the front, mounted but going at a walking pace, were Tarastor of Dol Amroth, and his herald Wolfhelm; Romendakil Radagorthor with his hawk on his shoulder; and Dwror of Durin's Folk. There beside them were Halbarad, Gildor and Dori, leaders of the Council of the North; and at their backs was the Army of the Free Peoples.

With a cry of joy, Tarandil raised his horn to his lips and blew. Again and again he sounded it, a note of triumph, and a challenge fierce enough to make even the Uruk-general quiver in fear.

The forces stopped for a hasty council of war. They did not tell the full tale of their adventures, but rather quick summaries as time allowed. The means by which the army had been assembled seemed less important than what it was tasked to do.

"The Arrows and I have struck a blow," Tarandil explained. "Not enough to cripple the army here, but enough to give it pause. They are in some confusion, still more because a number of reinforcements have just arrived: the Orcs who attacked Trestlebridge and the Dourhands who captured Dori, I now realize from your accounts. They will find it hard to organize a defense, but their weakness will not linger long. We must strike against them now and with all our fury."

"Hear, hear!" came a small voice from behind him. "All the fury of the Warrior of the Shire, I say!"

They all whirled to see Breglebed, standing with a wide grin. He gave them a cheery wave. "Hullo, all."

"But--but--your sickness--" Romendakil stammered in shock.

"Oh, that?" The hobbit wrinkled his nose. "It'll take more than a little poision to finish me off, don't you worry. Now we've wasted enough time talking!" He raised the Club of the Bullroarer high above his head. "It's time to put an end to this evil place!"

Tarandil sprang to his feet, and blew a clear note upon his war-horn. No further order was needed. The army of the Free Peoples broke into a run and stormed through the Gate of Fornost. The reckoning had come at last; the Orcs would find themselves answering for their deeds.

Entry Twenty Four

Mauash paced the stones of Fornost like a rat in a trap, which was indeed how he felt. All of his (as he saw them, despite having been fed most of his ideas by Globash) plans were coming undone.

First Dulug and Kalus had defied him and departed south with a great host of Orcs, numbers he could ill afford to lose. It was true that most had returned, and he had been further strengthened by the Dourhand Dwarves, but at a terrible price. Riamul reported that many of the Wights had been cast down by a small force of tarks, who had since fled.

His hand was weakened, but Mauash had not really begun to worry until minutes earlier. A panting Orc had rushed up to inform him that an army was at the gates, a literal army--all of his foes gathered together under a single banner. It was the worst thing that could have happened to him.

And now, just when Mauash needed his advice most, Globash was nowhere to be found. His confidence shaken, the Uruk general for the first time visualized the unthinkable: his own defeat. Even his power over his army had abandoned him; Orcs were deserting left and right, choosing to flee or hide themselves rather than fight.

The blast of a war-horn rang throughout the stone courtyard, and it seemed to Mauash to be the sound of his doom. Grimly he prepared himself for what he knew would be his last defense... the final failure in his quest to rule the North Downs.

______________________

Of the great battle that took place in Fornost, no clear account can be given, so great was the chaos and turmoil of the fighting. But it is said that the army of the Free Peoples fell upon their enemies with the wrath of sudden flame.

Beneath the rippling banner of the Silver Swan, Halbarad fought the Wight-lord Riamul in single combat, and the Man of Numenor had the mastery. Fierce were the shouts of the Longbeards as they took their vengeance upon the traitorous Dourhands. No Orc could stand before the fury of the Elves or of the Men, who scattered them like chaff to the winds.

Greatest of all the conflicts that day was that of the Rangers of Esteldin against the Uruks of Mordor, and chief among this the duel of Tarandil Ruincrist and Mauash the black captain of Fornost. Yet here, too, the servants of the Enemy faltered and were slain; and Tarandil hewed Mauash's head from his shoulders with his blade. Ever after it was named Glamdagnir, the Orc-bane.

And with this blow, the battle came to a sudden end; the remaining Orcs fled shrieking from the field. The Free Peoples of the North had triumphed; a great evil was destroyed, and their lands were safe once more.

______________________

So ends the tale of the Council of the North, as written by Romendakil Radagorthor in the library of Rivendell; and as finished by the Dunadan Tarandil with the aid of Certhir Rune-master. May it find its home among the great tales of the Third Age of Middle-Earth.