The March of Earnur
In the highest chamber of the highest tower of Emyn Beraid, the solitary window carved into its smooth marble walls facing towards the Gulf of Lune, Aranarth stared into the smoky depths of a Palantir.
The Palantiri had been brought to Middle Earth from Numenor thousands of years before, by the High King Elendil himself. Seven of them had been placed within the strongholds of Numenor-in-Exile – one each at Minas Ithil, Osgiliath, Minas Anor, Angrenost, Amon Sul, Annuminas, and finally at Emyn Beraid near the shores of Lune, where Aranarth stood now. The existence of these stones was a matter of the highest secrecy, and only the Kings and their most trusted servants were permitted to use them. The stones of ruined Annuminas and Amon Sul had long since been transferred to Fornost, but Aranarth did not know what had happened to them since that sack of that place by the Witch King. He had tried to see them through them from the Beraid stone, but he saw nothing other than darkness, through which a dim ripple or wave seemed to move on occasion. He was at least certain that the Witch King had not seized either of the stones, for that fell sorcerer could not have hidden himself had Aranarth peered into the Beraid stone while the Witch King employed the others.
Aranarth knew that, staring into the depths of a Palantir, one could speak to the users of other such Seeing Stones, so that a Man of Arnor could speak with a Man of Gondor instantly, though they be separated by more than five-hundred leagues. An adept could also use them to gaze at far off places, and to far off times – even to Avallone and Valinor themselves, from the Beraid stone. But Aranarth was not such an adept, and his intention in using this Palantir was decidedly more practical in nature. This was the seventh time in as many days he had tried to use the stone to contact his distant kinsman, King Earnil II of Gondor. Each time he had failed, for he had no idea at what times Earnil looked into the Palantiri of his private chambers at Minas Anor or Osgiliath – if indeed he looked into them frequently at all. Aranarth could only continue to make attempts with the stone, hoping that sooner or later he would establish a connection that would spare him the many weeks or months it might otherwise take to dispatch a messenger and to receive a reply.
As Aranarth peered into the depths of the stone, its shifting smokes suddenly faded, and a light grew within. To his wonder, Aranarth saw that he was staring into an elaborately carved, gem-inlaid chamber of marble, within which stood an aging Man, his care-lined face framed by a neatly trimmed beard and hair of grey, his blue eyes staring intently into his own stone. The Man raised his eyebrows in surprise, as he recognized Aranarth's presence.
"Greetings, my brother," said Aranarth, in the customary greeting between the Heirs of Isildur and Anarion. He did not speak aloud, for it was a curious property of the Palantiri that the user could speak directly into the mind of another, without opening his lips at all.
"Brother?" replied Earnil, equally soundlessly. "Where is King Arvedui?"
"Arvedui has fallen," replied Aranarth grimly. "He was lost at sea, and the wreckage of his ship washed up on the shores of Lindon. My mother and brother are also dead, beyond any doubt, for they did not escape the fall of Fornost to the Witch King. I am the last of Isildur's line."
"Fornost has fallen?" asked Earnil, his shock apparent on his face. "When did this happen? We have received no word of it here in Gondor."
"News travels slowly in these latter days, it seems," replied Aranarth. "Fornost fell on the second of March, nearly three months ago. It is occupied by the Witch King and his minions, who now purport to rule the North."
Earnil frowned, and was silent for some moments. Then he bowed his head gravely. "Please accept my condolences," he said, "and those of my family, for the passing of King Arvedui, Queen Firiel, and Prince Galdor. And for the loss of your kingdom. Such a blow is more than any Man should have to bear, within such a short space of time."
"I appreciate your kind words, brother," replied Arnarth, choking back his feelings as he did so – now was not the time for an un-regal display of tears. "But it is not only my own family that has suffered," he continued. "My people have been almost annihilated, our land despoiled and defiled – all by that evil one, known to Men as the Witch King of Angmar."
"I understand, and share your sentiments in principle," replied Earnil, his face betraying no emotion.
"I trust," replied Aranarth, his grey eyes glinting fiercely, "that you share my sentiments in more than principle, brother. More than words are called for. The Witch King has struck a terrible blow against us; but surely he has only begun to stretch the cloak of his evil across this Middle Earth."
"I will not gainsay you, brother," replied Earnil, the trace of a frown on his grey-bearded face. "But understand that Gondor faces its own perils. We have been at war with the Corsairs of Umbar yet again for more than a decade now, and their allies the Haradrim have lately regained much of their ancient strength. The Easterlings also are beginning to stir again, and launch raids on our marches, as our records say they have not done for nearly a thousand years. We have had to abandon our outlying provinces in Rhovanion and Dorwinion, for we found ourselves overstretched in their defence. Indeed, our army and navy are hard-pressed now to defend our own frontiers. It is for this reason that necessity forced me to decline your late father's pleas for aid, much as it sat heavy with my heart to do so."
"I appreciate your difficulties, brother," replied Aranarth. "But with all due respect, our need at this time is greater than yours. And think you, what will it mean for Gondor if the Witch King is permitted to destroy Arnor with complete impunity? It might not be long before you find him besieging your own lands from the North, or else leading the Haradrim or the Corsairs or other savages against you from the South – or perhaps he will strike at Gondor from both fronts. For he is your enemy as much as ours – he has made it very clear that he seeks the destruction of the Men of the West. Surely you can see the time to strike back at him is now? He will only grow stronger if you don't."
"Are not your Elvish allies sufficient to avail you?" enquired Earnil.
Aranarth shook his head. "No, brother, they are not. They are invaluable, necessary – but not sufficient. Two-thousand Elvish warriors and two-hundred Dunedain Rangers - for that is all that is left of my fighting-men, all who escaped the rout at Fornost - cannot prevail against near one-hundred thousand Orcs, Trolls and wild Men, aided by a fearsome Dragon, and led by a deathless mage. It is an impossibility. Without Gondor's aid, the North will fall into utter ruin, forever. I implore you, brother, send us what help you can!"
King Earnil sighed deeply, and remained silent for a long time. He appeared to be deep in calculation. Then, at last, he replied, "Your counsel is solid. It is indeed a poor policy to allow an enemy to grow ever stronger, rather than strike him when one can. Our forces dealt a serious blow to the Corsairs but a few weeks ago, and their attacks on us are likely to be dampened for as much as a year, while they lick their wounds. I was planning to press our advantage against them – but, it is now possible to re-deploy some of our troops for other purposes. Indeed, I have lately read the stars, and they have suggested Gondor need not continue fixedly on its current course to prosper."
Earnil held up a cautioning finger. "Mind," he continued, "we can only spare part of our army, auxiliaries and navy to help you, so you will have to make do with them. Will fifty ships of the line bearing fifty-thousand fighting-Men suffice?"
Aranarth's jaw nearly dropped to the ground, though he quickly regained his composure. "They will indeed suffice, my brother! A hundred-thousand blessings on you and yours! With so many proud fighting-Men of Gondor as our allies, we shall sweep the Witch King and his scum into the Sea!"
"I am pleased by your gratitude," replied Earnil perfunctorily. "You should also know that I am sending my son Prince Earnur to join you. He is a giant of a man, and a bold and cunning warrior. He will serve as the general of Gondor's expeditionary force in the North, and will take counsel with you and your Elven-allies regarding the measures required for victory."
"I look forward to meeting the noble Prince," replied Aranarth graciously. "And my gratitude and thanks again. If I may trouble you with but one final question, when might we expect the arrival of your illustrious army and navy at the harbour of Mithlond?"
"Not for some months," replied Earnil. "Many of the men are tired of fighting in the South and the East, and need some time to rest before they will again be fighting trim. It is now just late May – I pledge to you that our army and navy will be deployed at Mithlond by no later than the Yuletide of this year. They will overwinter at Mithlond, and will start the campaign against the Witch King as soon as the snows melt in March of next year."
