Author's Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR, yadda yadda yadda. Don't sue me, I'm just a starving artist.

Chapter Three

"I hear something ahead."

Valdín nodded to Alastair's whisper, the young man moving his mare closer to the guard's side. "I hear it, too," he agreed, pulling out an arrow from his quiver, and swinging his bow from his shoulders. "We'll catch him running." They moved forward slowly, keeping a tight hold on the reins, the horses picking their way across the loam.

Alastair frowned as the wind came into their face, wrinkling his nose. "I smell something burning." And that same horrid, rotting smell of the goblins.

"He's probably set himself up a little camp, is all." Valdín assured.

The lad wasn't convinced; it seemed too strong for a single goblin with a single fire. "We're coming up on the field." His mouth was still open to say more when they came upon the end to the small wood. A field golden in the autumn air had once been there. Now...now it was a sea of black, red, green, small fires and flashing steel. The grasses were trampled and torn beneath the marching claws of one thousand, two thousand, an uncountable number of orcs.

Valdín yanked hard on the bridle of his steed to keep it quiet, then whirled with a fierce whisper to Alastair. "Back to Aralda, quick as you can!" The pounding of hooves alerted the goblins too slowly of the presence of spies, the two horses galloping full speed side by side back towards the small town. Loam flew from their hooves, manes streaming into the faces of their riders.

"Sound the bells! Alert Lord Kalamar! Rally to me!"

Valdín came galloping into town yelling all ready, Alastair at his heels. The village came alive as a bronze bell gave three tolls of sharp alert. Kalamar came running out of his chambers with robes caught and fluttering in the wind. His icy eyes flashed, awaiting the pair as they reined in their horses and slipped off. The young man stepped off to the side, leading Nartal away from the hubbub that ensued. Valdín stepped off his mount and onto a low wall, balancing there above the crowd and holding up his hands.

"My good people! A grave danger lies at our very doorstep!" Murmurs flitted through the crowd, then settled again as he waved for quiet. "Just past the edge of the woodlands, a hoard of orcs has gathered in numbers too great to count. We must prepare for their coming!"

"Valdín!" Lord Kalamar's voice cut in sharply, eyes blazing. "Step down from there, and stop these foolish warmongerings."

The guard, taken aback, sat down on the fence, the silent crowd looking hopefully towards their Lord. Kalamar smiled, holding out his hands. "Calm yourselves, my people. Orcs will not bother a little town such as ours. I'm sure they are just passing through onto Gondor. Warriors from the white city will ride out and meet them. We are in no state for war. Refrain from attacking them, and they shall not attack us. Stay silent, stay at home, and they will pass us unmolested."

"But, sir!" Valdín protested.

"They will pass." Kalamar repeated. "One thousand years of peace will not be broken by a few wandering orcs."

"A few?" Alastair's murmur of disbelief was heard clearly in the uneasy silence of the crowd.

The Lord of Aralda turned to the young man. "Do you doubt my words? What do you know of war, child? Do you wish death upon this house? Do you wish to ride out and vanish into the wilds like your father? They will pass. It will all pass..."

Alastair watched the light of a single flame dance before his eyes, sitting at a round wooden table in his home. He could hear his mother fixing his torn clothing in the next room, humming an old story-song to herself. The young man closed his eyes, dipping a quill into the inkwell before him, unrolling a length of parchment. In a neat calligraphy, he began to write:

"Talk of war remains in Aralda, and I cannot help but dwell on it. War
comes and goes the same way as the passing days, it seems, by what
stories I've heard. The shadow is hardly a thought at midday, at the
height of peace, though it slowly grows behind you as you face the
Havens in the West. Looming, the shadow grows beyond your height and
breadth, before it consumes you in the night dark. Then, a fighting
glimmer in the East throws the shadow before you, to face and stare
down, until it diminishes and shrinks beneath you. Yet, it never fully
leaves, just waits until you're not looking to start growing again.
For one thousand years, it has been waiting. The sun cannot last
forever."

Alastair looked up at a hand on his shoulder. His mother leaned over, resting her chin gently on the top of his head. "Everything will be all right."

"Yes," he murmured, letting the quill rest in the well again, waiting for the ink to dry.

"The night's growing old, Alastair. You should get some sleep."

"I will," he assured, rolling the parchment and standing. Taking a bit of the candle's melted wax, he pressed a seal to keep the paper rolled. "In a little while, I will. Good night, mother."

He smiled, faintly, as she kissed his cheek and retired to bed, but his expression soon faded. Tucking the parchment into his belt, he stood. His sword hung ready over the mantle again, clean, shining in the candlelight. Alastair snuffed the small flame, taking up his blade again and stepping out back.

"Nartal."

The fiery mare lifted her head at her name, stamping a hoof. She waited patiently as she was saddled again, her rider swinging up onto her back. Then, the lad paused, having her walk slowly onto the main street. Steeling himself, he let her go, holding on only to keep himself steady. She took off into the woods, her rider clinging to her back. Trees flew past them on all sides until the stench of orc rode foul on the air towards them. Alastair straightened up, slowing her and staring ahead, hearing the ripple of coarse voices, orc shouts and snarls. The army was moving.

Nartal snorted, tossing her proud head. Alastair backed her up as twigs snapped and popped under the marching goblins, the moving army passing within a few feet of the pair. The young man froze, hardly breathing as he watched the passing hoard. Gruesome faces floated on the misty night, with scowls and wicked helms, bony spines and ragged clothes, dark armor and twisted weapons. Then, their voices lifted together in a discordant melody, enough to make the young man's blood run cold from the sound.

"Sound the drums
Thunder of war
Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
Let the cries of
Men scream out
Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!
Break their bones
And burn their homes
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Let the shadow
Pull them down
Black! Black! Black!"

On and on they went, an endless sea, enough to make the most stoic mortal despair. Alastair, frozen, waited, his hands shaking, clenching the reins until his knuckles were white. His jaw clenched, his eyes turning paler. One hand pried from the leather lead, and slowly drew his sword. They would not take Aralda. They would not sweep the rolling lands of Rohan, and the stately Gondor beyond. They would not reclaim the wastelands of Morder as a center of evil again. They would not!

Nartal whinnied and reared as Alastair tried to urge her into the mass of twisted forms. She came down to earth, whirled, and plowed over two goblins that had been coming up on them from behind. Alastair slashed down on them with a feral yell of battle, echoing into the night. He jumped from the mare's back, whirled his sword at the head of a sneering orc, and then fell halfway as a club connected to the back of his head.