The Icebay of Forochel

"A cold day, my liege," observed Hunthor the Ranger, his breath issuing forth from his bearded face in a cloud of frozen vapour.

"Aren't they all?" replied Arvedui, drawing a heavy fur cape closer about himself as he stared over the cliff slopes choppy blue waters of the Icebay of Forochel. It was the first of May, and yet the bay was still full of drifting icebergs, their sheer sides posing a dreadful hazard to shipping as they drifted from the frozen wastes of the ultimate North to a watery grave in the balmier regions of the South.

Arvedui and his party of Rangers had been pursued for leagues by the Witch King's minions. Yet, in spite of all the odds, they had evaded their pursuers, journeying far beyond the bounds of Arnor. At length, by early April, they arrived at the barren shores of the Icebay, whose rocky shores left no trace of the trail, and frustrated any further pursuit by the Warg-riders. Arvedui then followed the shoreline westward until they arrived at the headland of Cape Forochel. There, they awaited the arrival of a ship from Mithlond, in the hope that Aranarth had arrived at that Elvish haven and brought word that the King of Arnor was in need of rescue.

At first, life on the coasts of the Icebay had been difficult. The Rangers were experienced at surviving in the wilds, but only in forested and moorland climes that were milder than that of the Icebay. Here, there were no trees for firewood, and but a handful of elk, reindeer and coneys for game. There was a wealth of seabirds and of fish in the frigid waters of the bay, but the Arnor-men had no hooks or nets with which to catch them. Lacking their own supplies, Arvedui and his men soon became famished, and their bodies and faces gaunt and haggard.

Then one day, a party of Rangers had made contact with a tribe of the Lossoth, those mysterious inhabitants of the Far North whose travels often brought them to the Icebay. The shy Lossoth spoke but a few words of the Common Tongue, and seemed at first little inclined to succor the Arnor-men. But at length, partly out of pity for their emaciated, wretched appearance, and partly out of fear of their steel weapons, the Lossoth agreed to help them. Hoargren, the Lossoth chieftain, ordered his people to help them build simple domed huts from blocks of stone, taught them how to scour the land for driftwood, and how to harpoon fish from the shores of the Icebay, and also supplied them heavy furs to ward off the chill air.

Thus, the King and his Rangers now lived comfortably if sparely. But every day Arvedui spent a good portion of his time on the barren headlands of the Cape, eagerly scanning the western horizon to see if there were any sign of a ship from the Elvish havens. Today, like all such days, had thus far passed in boredom and disappointment.

"The Sun begins to sink into the West, Your Majesty," said the Ranger, adjusting his heavy fur cloak around his shoulders. "We should return to the camp. The air out here on the headland is frigid at night."

"Aye, no doubt you speak truly," sighed the King, as he stared at the Sea. The clouds and waters in the West were indeed stained now by a ruddy glow, while the icebergs glittered like fiery gems. "I had hoped that our Elvish friends would arrive this day, but appears my hope was in vain."

"Mayhap they will come tomorrow," offered Hunthor.

"Aye, mayhap," replied the King. Silently, he wondered if the Ranger shared his own fear – that the Elvish ship would not arrive at all, because Aranarth and his party had not survived their flight to Mithlond. While it was still possible for the King and his men to attempt the long, dangerous overland journey to the Havens, through lands that were surely patrolled by the Witch King's forces, Arvedui did not want to admit to himself that such a journey was necessary; that would be to admit that both his sons might be dead, and himself the last living heir of Isildur.

"Come, let's turn in," said Arvedui, turning on the path over the rocks and lichens back toward the distant cluster of stone huts that formed the camp. A thin trail of smoke issued from one of the huts, indicating that the evening meal was already being prepared. The Ranger followed the King, and for some time they picked their way over the slippery, icy stones. Hunthor had to help Arvedui to his feet after several occasions on which the King had stumbled and fallen, much to his displeasure.

As they arrived at at the huts, they noticed that several bridled reindeer were grazing on some tufts of hardy grass that poked up through the lingering snow. Nearby sat a curiously carved sledge, formed of whalebone and walrus-ivory, whose broad runners could cross the frozen wastes of the snowlands with ease and incredible swiftness.