"Again, my blessings for you generosity, my brother," replied Aranarth, bowing deeply. He would have preferred the soliders to have arrived by early September for an autumn campaign, but felt that he was in no position to gainsay the King of Gondor when he was so deeply in his debt.
"Fare you well, brother," replied Earnil. "I am sure Prince Earnur will be pleased with his new mission. There is nothing he likes better than the clash and din of battle, and his name is feared from Rhun to Far Harad. This Witch King of yours had better pray that my Earnur does not catch site of him, or else he will find his accursed body hewn in pieces and scattered from the Hills of Evendim to the Halls of Khazad-Dum."
Many months later, Aranarth stood on the balcony of his apartment at Mithlond, his wife Vana by his side. They were staring across the grey towers and mansions of the city, and through the rift in the forested Blue Mountains in which sat the Gulf of Lune. It was December, and while no snow had yet fallen in the mild clime of Mithlond, the trees were bare, though the meadows were yet green. A mist was blowing in from the Western Sea, obscuring their view of the Gulf as it draped the West in a formless grey shroud.
"Will you stare out that window every day?" asked Vana, smoothing a crease in her shimmering blue dress; a gift from one of the Elven-maidens she had befriended. "There are surely better uses of your time, Your Majesty."
"Call me not that, even in jest," replied Aranarth with a frown, pulling away from her has he began to pace around their marbled chambers.
"Why not?" she asked. "It is your proper title."
"It is an empty title!" exclaimed Aranarth. "How can I be a King, without a kingdom to rule? To call myself 'King', or have others refer to me as such would be but a mockery. Isildur's Heir I may be, but I'll not claim the title of 'King' as long as Arnor lies in ruins. Nor shall any of my successors, if I have anything to say about it."
"Your Kingdom is not entirely destroyed," insisted Vana, her brown eyes narrowing with determination as she pressed home her point. "You must think of those of your subjects who yet live."
"And which subjects are those?" asked Aranarth, pulling the collar of his grey tunic as if in discomfort. "The Hobbits of the Shire? The Bree-men? Both are good folk in their own way, but neither are of my blood. They can rule their own petty lands, if they must. My people are the Dunedain of the North, and fewer than four-hundred of us remain. Those Men who escaped from Fornost, mostly Rangers, and those maidens or wives who escaped with them; a drop in the bucket. All the rest are slain. I am the Lord of the Dunedain by descent from the ancient Lords of Andunie in Numenor, and Lord or Chief is all I shall be called from now on."
"But Aranarth," began Vana. Aranarth raised up his hand in reply. "That is enough!" he said. "My mind is set on this matter. Do not raise it with me again."
She frowned, and then turned away from him, busying herself at her dressing table. After some moments, she said, "If that is your wish, my lord, I will comply with it. But I was referring to more than your title. Our people are saddened and demoralized. The Elves do what they can to comfort them, but only you can provide them with hope. Yet how can you lead them, if you spend all your days in here with me? You should be down there, with them."
"Perhaps you are right," he sighed. In truth, he felt almost ashamed to look his people in the eye, for in his view the House of Isildur merited the lion's share of the blame for the fall of Arnor. His family was entrusted with the defence of the realm and its people, and they had failed entirely in both respects. "Words alone will not suffice to succor them," said Aranarth. "They need a sign, visible proof of hope."
"What sign?" asked Vana, puzzled.
"The White Tree," he replied cryptically. Then without further ado, he said, "I am going for a walk down by the docks, my dear. I'll be back in time for the evening meal, naturally."
"Don't be late again," she scolded. "Last time I had to make excuses for you, and it was patently obvious that the Elves believed none of them. They entertained themselves with little witticisms about how you might otherwise be employed."
"You'll simply have to sharpen your own wits then, my dear," Aranarth replied with a mischievous smile, narrowly dodging the hairbrush that Vana threw at him as he beat a hasty retreat from the chamber.
As Aranarth strode past the quays of the harbour, pulling his green cloak tightly about himself to ward off the brisk wind from the waters of the Gulf, he saw with surprise that Lord Cirdan himself was standing by one of the piers. Several of his courtiers surrounded him as he pointed this way and that, giving them instructions in the Sindarin tongue. Cirdan caught sight of Aranarth, and turning from his courtiers he smiled at him.
"Ah, Lord Aranarth," said Cirdan in the Common tongue, – he had chosen to respect Aranarth's request not to refer to him by the title of King. "I have been inspecting the docks, which it is apparent are in need of much repair," he continued. "They have to be rebuilt and reinforced every thousand years or so, otherwise they sink too deeply into the mud of the harbour to be of use. But never mind; how fare things with you?"
"Well enough, my lord," replied Aranarth, bowing gracefully before the being who had provided his people with shelter when all hope had appeared lost. He knew that he owed the ancient Elf-lord of the Havens a greater debt than it would ever be possible to repay, and accordingly he always treated Cirdan with the utmost respect and reverence.
"That is all," said Cirdan, dismissing his courtiers. Then he turned his gaze back to Aranarth, his blue eyes shining keenly amid his handsome, grey-haired face. "You do not seem well, my friend. Come, what troubles you?"
"I do not mean to sound ungrateful," replied Aranarth. "But I cannot stand to remain here, day after day, while that vile sorcerer runs roughshod over my lands, and my family lie dead and unavenged. My father was my closest friend, and my brother, though a foolish lad in some respects, was still dear to me. Even my mother, with whom I was not on the best of terms, deserved not the bitter end she must have received. And now my father lies dead at the bottom of the Sea, and my mother and brother were surely slain long ago by the cruel Orcs and Hill-men, even were they taken alive as captives. All thanks to the Witch King! By the Valar, I feel a desperate need to strike a blow against that fiend! And yet my people are too few, too few," he continued, shaking his head sadly.
"I understand your feelings," replied the Elf-lord somberly. "I myself know what it is to lose one's homeland. An Age and an Age ago, I lived at the Havens of Brithombar and Eglarest, on the western shores of Beleriand. Ah, the pearly beaches of Brithombar, the starlight upon the shimmering walls of Eglarest! Their like is not in this world today. Throughout the Ages of the Stars I dwelt there, from the First Age of that era to the Fifth – thousands upon thousands of years, a passage of time beyond the reckoning of mortal Men. And yet, in the end they failed, as must all things in time that stand upon this Middle Earth. It is five-thousand, four-hundred and twenty-one years under the Sun since the inundation of Beleriand, and the drowning of those ancient Havens. It is as many years since I and my people founded this new Haven of Mithlond as a place of refuge for our kind. And yet not once in all those years have I failed to mourn the passing of my ancient home."
"I fear that I understand you less well than you understand me," frowned Aranarth. "It is beyond my comprehension how you could endure such sorrows, for so many countless lives of Men."
"Such is the burden of the Elves," replied Cirdan. "Our immortality is our lot, and it is both a blessing and a curse to us – more the latter, the more we age. Hence we envy
mortal Men more than you might think."
"No wonder so many of your people have taken ship for Valinor," observed Aranarth. "Perhaps in that fair land their burdens rest more lightly upon them."
"Perhaps," said Cirdan. "Or perhaps they merely exchange old burdens for new ones. Even in hidden Valinor, they must still dwell within the Circles of the World, bound to the wheel of space and time."
Aranarth nodded, staring out across the waters of Lune. The West wind had picked up in strength, and was tearing a rent in the veil of mist, through which the Sun could now be seen. The Sun, and –
"I don't believe it!" cried Aranarth, whooping with joy. "At last!"
Cirdan, astonished by the sudden change in Aranarth's demeanour, turned and stared across the waters of the harbour. Then he saw at once what had excited the Man's interest.
