Elowan, son of Herowan, awoke in utter darkness. He felt cold stone beneath him, and foul, damp air around him. The black chamber in which he lay stank like death. So did its other occupants.

Elowan's eyes flashed open, and his hand flew to the hilt of his sword that was laying beside him. A ghastly shriek interrupted the evil tune that was being hummed, as the young prince leaped to his feet and swung blindly at the darkness. "Ala!" he cried. "Henon ala Elthallas!"

The Wights shrank back into the shadows, moaning and screaming all at the same time, their hollow voices so close, and yet so distant. The gem in the hilt of Elowan's blade burned bright, and the sword began to glow with a soft golden light. Before him was the slab of stone upon which he had laid; his bow and daggers had lain at his left hand side, with his sword at his right, and his shield at his feet. At the far side of the room, where the darkness was thickest, the phantoms that had captured him clung to the shadows of the room, cowering before the light. The prince could faintly see their pale eyes, like distant stars in the night sky, pale and cold, and their sickly green hands, swathed in robes of untouchable blackness.

"Ala!" Elowan shouted again, threateningly. "Wraiths! Do not touch me, or I shall hew your rotten fingers from your dead hands! Back! Ala!"

The Wights remained silent, but their cold eyes were unblinking. Holding his shining sword in front of him, Elowan stooped and reclaimed his shield. Stepping toward, he knelt and took back his dagger. His bow and arrows would need to be left behind; they would be too difficult to reclaim one-handed, and the light of his sword was beginning to dim, and fear gripped his heart, though he would not show it.

He turned to leave, still keeping the light between him and the wraiths, who stirred and slunk closer, unintelligible whispers seeping from their souls. "Ala!" Elowan shouted, and again they shrunk back as the sword flickered. He turned his head and saw the stone door of the barrow shut tight. Slowly and cautiously, he moved towards it. But even as he did so, his foot slid on the gravelly floor, and losing his balance, he collapsed to the floor, his back against the doorway.

There was a shriek, and the wights were upon him. Their rotten hands latched onto him with a grip like iron, and their shadows blackened his eyes, and planted dread in his heart. Elowan's blood turned to ice, and he felt himself drifting away into slumber. And this time, there would be no reawakening.

"ALA ELTHALLAS IDALIDAR!" he screamed, as loud as his fading lungs would allow, and with a flash his sword flared back to life. Ghostly moans and cries of pain echoed through the barrow as dead hands melted away, and the darkness of the wraiths was pierced by golden light. Elowan wasted no time. Throwing himself against the stone door he budged it a few inches, and with one final push, the door swung slowly open, and pale moonlight crept into the barrow as the young prince tumbled out into the soft grass. He had escaped the spell of the Wights.

Elowan looked around him, breathing heavily, the panic in his heart slowly being replaced with relief, and then dread again as he realized where he was. He stood on green grass in the midst of rolling hills, decorated with ancient gravestones and barrows, all shrouded in fog. The sky was a dark blue, pierced only by the light of the moon, which cast eerie shadows all around him. Elowan was standing in the middle of the Woes. "The Haunted Hills," as they were called by the people of the South. Here, long ago, a great battle of Men, Elves, and Dwarves took place; a battle that payed the price of peace for the free peoples. Soldiers were buried where they fell, but their spirits did not ascend to the heavens. Dark powers bound them to the earth, and even now, Elowan knew, they lingered here, waiting to snatch up anyone foolish enough to wander into their valleys. What they did with them afterward, he did not know, nor did he want to find out. He needed to move.

It took Elowan a moment to remember why he had come here in the first place. What madness had driven him to the Woes?

Then he remembered the rhyme. He knew what he was looking for.

As much as he wished he could run, as fast as his legs could carry him, back to his kingdom, Elowan knew he could not. He had come this far. There was no turning back now. He steeled himself against his fear and pressed onward, heading ever eastward. "I must do this," he told himself. "For the West. For the kingdom. For the people."

The night grew old, and the moon grew dark behind the clouds. The Haunted Hills were shrouded in shadow. In every valley, wights called for the young prince from their tombs. Sometimes, he heard them speak his name, and sometimes he caught glimpses of their cold eyes from within the foggy black. "Ala!" he cried, again and again, willing his sword to remain bright, though his voice quivered. He wondered if, perhaps, his voice would give out altogether, and his sword would die, and then the phantoms would close in around him and freeze his bones, and drag him to their barrows beneath the ground. It was all he could do to keep moving forward.

That's when he saw it.

He crested a great hill, upon which no tombstones stood, and before him stretched a great gray plain. Across the plain was a mountain, and not far from its base was a small village, ancient and abandoned. A ghost town... perhaps literally.

But at the foot of the mountain, a small, almost imperceptible orange light caught the eye of Elowan. It was sharp and bright, like firelight, and had it not been for the darkness of night, he would never have seen it. With rising hope, and deepening anxiety, Elowan trudged on into the plain. Out in the open he felt terribly alone, and he could not help but feel as though the hills were watching him. Soon he found himself on an ancient road, not used for nearly three Ages. Further ahead he spotted a signpost sprouting from the grassless dirt. Upon it was an arrow pointing toward the town, and one word, written in blocky dwarvish letters: "Korange." Now he understood.

He was nearly to the source of the light now. Approaching the foot of the mountain, he beheld the entrance to a cave of some kind, the warm orange glow burning within. Crumbling stone stairs led up to its mouth. Elowan climbed them with trembling legs.

Anxiously he peered into the cave. Within was a small room, carved out long ago by a forgotten name. In the center of the room there was a pit of liquid flame, from which the light came. At the far end of the room there was nothing but a dark hall. Elowan's heart pounded inside his chest, until he feared the very noise of it would echo through the Hills. He gulped, and sheathed his sword. If the stories were true, he wouldn't be needing it. Nervously, he approached the fire. "Hello?"

For a moment, all was silent.

Then, their faces appeared.

The stories were true.