"Chief Haorgren pays us a visit, it seems," smiled the King, as he steeped through the narrow arch of a hut, and into the one smoke-filled room within. There he saw several other Rangers surrounding the smouldering fire, and at the far end of the room the fur-clad Chief, his wind-chapped face obscured by his long white hair and bushy beard.

"King," said Haorgren simply, nodding briefly toward Arvedui as he sat down.

"Chief," replied Arvedui, helping himself to a skewed fish that had been roasted over the fire.

"Fire is for meat," frowned Haorgren. "Fish should be eaten raw, O King. Much better that way."

"I'll take your word for it," replied Arvedui diplomatically. "And how goes it with you and your people?"

"My people live in fear," replied Haorgren. "They fear what the Witch King will do, should he find that we shelter the Arnor-King."

"I can understand that," acknowledged Arvedui. "Believe me, we are keen to leave here as soon as we can. I am searching the waters every day, for the Elven ship that will transport us from your lands."

"The Shining Ones do not sail in these waters," spat Haorgren, his brown eyes glinting shrewdly. "Mayhap you should look elsewhere for help."

"They will come," insisted the King. Then he turned to his meal for a time, while the elderly chief sat staring into the fire. Arvedui had just finished the last of the fish when a young Ranger, his eyes blazing with excitement, rushed through the door of the hut.

"Your Majesty!" he cried. "You must come with me at once!" he continued, forgetting his manners. "All of you. Look!"

A tide of hope surging through his weary veins, Arvedui rushed out the door of the hut into the frigid night air, followed by the several Rangers in the hut, and last of all by Chief Haorgren, who scowled suspiciously. They joined a party of the remaining Rangers, who had assembled in the snows above the stony beach.

The night sky was dark and calm, affording a spectacular view of the stars under a new moon. Yet against the foaming waters of the shore, illuminated by the starlight, lay an Elven ship! Its brilliant white sail and pale grey beams shone as if with an inner radiance, and several lithe figures could be seen moving along its deck, which was perhaps some eighty feet in length.

As Arvedui and the Rangers cheered with joy, a gangplank was thrown down from the ship, and a tall, grey-robed figure strode rapidly along the shore towards the huts, his long blond hair flowing in the breeze. As he approached the Men, Chief Haorgren began muttering frantically, finally falling to his knees and fervently reciting his prayers to his ancestors.

"Mae govannen," smiled the Elf, bowing gracefully before the Men. "I am Linwe Ningloron, servant of Lord Cirdan of Mithlond. I am fortunate enough to stand in the presence of King Arvedui of Arnor?"

"You are indeed," replied the King, his gaunt, bearded face breaking into an ecstatic smile. "Hail and well-met yourself! Eru has surely favoured us, for you have received our message!"

"Indeed," replied Linwe, his blue eyes shining keenly, "your son Aranarth, and his wife the Princess Vana, and all their Men are safe with us. They are in Lord Cirdan's palace as we speak, eagerly awaiting your arrival there."

"Thank Eru and the Valar! Then let us not brook a moment's delay," cried Arvedui. He turned to Chief Haorgren, gently touching the aging man on his fur clad shoulder. Haorgren jumped, and then stared between Linwe and Arvedui in bafflement.

"You live!" gasped Haorgren. "Truly you are friends with the Shining Ones, as you claimed! I had thought your stories but an empty boast, for our legends say that the Shining Ones are enemies of Men, and slay them on sight."

"I trust that is not true," sighed Linwe. "If any of my people have slain yours unjustly, then I sincerely repent for their misdeeds. But it is not our way to take the lives of others, unless our own lives are first threatened. Either such harm as our people may have done to your ancestors was in self-defence, or else you have succumbed to the lies of the Enemy, who has ever sought to drive a wedge between Elves and Men."

Haorgren stared at the Elf, speechlessly, before rising to his feet and turning his gaze squarely to Arvedui.

"King," said Haorgren, "mean you to leave this night, in the monster-ship of this creature?" He gestured toward the Elf, without looking at him. Arvedui frowned at Haorgren's rudeness, though Linwe did not appear to be offended.