For sailing into the Havens from the Gulf of Lune, driven by the West wind, were dozens of ships of Men. And such ships! Each one, from the prow to the stern of its white-timbered hull, was fully five-hundred feet in length. Tall masts thrust up from the deck of each ship, bearing black sails embossed with the symgol of the White Tree. Countless Men could be scurrying to and fro on the decks, from blue-tunic'd sailors to silver-helmed soldiers, the Sun now glinting on their armoured forms. In the front of the fleet sailed the flagship, an even larger vessel whose broadest sail was embossed in cloth of silver with the Royal Standard of Gondor; seven stars and a crown surrounding the White Tree.
"The armada of Gondor has arrived!" cried Aranarth joyously. "At last, our people may have hope again!"
Cirdan smiled, and turned his gaze from the harbour to the city. Silvered trumpets were now blaring from the tall towers of Mithlond, and a growing crowd of Elves and Men, delighted by the sudden arrival of the expeditionary force of Gondor, were going forth from their homes and surging down the streets of the city towards the docks.
"Fifty ships of war, if I'm not mistaken," observed Aranarth. "Are the docks of Mithlond large enough to accommodate them all, Lord Cirdan?"
"Surely not," replied the Elf-lord. "Not since the glory days of Numenor have we received such an armada at Mithlond. On that occasion, many of the King's ships had to withdraw from this harbour and dock at the havens of Forlond and Harlond. Elves no longer dwell within those places, but I suspect that they will soon be encampments of many Gondor-men."
"No doubt," said Aranarth. He then smiled, and said, "It appears I shall be late for dinner after all."
"What was that?" frowned Cirdan.
"Oh, merely an observation," replied Aranarth.
They stood by the docks, as a growing crowd of cheering Elves and Men took shape behind them, and most of the ships of the fleet weighed anchor in the harbour, while the flagship sailed ever closer. A number of Elves had climbed into pilot boats, and guided the flagship to the longest pier, where it was soon met by Cirdan, Aranarth, and the Elves and Men who dwelt at Mithlond.
Silvered trumpets sounded from the deck of the flagship, as a long gangplank of smooth white wood was lowered from the side of the vessel onto the pier. A figure then appeared at the top of the gangplank, and strode rapidly down to the dock. When he reached the pier, he stood before Cirdan and Aranarth, and they gazed at him with great interest. Perhaps thirty-five years of age, he stood well over six and a half-feet tall, from his steel-shod feet to the top of his mane of thick black hair. His body, encased in silver armour embossed with elaborate designs in gold, was massive, bearing the broad-shouldered, muscular build that was common amongst many of the Gondor-men. A mighty sword, nearly four feet long, hung in a be-jeweled scabbard from his heavy golden belt. His sun-bronzed, handsome face bore several scars, testimony to much service in war. His fierce blue eyes stared down at them, taking their measure.
Then, at length, he spoke. "I am Earnur, Crown Prince of Gondor," he said, in a deep, powerful voice. "Whom might I have the honour of addressing?"
"I am Cirdan, Lord of these Havens," said the slender Elf, bowing gracefully with a flourish of his shimmering grey robes. He was tall, and yet seemed slight indeed beside the massive Gondor-man. "We are delighted you have arrived at last, Prince Earnur."
"I am only too pleased to oblige, Lord Cirdan," replied Earnur, with a crisp salute; right hand held over his left breast.
"And I am Aranarth. I have taken the title of Lord, until my kingdom is returned to me."
"That will be soon enough, my brother!" laughed Earnur, clapping Aranarth on the shoulder. Aranarth nearly staggered under the blow, though he realized that it was friendly, and that Earnur had employed but the least part of his strength.
"I've heard all about this Witch King of yours," continued Earnur with a broad smile, though his eyes blazed fiercely. "Seems he's been rather misbehaving himself. Just wait 'till I catch hold of him! I'll gave that dried-up old beggar such a thrashing that he'll soon wish he had never heard the name of Earnur of Gondor!"
"In valour lies your honour, young prince," demurred Cirdan smoothly. "But come, let us proceed to my chambers at once. We have much to discuss, if your Men are to disembark in a timely fashion."
As Cirdan had predicted, there were not enough berths at Mithlond alone to accommodate the Expeditionary Force of Gondor, and so its soldiers and their ships were now based at camps along the shores of Mithlond and Harlond, while its auxiliaries of Northmen camped at Forlond. Prince Earnur and his retinue, however, were treated as Cirdan's guests, and accommodated within the walls of Mithlond itself. They passed the Yuletide feasting with customary revelry and exploring the wonders of the Elven lands, for Earnur, in accordance with King Earnil's instructions, had made it clear that Gondor's armies would not move against the Witch King until the snows melted in late March. Cirdan had feared the Witch King, learning of the arrival of Gondor's armies, might strike first amid the snows of winter as he had at Fornost. But his Elven-scouts and Aranarth's Rangers reported no sign of the Witch King's armies in the lands west of the river Brandywine. It seemed that dark sorcerer had also chosen to bide his time.
In early January, some weeks after the Yule feast, the captains of the armies assembled in Lindon met at Cirdan's council chambers at Mithlond. Within the marble-walled room, its panels set with precious gems, the shutters of its windows closed to ward of the winter's chill, was a circular conference table that was also carved of marble and set with gemstones. Around that table sat Lord Cirdan, his lieutenant Lord Gildor Inglorion, Lord Aranarth, Prince Earnur, and General Wealtheow, the leader of Gondor's auxiliary force of light cavalry, drawn from the Northmen of Rhovanion. As they sipped mulled wine from crystal goblets, and the fires on the hearth crackled, they discussed the strategy they would employ against the Witch King when March at last arrived.
"I have studied the maps of these northern lands," said Earnur, waving his hands expansively. Though garbed in a black tunic, he still wore his magnificent gilded breastplate, even in the council chamber. "The solution is obvious," he continued. "We will attack Fornost from two fronts; the North and the South. Wealtheow's cavalry shall ride up the Vale of Lune, and cut across the Hills of Evendim, turning round and striking at Fornost from the North; our main force shall cut through the land referred to as the Shire, cross the Brandywine, and then turn and strike at Fornost from the South. The Witch King and his minions will then find themselves caught in a trap, with no hope of escape."
"The trap might be for us," observed Gildor, sweeping a lock of golden hair from his face as he stared at Earnur. Gildor, who was dressed in shimmering robes of deep blue, was of the kindred of the Noldor, and thus one of the few High Elves of the West to remain in Middle Earth. "I doubt that a frontal assault would be wise," he asserted
"Is that so?" asked Earnur, raising a sable eyebrow – his tone made it obvious that he was not used to having his ideas questioned. "By all means, then, favour us with your wisdom."
"There are three points to consider," observed Gildor, his grey eyes narrowing as he noted Earnur's manner. "First," he continued, "we are outnumbered by nearly two to one, though it is a basic principle of strategy that a fortified position cannot be taken without the attacker having an advantage of at least five to one."
"That only applies against a real army," scoffed Earnur. "I've fought with savages and Orcs before. As warriors, they are worthless, relying on numbers and fear of their gruesome aspect alone to awe their foes. Any one heavy infantryman of Gondor is worth five of theirs."
"And any Northman is worth ten," said Wealtheow gruffly, "twenty if he is mounted on a horse, as are my lads." Wealtheow, like all Northmen, was a giant of a man, almost as tall and broad-shouldered as Earnur. He was dressed in a tunic of scarlet cloth, which emphasized his florid complexion, and wore a golden chain about his thick neck. His long hair and beard were flaxen-blond, and his blue eyes shone fiercely. "We shall sweep those dunghill rats before us with ease," he boasted.
"That leads to the second point," sighed Gildor, crossing his slender arms. "We are not merely fighting against Orcs and Wild-men. In addition to the Trolls, the Witch King
also has in his service a Cold Drake of Forodwaith."
"Well – so I've heard, from gossip" frowned Wealtheow. His manner seemed less assured now. "Some Worms are greater than others. Know you the name of this beast?"
"Carakel the Silver," replied Gildor, noting that Wealtheow turned pale at the mention of that name.
"Carakel!" exclaimed the Northman. "Aye, that Worm is known to my people. He plagued us of old, so fiercely that we were forced to abandon our home by the sources of Anduin, and cross the shadowy depths of Mirkwood to found a new home amid the plains of Rhovanion. Few of our people survived the journey, but all of us remember the rumour of him."
"A Worm," scoffed Earnur. "What of it? We shall slay the beast with an arrow or a spear."
"That is easier said than done, Your Highness," replied Wealtheow. "His hide is armoured in shards of Mithril, 'tis said. None could stand against him, for our weapons proved useless. Aye, my people long for vengeance against Carakel, but I know not how we could attain it."
"We Elves have certain weapons that might be of use against the Dragon," replied Cirdan. "Though I shall not say more of them here."
"Then where will you say more of them?" asked Earnur. "You Elves always speak cryptically, as if you knew secrets not fit for Men. Frankly, I grow tired of it. Now is the time to lay our plans, not amid the heat of battle. But if you think you can slay this beast, then do so. I leave it to your own armies to grapple with him."
"I'm sure we appreciate your generosity," observed Gildor wryly. "And we shall deal with Carakel in our own way. Suffice to say that he is a factor that we must consider in planning our assault, for he can slay countless thousands with his claws and tail and poisoned breath. He is worth an entire army in his own right."
"So you say," scowled Earnur. "But as that is your concern now, perhaps you can get on to your third point."
"The third point," replied Gildor with a frown, "is the Witch King himself. We do not know the full extent of his sorcerous power, and it is dangerous to underestimate a foe. Which leads me to a question; where is Gandalf the Grey? We are surely in need of his wisdom."
"Who is Gandalf the Grey?" asked Earnur impatiently. "Is this council to consist of one riddle after another?"
"Patience, please, Prince Earnur," said Cirdan, holding up his slender hand. "We are all friends here. Let us preserve some decorum."
"As you wish, my lord Cirdan," replied Earnur, exhaling his breath through his nostrils – his father King Earnil had ordered him to treat Cirdan with deference.
"To answer your question, kinsman," said Aranarth softly, "you might know Gandalf under the name of Mithdrandir."
"Ah, yes. The Grey Pilgrim," replied Earnur, his eyes narrowing. "I have never met him, though I know he has journeyed to Gondor on one or two occasions. Curunir the White seems to think but little of him, though. Would Mithrandir really be of any use to us, if we could find him? He seems to have been of little enough use to Arnor during its long decline, and by your own testimony he did nothing to prevent its fall."
"I have never met Curunir, or Saruman as he is known in the North," rejoined Aranarth. "Though I have heard much of him from Gandalf, and not all of it is good. But suffice to say that the Grey Wizard is a powerful ally. It is largely thanks to his efforts that the remnant of Arnor, which had already fallen to pieces long before he began to walk amongst us, managed to survive as long as it did. Gandalf is the only one of us who could dare to face the Witch King in single combat. I bitterly regret that he was not present at the siege of Fornost, for if he could not have turned the tide single-handed, he might at least have stemmed it. And mayhap we would not have been caught unawares. But he rode off to the South over a month before the Witch King's attack, saying that he hoped to return with much-needed help. No one has heard from him since."
"Indeed, Mithrandir sounds like the one in need of help," scoffed Earnur. "He wasn't wise enough to foresee when the forces of Angmar would attack, was he? Else he would not have left – unless he dared not face them. But I care not for this talk of the Witch King's mummery. There is not any Man who I cannot slay in combat, single-handed. If he meets me, he shall die."
"That seems very doubtful, not least since it is doubtful he is truly alive," replied Cirdan. "And yes, that is another of our Elven-riddles, Prince Earnur, and one which I shall not explicate either. I suspect I know precisely who the Witch King of Angmar truly is – a being far more ancient and loathsome than guessed at even by the Men of Arnor, who have long fought against him. But I shall not reveal my conjecture to you without proof."
"Alive or undead," replied Earnur, his blue eyes blazing fiercely, "I swear by Eru that I shall not rest until I have cut off the Witch King's head, and mounted it on a pike. Does that satisfy you?"
An uneasy silence fell over the room. At length, Gildor said, "An oath is an oath, whether or not undertaken lightheartedly. But it is dangerous to swear by Eru, for that is the one Oath from which no Man or Elf may find release, in this world or the next."
"Hence my swearing it," smiled Earnur. "The Witch King's fate is sealed. But as to your three objections, none of them are any basis for changing the plan that I have set out."
"I can think of one item that might influence your plan," observed Aranarth. "There is a secret passage from the fields west of Fornost into the heart of the Citadel."
The others were silent for a moment, clearly taken by surprise. "It was known to no one, other than the Kings of Arnor," explained Aranarth. "But when my late father escaped from the city, he used that route, taking my wife, Princess Vana, with him. She has informed me of the location of that tunnel. He kept is secret from me and his men even after the escape, I suppose, to minimize the chance that the Witch King would learn of it should one of us be captured. But I see no point it keeping it secret now. The tunnel must surely factor into our plans."
"Indeed it must," replied Earnur, nodding vigorously. "A good-sized party of my light-infantry, and your Rangers, could use such a tunnel to penetrate the Citadel, and then open the gates in both the inner and outer walls of the city from inside."
"There is also another point to consider," exclaimed Cirdan. "The army of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. I have received word that Elrond wishes to send his army west to the village of Bree, and rendezvous there with us. We can then press north up the road to Fornost."
"That is but a minor change to my plan," replied Earnur. "It matters little whether we strike out from the Brandywine Bridge, or from Bree."
"So be it," concluded Cirdan. "Let us proceed to the details; weapons, provender, baggage carts, mustering and the like."
Some hours later, once the conference ended, Earnur and Wealtheow strode from the room, ready to give orders to their officers. Aranarth was also about to leave, but he was detained by Cirdan and Gildor, who closed the doors to the chambers before returning to their seats.
"What do you think of your kinsman, Prince Earnur?" asked Gildor, his youthful face calm and impassive.
"He is a very bold man," replied Aranarth. "I am certainly grateful to have him as an ally."
"And that is all?" asked Cirdan, staring at Gildor before returning his gaze to Aranarth.
"Well, perhaps he is a bit hasty," replied Aranarth carefully. "A hothead, if you will."
"He is a fool," observed Gildor dryly. "All brawn and no brains."
"That seems a bit harsh," replied Aranarth with a frown. "And you can't expect me to gainsay my kinsman, however distant, without more time to take his measure."
"You cannot allow the ties of blood to blind your judgment," replied Cirdan. "Whether a fool or a hothead, Earnur is a type who appears all too common amongst the Gondor-men of these days. They are flush with pride, nay with arrogance, at the glorious history of their realm, and think but little of other peoples. No matter that Gondor has passed its high-water mark, and that already it has retreated far from its old frontiers, in the North, East and South. The Gondor-men still believe themselves to be invincible, and Earnur most of all."
"The memories of Men are short," observed Gildor. "The decline of Gondor is obvious to us Elves, who have witnessed its foundation and its rise. But the Gondor-men themselves know nothing beyond the short span of time that they have seen with their own eyes, or else what they have read in musty scrolls in their archives."
"No doubt," replied Cirdan. "In any case, the arrogance of the Gondor-men makes them all, but Earnur in particular, dangerous foils in the hands of the Witch King, and the One whom the Witch King serves."
"And who is that?" asked Aranarth. The Elves frowned, and remained silent for a moment. "Gandalf often spoke of the Witch King as being in the service of a greater enemy," pressed the Dunedain, "but what enemy could be greater than the Witch King of Angmar?"