"I certainly do,' replied the King, a bit stiffly. "You have made it plain that you want our people gone from this land, and we shall be gone within a quarter of an hour. I thank you for your hospitality, and will repay you in kind when I can."

Haorgren turned his face toward the Sea, sniffing the air for some moments. Then he turned back to the King, a look of concern growing on his wrinkled face.

"King," he insisted, "do not go into the monster-ship! Not for the present. The wind is not right, and I deem the omens are poor. Doom shall find you, if you leave us this night."

"Come now," laughed Linwe, though his Elven-eyes now bore a glint of steel. "This is enough! For two and a half-thousand years have I sailed the waters of this Middle Earth. Not once have I lost a ship – ever. The wind has changed its course in the past hour, 'tis true, but that is not to be wondered at in this northern land, whose climate is ever changeable. Even should a storm pick up, which I doubt, my crew and our ship are well-equipped to handle it."

"I suppose," frowned Arvedui. He did not wish to offend Linwe, yet something about the vehemence of Haorgren's warning sent a chill up his spine.

"There is nothing to suppose, Your Majesty," replied Linwe. "With all due respect to this charming friend of yours, he is but a simple creature, descended from hundreds of generations of those as superstitious as himself. Shall a Man of Numenor, who bears the blood of Elven Kings in his veins, be thrown off course by an unlettered nomad? You cannot allow your plans to be disrupted by his wild claims. And in any case, Lord Cirdan gave me strict orders to bring you on board my ship and return you to Mithlond as soon as I set eyes on you. He urgently wishes to take counsel with you and your son."

Arvedui nodded, and turned back to Haorgren. "I'm sorry, old fellow," he said. "But Linwe's arguments are really quite unanswerable – and I'm sure he means you no offense. My Men and I shall board the Elven-ship without delay."

"I have spoken," spat Haorgren sullenly. "On your own head be it, if you disregard my warning. Fare you well, King – you and your Men." And with that, ignoring the Elf, he turned and walked towards his sled, hitching it to his reindeer and driving them across the snows towards the East.

"A curious creature," frowned Linwe. "But come, Your Majesty. Let us depart!"

Arvedui smiled, and then gave orders to his Rangers to break camp and board the ship forthwith.

As the Elven ship weighed anchor, and set sail from the Icebay of Forochel, its departure was observed by a solitary Raven. It was unusual to find Ravens in this land, particularly before the summer. But, this Raven had been following the course of the ship, flying from point to point along the shore of Lindon, ever since it had departed from Mithlond over a week before. It had lost sight of the ship for a time in the bay that lay before the Isle of Himling, but had followed its likely course, once again finding its quarry near the headland of Cape Forochel.

The Raven cawed briefly, a harsh, gloating sound, almost as if of triumph. Then it took to wing, soaring with all speed into the East.

The rough weather began on the third day after leaving Cape Forochel. The East wind had been rising steadily during the past two days, but now it had grown into a proper tempest, and the ship was scoured by winds from all sides. Dark clouds shadowed the sky, and the waves of the Sea soon turned into towering peaks and deep valleys of frigid water. The Elven ship endlessly climbed one peak, only to rest briefly on the summit before plunging into another valley, beginning the dreary cycle anew.

"So much for disregarding old Haorgren's advice," frowned Arvedui, sipping a herbal tea as he sat in Linwe's small cabin. His Rangers were huddled in the ship's hold, sick to a man, while the Elvish crew worked frantically at the tiller and at the rigging, struggling to keep the ship upright and on course.

"Well, I did acknowledge that a storm was possible, even if unlikely," replied Linwe, somewhat defensively. "But when you've been a mariner for as long as I have, you grow used to this sort of thing. A few more days, Your Majesty, and you'll grow your own sea legs. We'll make a sailor of you yet!" He grinned, showing a set of brilliant white teeth.

"I hope you're right," sighed Arvedui. "The Sea Kings, my people are called, but in truth the name applies in these latter days only to our southern kin of Gondor. It is long since any Arnor-man took to the waters." He cursed quietly as the ship descended into another valley, causing him to spill a good part of his hot tea on his lap.