"If Gandalf did not tell you, then neither shall we," replied Gildor. "But understand that now that the Witch King has toppled your kingdom, events shall move more quickly than they have in the past. A strategy long in the planning has been unfolding against us, by stealth and maneuver and the use of pawns. The fall of Arnor marks the first open move by one of the most powerful pieces on the board. Both the Heirs of Isildur and Anarion must play a crucial role in the dark years that are to come; darker even than you have experienced, Lord Aranarth."
"And yet wisdom, it seems, has departed from the House of Anarion," sighed Cirdan. "It is strange, Aranarth; for if my memory serves me well, your forefather Isildur was what you would call a hothead himself, while Anarion was more as you are; quiet and thoughtful. Now, their characters are reversed in you and Earnur. Earnur does not strike Gildor or me as a Man to whom the deepest mysteries should be revealed. You are different, Aranarth; when the time is right, all shall be made known to you. And you must use that knowledge to guide Earnur on the path of right conduct, if you can. He might listen to a kinsman, where he would not listen to us."
"I appreciate your trust in me," replied Aranarth hesitantly. "Though all seems full of riddles, as Earnur observed."
"While you ponder our riddles," smiled Cirdan, "I have a gift for you." He rang a small silver bell that stood on the tabletop, and waited for some moments. There was a knock on the doors, and then a dark-haired Elf, dressed in the grey livery of one of Cirdan's servants, opened them and stood at the threshold.
"My lord?" he asked.
"Ah, Teiglin," replied Cirdan. "Please go up to my private chambers, and return with Lord Aranarth's gift."
"With pleasure, my liege," smiled Teiglin. He disappeared, and returned some minutes later, bearing a long, lacquered ebon box. He deposited the box on the table, next to Aranarth, bowed, and left the room, closing the doors behind him.
"Well, open it!" smiled Gildor. "Even Elven-boxes don't open themselves – most of them, at any rate."
Aranarth opened the box, and then stepped back, gasping in amazement. Inside was a spear, full seven feet long. But it was like no spear that Aranarth had ever seen! Its shaft was formed of gold, elaborately carved in the flowing patterns of the Elves. And its sharp silvery head was carved with many Elven runes, in the Tengwar style.
"This is Amarloke," said Cirdan. "The shaft and the head are of Mithril, though the shaft has been gilded. Runes of Enchantment lie upon the head. It is yours. Come, pick it up!"
Aranarth took hold of the spear. To his amazement, it felt as light as a feather in his hands. He made a few passes through the air with it, and it sang as if with a clear, sweet voice.
"I am honoured, and thankful," replied Aranarth, replacing the spear in its box and closing the lid. "But what have I done to deserve this gift? You have already been more than generous to me and my people, Lord Cirdan."
"If I am generous to your people now, it is to repent for my being too hard on them in the past," replied Cirdan. "I long bore a grudge against Isildur's House, for reasons that a loremaster of your people might guess. I have come to realize that such an attitude is unjust on my part. But as to this spear; suffice to say that the gift of foresight lies upon many of my people, and not least on me. We cannot see clearly, for the strands of the future form an ever-changing web. But sometimes, a strand is strong, and a certain fate seems more likely than not. Suffice to say that very likely you shall have need of this spear, before all is over."
"You have made yet more riddles," observed Aranarth. "I did not know you had ever begrudged my house, though I am glad that you have become a dear friend to us. But in any case, I thank you for your gift."
March the First found the armies of Gondor and the Havens assembled in the fields east of Mithlond. The snows of winter had melted along the shores of Lindon, whose climate was more mild than that of the interior. But the land had not yet stirred to life, and the sky was leaden-grey with heavy clouds.
Ten-thousand light infantry, twenty-thousand heavy infantry, and ten-thousand heavy cavalry stood under the banners of Gondor, under the leadership of Prince Earnur, whose squire bore the Royal Standard; seven stars and a crown surmounting the White Tree, on a field of sable. Earnur himself was clad in his full armour, and rode a magnificent black stallion. He seemed impatient, eager to commence his march across the lands to Bree, and then turn north and begin the assault on the lands held by the Witch King.
A further ten-thousand light cavalry, the auxiliaries of the Northmen of Rhovanion, were assembled under the leadership of General Wealtheow. They were garbed in iron scale-male and capes of green, each bearing a long spear and a short cavalry sword. Their banners was also a dark green field, on which was emblazoned a fiery scarlet Sun. Weatheow sat by the banner, mounted on a white charger, his face the calm mask of the professional soldier.
A much smaller group of Men, the Dunedain Rangers of Arnor, stood near by the light infantry of Gondor. They were garbed in beige tunics and pantaloons, and heavy green cloaks and hoods. All were armed with bows and arrows, though some also bore daggers, while others longswords. They stood under the banner of Arnor, a five-pointed white star upon a field of cloth-of-silver. Lord Aranarth was at their head, and he alone was mounted on a horse, a strong beast of dappled brown and white.
Finally, apart from the Men was assembled the army of Mithlond. In its ranks were Grey and Green Elves, and even the few High Elves who yet remained in the Havens; one-thousand five-hundred Elven warriors in all. They were clad in elaborate gilded armour, and bore both their famed Elven longbows, and wicked-looking pikes. Lord Gildor Inglorion, mounted on a pale white steed, served as their leader, and by his side were several squires bearing the banners of the various Elven-kindreds present; silver for the Grey Elves, verdigris for the Green Elves, and brilliant azure for the High Elves, each banner bearing an intricate design in cloth of gold and silver. The Sea Elves, however, were not present, for while they would engage with enemies on the waters, it was not their custom to fight on land, except in defence of their own strongholds. Cirdan remained at Mithlond with them; for like Lord Elrond of Rivendell he had fought his last battle on the plains of Gorgoroth, nearly two-thousand years before, and would not venture into combat again.
Princees Vana and Lord Cirdan stood on the field, a herald of the Sea Elves by their side. The herald blew his silver trumpet, and the captains of the armies – Earnur, Wealtheow, Aranarth and Gildor – spurred their mounts toward him,.
"My friends," said Cirdan to them simply, "the time has come. We have laid our plans, and now we must set them in motion. You will face great perils and great evils; but know that the blessings of Elves, and Men, and all Free Folk go with you. May the Valar protect you!"
The captains drew their swords in a gesture of salute, before returning to their armies to lead them into battle. Aranarth lingered briefly, staring at Vana, who was garbed in a dress of sable, and who was nearly moved to nears at the thought of the perils that would be faced by her husband.
"Fear not, my lady," smiled Aranarth. "We will meet again." Then Aranarth spurred his steed towards his Men. Trumpets sounded across the armies, and then they turned to their respective marching routes, laid out months before; Wealtheow and his cavalry to the North, up the Vale of Lune, and the Armies of Gondor, Arnor and Mithlond to the East.
For several days the Armies of Earnur, Aranarth and Gildor marched across the great East road, following its winding path over the Tower Hills and the marbled pinnacles of Emyn Beraid, over the copses and moors of the Far downs, and over the grassy slopes of the White Downs. At length, as they reached the crest of the White Downs, a broad land opened before them to the East. It was full of fields and hedgerows, and little woods, dormant but on the edge of stirring to life with the advent of spring. Here and there were tiny villages, their buildings seeming absurdly small even from such a distance. Houses though were few and far between, and indeed seemed too few to account for the many farmers who must have tilled the soil and husbanded the tame beasts of so many fields and meadows.
"We crossed the boundaries of Arnor when we passed the towers of Emyn Beraid," explained Aranarth. The Lord of the Dunedain was riding at the head of his Rangers and alongside Earnur and the vanguard of the heavy cavalry – Gildor was far behind, riding with the column of Elves who formed the rear guard of the army. "That was also the boundary of Arthedain, the westernmost of the three ancient provinces of Arnor," continued Aranarth. "But now we are entering the land known as the Shire, which is the home of the greater part of the Halflings. The rest, at least of those known to us, live in the village of Bree, many leagues east of the Shire."
"I heard mention of the Halflings at Mithlond," replied Earnur, surveying the land with an officer's eye for traps and ambushes as he followed the winding road down toward the plain below. "What are they, exactly? It's said they're like Men, but no bigger than children. We've heard no tales of them in Gondor."
"That's not surprising," replied Aranarth. "As far as I know, the Halflings have never dwelt in the South. But yes, they are like little Men, no taller than children; and they are childlike in some ways, though not in others. They call themselves Hobbits, and were unheard-of until some seven-hundred years ago. It seems they come from the East, from the upper Vales of Anduin. The growing shadow of Mirkwood drove them westward, over the passes of the Misty Mountains, and so into the lands of Arnor. They first found refuge near Bree, for although they once feared Men, and are still shy of them, the Bree-men were good and kindly to them. It is from the Bree-men that they learned the Common Tongue, forgetting their ancient speech, and it is from the Bree-men that they learned to abandon the bow and the spear in favour of the plough and the mill. They have been farmers ever since."
"What has any of that to do with this Shire of yours?" yawned Earnur. He seemed to be loosing interest, but Aranarth, keen to relieve his own boredom with the travails of the march, continued reciting his lore on the topic.
"The Shire is nearly four-hundred years old," replied Aranarth. "After several-hundred years at Bree, the Hobbits had multiplied greatly, and the Bree-land was growing too crowded for them. So a goodly number of them took up from their homes, and followed two of their gentry – March and Blanco, if I recall their names correctly – west from Bree, and then west of the Brandywine Bridge, into lands which at that time had long since been abandoned by my Dunedain kinfolk. They established settlements along the Road, from the Brandywine to the feet of the White Downs, and then petitioned the King at Fornost for recognition and a grant of land. My forefather was keen to see the wildlands of Arnor tamed, as much as they could be, and knew that there were not enough of our own people to settle the broad wastelands of Arthedain. So he granted the Hobbits the land of the Shire as their exclusive domain. By the laws of Arnor, no Man is permitted to dwell here, and the Hobbits are free to choose their own leaders, and govern their own affairs as they see fit. In return, they must acknowledge the sovereignty of the King, keep a watch on their borders, and agree to send armed soldiers to fight in defence of Arnor, should the King summon them."
"Soliders?" asked Earnur with a smile. "What use would they be in battle, if they're no bigger than children? Biting Orcs on the ankle perhaps?"
Aranarth laughed, in spite of himself. "Well, we have never tested them in war," he replied. "And perhaps that is just as well. I no longer claim the title of King, so I will not hold them to my allegiance in any case."
Earnur grunted, and said no more. They rode silently for a time, until at last they left the White Downs behind them, and passed through the village of Michel Delving. Its little shops and taverns were deserted, and the stucco was crumbling from some of the half-timbered walls. Holes and patches were scattered here and there on the thatched roves, and no smoke rose from their chimneys.
"This land appears long deserted," frowned Earnur.
"I'm not surprised that the Hobbits are nowhere to be seen," said Aranarth, "for as I said they are shy of Men, and a great army such as ours would surely fill them with fear and wonder. But you are right; it is plain this village has not been inhabited for some months."
"Perhaps something has happened to these creatures?" asked Earnur. "Are we sure the servants of the Witch King are not abroad in this land?"
"The Elven-scouts and my Rangers have scoured the lands roundabout," replied Aranarth. "They insisted there are no signs of the Witch King's minions west of the Brandywine, or south of Lake Evendim."
"Yet perhaps the shadow of war has led the Halflings to abandon the land," said Earnur.
"That could be," said Aranarth doubtfully. "But I think not. They may fear war, but more likely than not they have abandoned their villages for their holes."
"Their holes?" asked Earnur, incredulously.
"By nature, they live in holes carved into the ground," explained Aranarth. "They did not begin to build above-ground 'till they took up farming. Even now, their buildings are shops, and taverns, and toolsheds, and the like. They still prefer to build their homes under the ground, if they can."
"I suppose that is why I see few houses," replied Earnur, shaking his head. "But come, do you really mean to tell me they live in tunnels carved in the dirt, like coneys?"
"Perhaps the poorest do," shrugged Aranarth. "Though I understand that the holes of wealthier hobbits, their gentry and such, are quite comfortable."
"I appear to have steeped from the waking lands of Men into a child's tale," replied Earnur, shaking his head again. "But I'll believe what you've just told me if and when I see it for myself."
"We shall see soon enough," replied Aranarth. The two captains then remained silent for some hours, as they and their armies trampled across the rolling lands east of Michel Delving. The Sun was beginning to sink into the west when they arrived at a crossroads, marked by a signpost that bore the legends "Michel Delving," "Tuckborough," "Frogmorton," "Bywater," and "Hobbiton."
Suddenly, a shrill note from a brass horn rose up from behind a hedgerow. Earnur ordered the army to a halt, and drew his sword, accompanied by many of his cavalrymen. The Rangers, however, stood still.
"Peace," said Aranarth, touching Earnur's arm. "Wait and see."
At length, a little gate opened in a hedgerow, and from it stepped forth onto the road many curious figures, no bigger than children. As Earnur and the cavalrymen of Gondor stared in astonishment, the road to the South soon filled up with nearly four-hundred Hobbits! They had thick brown hair, and soft, simple faces, and their bare feet were covered by tufts of brown hair like that on their head. Each was garbed in a green cape, and tunic and pantaloons of brown and yellow, and each bore a tiny bow and a quiver-full of miniature arrows. In front of them stood one Hobbit who had golden hair, bore a staff and dagger, and stood a handsbreadth's taller than the others. A long white feather was affixed in his green cap. Beside him on a fat pony sat an aging Hobbit with long silvery hair, dressed in rich green and yellow robes of velvet.
"Greetings, little friends," said Aranarth, riding toward the elderly Hobbit on the pony.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," replied the elderly Hobbit, in a dry, crusty voice. "I am Bredegar, Master of the Great Smialls at Tuckborough, and head of the clan of Tooks."
"I no longer claim the title of King, Master Bredegar" replied Aranarth. "I am merely Lord of the Dunedain now."
"Really?" frowned Bredegar, as the other Hobbits muttered amongst themselves. "That seems a shame," he continued, his green eyes contemplative, "though of course I shall comply with your wishes. Even so, my lord, our people swore an oath to our forefather, and I deem that by blood it is as binding upon us as upon you."
"I appreciate your loyalty, Master Bredegar," replied Aranarth.
"Were these creatures hiding behind the hedgerows the whole time?" frowned Earnur, who rode up to Aranarth and then halted his steed, staring down at the Hobbits from his towering height. "How is it they were not spotted by the Rangers?"
"We weren't hiding," replied the young staff-bearing Hobbit, with a defiant air. "We were keeping a watch on you, to determine whether you be friend or foe. We would deem you foe, but for the fact that you ride alongside the King – or, the Lord, now, is it? – of the North. For, you have trespassed on our lands without our permission. And if you did not see us, that is no wonder, for you Big People are clumsy folk indeed. You couldn't find your own great noses, if they weren't attached to your faces."
"Know you not who I am?" replied Earnur, his face flushing scarlet. "Have a care how you speak to me, sirrah!"
"I care not who you are," replied the Hobbit stoutly. "You are neither King, Lord nor Master of the Shire, and we don't hold with outlanders or their strange ways. We will speak only with the Lord Aranarth himself."
Earnur scowled darkly, but Aranarth laid a cautioning hand on his arm. "Peace, my brother!" he said. Turning to the Hobbit with the staff, he said, "This is Prince Earnur of Gondor, and you should treat him with as much respect as you do me. What is your name, might I ask?"
"Prince of Gondor, eh?" asked the Hobbit, narrowing his brown eyes suspiciously. "I thought Gondor was just a land in a child's tale. Well my lords, I beg pardon for any offence caused. My name is Falco Took, at your service." He doffed his cap, and bowed deeply. "Eldest son and heir of Master Bredegar of Tuckborough."