"Well, at least you've held up better than your Men," replied Linwe. "But if you'd like some advice, it would be sensible of you to go out on deck once in awhile. I know the view is not to your liking, but the fresh air will do you good."

"Perhaps you're right," replied Arvedui, rising to his feet, pulling on his hood, and carefully walking to the cabin's door, holding onto a railing as he did so. "But I shan't be long. I only pray the time before our arrival in Mithlond is as short!"

The King then stepped through the cabin door, shutting it quickly so as to avoid allowing any sea-spray inside, and then carefully worked his way over the slippery deck, up the ladder to the rear-deck. He grabbed hold of a rail, and stood next to the solitary Elf who held the rudder.

"Your Majesty," nodded the Elf, his tawny hair blowing wildly in the wind. "Stormy enough for you?" he added, with a mischievous grin.

"You Elves all seem to have a terribly high opinion of your own wit," frowned the King, ignoring the Elf's light-hearted laughter in reply. He tried his best to look up, towards the horizon – though that was constantly shifting. As a heavy spray of foam surged over the deck, the cold water shocking him to sudden alertness, he began to stare in wonder at the clouds. They had been dark all day, but now were growing almost preternaturally black. It was as if nighttime had arrived, though it was but an hour past noon.

"Say there," shouted the King, as the ship crashed into another deep valley. "Don't you think those clouds look rather dangerous?"

The Elf stared upwards for a few moments, his smile fading into a slight frown.

"Captain Linwe!" cried the Elf, in a clear, high voice. "On deck, if you please." Linwe, now wrapped in a waterproof jerkin, appeared by the rudder but a minute later. The Elven sailor gestured toward the sky, and Linwe frowned as the ship found itself plunged into near darkness. The clouds were almost ebon, and yet glowed curiously, as if with the faintest trace of sickly green light – a light that illuminated nothing.

"Can't we weigh anchor?" asked the King. "I don't see how it can be safe, sailing this ship when we can't see anything."

"That's what we do even on the blackest nights, as long as we're far from shore," replied Linwe, who in the meantime had ignited the ship's brass stern lantern. Its warm glow was a welcome contrast to the darkness roundabout. "Besides," he continued, "we cannot weigh anchor in such rough water. The ship would be swamped. Although…" He remained silent for some minutes, biting his lower lip as if in concern.

"Aranel," said Linwe, turning to the Elf at the rudder. "How long since our position was last taken?"

"Half an hour ago, captain," replied Aranel.

"How far are we from the Isle of Himling?" asked Linwe.

"Many leagues," replied Aranel. "Ten at the least."

"Ten in fact, or ten if we have held to our plotted course between the Island and the mainland?" asked Linwe.

"Well, we can only estimate our position in such fierce, shifting winds," replied Aranel with a frown. "The predominant winds seem to be from the East; so, it is possible there has been some drift to the West."

"So we could be only five leagues distant," replied Linwe grimly. "Or three. Or one."

"Or none!" screamed Arvedui, his face pale with fear as he thrust forward a trembling arm. Linwe and Aranel looked up, their fair faces gasping with shock as they saw it; the sheer rock cliff-wall of Himling, some two-hundred feet high, suddenly revealed amid the preternatural darkness!

"On deck!" cried Linwe. "Prepare to abandon ship…"

His words were drowned out by the crash of timbers and the snapping of the masts, as an enormous wave picked up the ship, hurling it with fury against the granite walls of the cliff. As the ship was dashed to pieces on the rocks, the Rangers in the hold perished instantly, while Arvedui and the Elves were thrown into the Sea.

For some moments, Arvedui struggled in the frigid water, gasping with pain and shock as the cold penetrated through flesh and bone to his very core. Then, another gigantic wave picked him up and threw him against the cliff-face, and he knew no more. Thus did Arvedui, henceforth known as Last-King, lose his life on the shores of Himling, and thus did Linwe of Mithlond fail in his boast to have never lost a ship in two and a half-thousand years.