"We have indeed come to offer you our service, my lord," said Bredegar, addressing Aranarth. "Though you have not asked for it. But that accursed Dragon has ravished our Northfarthing for long enough, and now we mean to strike a blow against him."
"Dragon?" asked Earnur, raising a dark eyebrow. His temper diminished at once, and his mood became inquisitive as he heard this unwelcome news. "How can there be a Dragon in these parts? Our scouts and Rangers said that none of the Witch King's forces were seen west of the Brandywine."
"Mayhap not," replied Bredegar, glancing briefly at Earnur before returning his gaze to Aranarth. "But this fell beast is quick and silent, rarely heard and less often seen. He flies high in the skies, it seems, miles and miles up. When he sees a choice flock of sheep or kine cornered in a byre, he plummets from the heavens like a stone, as if he were an Eagle. He gulps them down like a starving wolf, and then takes to the skies again. It's all over with in minutes."
"More than half our sheep and cows in the Northfarthing have been taken," scowled Falco. "And some of our shepeards have been slain. Our people fear to go outside, lest the Dragon snatch them from above, and we'll have little meat or milk this spring, nor dare we plough the land and till the crops. There will be nothing on our plates but pease porridge and stale bread until autumn; after that we will face famine, unless the Dragon is driven from our lands." The other Hobbits frowned and grumbled, shaking their heads.
"I am sorry to hear of your plight, my friends," replied Aranarth. "And I apologize to you, for it seems that my House has failed to protect you. Your plight was unknown to us."
"You never asked us how things stood in this land, my lord," replied Bredegar, thrusting his chapped hands into his pockets. "We would have been more than happy to tell you."
"Again, I apologize," sighed Aranarth. "We did not mean to slight you. But while I appreciate your offer of aid, my friends, I cannot accept it. We ride into perils greater than you can imagine. I cannot be responsible for leading hundreds of your youngfolk to their doom."
"We know the perils well enough," replied Falco, drawing himself up to his full height; a solid three foot eight. "We have sent messengers to the Bree-hobbits, and heard from them of the evil Witch King and his dreadful deeds at King's Norbury – Fornost, as you call it. But though a timid folk we may seen, our love for our land runs deep. We will not allow the Dragon or his ally, that dark sorcerer, to rob us blind and lead us to starvation. We want nothing more than to live in peace, but still our boldest folk are prepared to do their part." The other Hobbits nodded, their little faces strangely stern and keen.
Aranarth regarded them for a time, his grey eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Then he replied, "So be it, my friends. I still do not wish you to march into open battle against Orcs and Trolls and Wild-men; nor would you wish to, once you set eyes on them. And we have devised our own plan for dealing with the Dragon, in which you cannot play a part. But while your people are small, and not strong by our measure, you have keen eyes and ears and noses, and your stealth is legendary – you have proved that well enough today. If you will join with my Rangers, and serve with them as spies and scouts for our army, I would be more than happy for your aid."
Falco turned to Bredegar, who nodded solemnly. Then he bowed before Aranarth, and replied "So be it, my lord. The Hobbits of the Shire are at your service."
"Well, now we've truly nothing to fear at all," exclaimed Earnur, before turning round and rejoining his cavalry.
The army camped in the fields by Hobbiton and Bywater for the night, and the next morning it continued on its way. For two more days it followed the road through the Shire, accompanied by the Hobbits. As Aranarth had ordered they were numbered amongst the Rangers of Arnor – though they found it difficult to keep pace with Rangers' long legs. Master Bredegar returned to his Great Smialls at Tuckborough, for he was too old for service in war, but his vigorous son Falco served as the leader of the Hobbit-scouts, and took his orders from Aranarth personally.
On the evening of March the Fifth, they reached the stone expanse of the Brandywine Bridge, and camped in the fields along the turbulent brown waters of the Brandywine River. The first yellow Coltsfoot flowers had begun to poke up from the riverbanks, promising that winter's time was near its end, and spring was on its way. But the next day, after they crossed the Bridge into the empty lands east of the Shire, the weather took a turn for the worse, and a cold rain began to beat endlessly on the land, turning the fields by the sides of the paved road into seas of mud, slowing the march of the army to a crawl, and rendering Men, Hobbits and even Elves wet and miserable.
For four more days they marched across the flat expanse between the Brandywine and the Bree-land. The army hugged to the north of the road, for to its south lay the dark expanse of the Old Forest, which the Hobbits swore was an accursed haunt of witches, werewolves and goblins. The Men of Gondor laughed at such claims, though they still gave the forest a wide berth. The Rangers whispered darkly amongst themselves of the tales of the Old Forest, and how more than one ill-fated Man had braved its depths, never to return. The Elves, for their part, denied such tales were true, yet still acknowledged that a Power dwelt in the Forest with whom it would be wise not to tamper. Iarwain Ben-Adain, they would whisper, First and Fatherless – but they would say no more.
At length, as the afternoon of March the Ninth wore on, they left behind the expanse of the Old Forest, and rode past the dreary slopes of the Barrow Downs, which also lay to the south of the Road. The rains grew even heavier, and dense fog began to form on the summits of the Downs, sliding down towards the road like the feelers of a grasping white hand. The army now trod the fields well north of the road, braving mud and treacherous pools, rather than find themselves enmeshed in those fogs. For even the Gondor-men had heard tales of the Barrow Downs, which had long lain under an enchantment of the Witch King. The barrows on the summits were infested with Wights, evil spirits inhabiting the bodies of dead Men. Those foolish enough to set foot on the Downs, and who found themselves enmeshed in their treacherous fogs, were never seen again. Neither Elves, Men nor Hobbits cared to contemplate their fate.
As the shadows of evening lengthened into an ebon night, the East wind picked up, and the rain poured down harder than ever, the army at last saw the twinkling of many yellow lights on the horizon, and arrived in the fields that sprawled west of the ancient town of Bree. Bree was a settlement of some five-thousand souls, four-thousand of whom were Men, and the remainder Hobbits. The Bree-men, though friends of the Dunedain, were not akin to them, being shorter and darker, and of a progeny that stretched deep into the antiquity of Middle Earth. The Bree-hobbits, though not nearly as numerous as their cousins the Shire-folk, tended to adopt a superior air towards them, referring to them as "colonists", and subtly reminding them that Bree was the fount of Hobbit civilization and culture. There was thus a fierce rivalry between the Bree and Shire-hobbits, although for the most part it remained friendly rather than bitter. Falco and his lads seemed keen to tell their side of the story, but to their disappointment the Rangers showed little interest in Hobbit rivalries.
As the army encamped about the town for the night, the Rangers conversed with the constables of the watch who manned the gates of Bree. They at first offered to accommodate the soldiers within the houses of the town, though they soon demurred when it became apparent how vast was the army of Gondor. They had little to say of the Witch King, for it seemed that even though Fornost was but a hundred miles north of their Bree, none of the Witch King's servants had been seen within twenty-five miles of the Bree-land. The Rangers thought this odd, and reported the news to the captains of the army; Earnur, Aranarth, Gildor and Falco. These four were trying to hold a conference in Earnur's tent, though its canvas was sodden wet and dripping, and the fierce winds made it difficult for the Men to hear each other speak.
After receiving the Rangers' report, Aranarth turned to the other three and shouted, in a hoarse voice, "My friends, might I suggest we take our conference to a place within the walls of Bree? The Bree-men are loath to accommodate forty-two thousand and one-hundred soldiers in their homes – and who can blame them. But I am sure they will be eager to allow the captains of our army shelter within their walls. In fact, I know the perfect place; an Inn called The Prancing Pony. The Innkeeper is a sour old fellow, but his ale is stout enough."
"The Prancy what?" asked Earnur.
"PRANCING PONY!" shouted Aranarth, disappointed that no one had caught on to this pun.
"Oh? I thought you said 'pony'," replied Earnur. "Well, let's foot it there at once. I can hardly hear myself talk in this racket."
And with that they pulled their cloaks and hoods tightly about themselves and set forth through the driving rain to the Western Gate of Bree, a simple wooden door set in a steep earthen bank and surrounded by moat that was typically dry, though on this night full of water. When they crossed the causeway and announced themselves to the gatekeepers, those Bree-men began to bow and scrape eagerly, hurling open the gate and ushering them within the walls of the town. Several of them saluted Aranarth, and inquired after his health, while one of them ran down the muddy streets that knit together the stone-built houses of the town to alert the Innkeeper that he was about to receive Honoured Guests.
After disengaging themselves from the Bree-men at the Gate, the four captains marched down the streets, which were as empty as one might expect on a night of such dreadful weather. At length, they found themselves before a large, three-storied stone house, which encompassed a broad courtyard. The symbol of a pony, which hung from a sign over the main doors, made it clear that they had reached the Inn. Several solid Bree-men were exiting through the doors into the muddy street, wrapping their cloaks tightly about themselves and grumbling inaudibly as the captains walked past them and entered the building.
Aranarth closed the doors to keep out the wind and rain, and they found themselves in a broad, wood-paneled room, bearing many trestle-tables and benches, and warmed by an enormous fire that roared within a heavy stone hearth. In a dark corner of the room, a short, fat, bald-headed Man, who wore a greasy shirt and trousers and a beer-stained apron, was shouting at a diminutive, bent-over figure who sat at a bench, and held his tattered robes tightly about himself.
"Go on, clear out, you old sot!" shouted the Innkeeper. "We've great lords and kings coming here as guests tonight. They won't want no truck with the likes of a mountebank such as you."
"The great lords and kings have arrived," announced Gildor, in a high, clear voice that filled the room. The Innkeeper turned around at once, wiping his hands on his apron and trudging over to them. He stroked his dark beard before bowing deeply.
"Your Majesty! My lords!" he said, in a loud, squeaking voice. "And an Elf-lord!" he gasped, staring at Gildor in wonder. "A thousand pardons for the wretchedness of this 'ere humble establishment," he continued. "It mayn't seem much, but it's the best Bree has to offer."
The Innkeeper then smiled obsequiously, rubbing his thick hands together. "I've sent the regular lads back to their homes, so you could have the entire place to yourselves. If you'll pardon me, I just have to send this here old vagrant in the corner there packing. He's been hangin' round the place for months, spending as few coppers as he may. I would have got rid of him long ago, but that he's done some conjuring tricks for my regular customers, pulling coins out of their ears and telling them what cards they've picked out of a deck and other such things. Keeps the lads amused, which keeps the ale-taps open, and the coppers flowin' into my purse, as it were," he laughed nervously. "But I'll just toss 'im out on his ear, and then…"
"You shall do so such thing!" boomed the figure from the corner, in a deep, gravelly voice. He stood up suddenly, seemingly doubling in size, and strode across the room, his wooden staff clacking on the floor. "And I've endured enough of your abuse for one night, Mugwort Butterbur!" he continued. "If you say one more solitary word – a single word, mind! – I shall turn you into a mouse, and feed you to the cat."
"You had better do as he says, Mister Butterbur," laughed Gildor, as he saw the expression on the astonished Innkeeper's face. "No doubt he means it."
"Gandalf the Grey!" gasped Aranarth in astonishment.
"Who else?" snapped Gandalf. "Though this cloth-eared Innkeeper hasn't heard of my reputation, apparently. Off with you at once, Butterbur! Ready a private room, and fetch us some ale – only the finest, mind. And also some cheese tarts, bread, dried apples, hot stew, honey-cakes, and tea. On the double!"
"Yes, Innkeeper, snap to it," said Earnur impatiently. "I don't intend to stand here all night."
Mugwort stared back and forth between Gandalf and the captains of the army, his fat lower lip trembling as he appeared on the edge of tears. Then he bowed deeply and scurried off to the kitchens, pausing on the way to flash a suspicious glare at the black cat which slept lazily by the hearth.
"Well, my friends," said Gandalf, pushing away his empty plate and bowl, laden with crumbs and traces of stew, "it seems you've already laid your plans without any need of my counsel."
"Though we should appreciate it none the less," replied Gildor, who had toyed daintily with the food on his plate before choosing a single dried apple for his repast. He had politely, if forcefully, refused the Innkeeper's repeated offers of ale.
"I don't mean to pry, Gandalf," said Aranarth, "but I am curious as to where you have been over the past year and more. You rode off into the South two January's ago, and that was the last we saw of you. My father said you were searching for aid, though he did not say from who or what."
"Of course you mean to pry," replied Gandalf, quaffing a deep draught of ale before setting aside his pewter mug. "But you're well within your rights to do so. There's no doubt I owe you an explanation, and apologies of my own. Suffice to say that I did indeed seek for aid against the Witch King – and was gravely disappointed."
He sighed, and it seemed to Aranarth that he suddenly appeared older and smaller. "I should have known better," he continued. "And by the time I had returned to the North, the Witch King had already struck – earlier than I had expected he might, or I never would have left in the first place. A terrible price has been paid for my mistake. I am sorry, Lord Aranarth."
"You do not need to apologize, old friend" replied Aranarth softly. "There was little you could have done, had you been there."
"There is quite a lot I could have done!" exclaimed Gandalf, slamming his fist on the table. "If nothing else, I would have rescued the whole of your family from harm. Even your mother."
"What was the matter with his mother?" inquired Earnur.
"Dreadful woman!" exclaimed Gandalf. "Couldn't stand her. Although," he added hastily, "I mean that in the nicest possible way, Aranarth. In any case, she didn't deserve her fate." Aranarth frowned, but said nothing.
"The past is past," observed Gildor calmly. "The question is how you shall aid us at present, Gandalf. I had feared greatly to face the Witch King without you by our side. Now at least we shall have some hope of besting him."
"Have I not already told you that I have marked the Witch King for death?" replied Earnur angrily. "Whether you mean to slight me or no, Elf, I am not amused. The Witch King shall meet his end on my blade – that is all we need to say about him."
Gildor narrowed his eyes, and turned to face the Grey Wizard. "Bold Prince Earnur," he explained dryly, "has sworn by Eru that he shall slay the Witch King himself."
"Is that so?" asked Gandalf, his mood suddenly quiet and serious. He turned his gaze on Earnur, who suddenly realized how bright and piercing were Gandalf's eyes, as if he could stare into the very depths of a Man and read everything within.
Earnur felt his skin crawl, and then exclaimed, "What is it you seek, Wizard? If you have something to say to me, then say it."
"I've already found what I sought," replied Gandalf with a frown.
"You're worse for riddles than the Elves," grumbled Earnur. "Why don't you speak plainly?"
"Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger," whispered Gildor.
"This is all quite fascinating," interjected Falco, who seemed rather put out at having been ignored entirely throughout the proceedings. "But if I might ask a simple question; how exactly are we going to slay this Dragon? No one has ever explained that to me."
"The Elves shall deal with the Dragon," replied Aranarth. "Only their enchanted weapons are of use against him. And perhaps Gandalf might wish to aid them. The army of Gondor shall deal with the Orcs and Trolls and Wild-men. And of course as we discussed, my Rangers and your Hobbit-lads will act as spies and scouts, discovering the whereabouts of the enemy and setting traps for them."
"And I shall deal with the Witch King – personally," emphasized Earnur.
"I'll take care of the Trolls," said Gandalf. "As long as they fight by day, at least. And I'll help with the Dragon too. As for the Witch King, I had meant to confront him myself. But it is not my place to interfere with an Oath sworn by Eru – no matter how hasty and foolish it may have been. Though my heart forbears it, I fear Earnur must try his blade against the Witch King, just as he has sworn to do."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Earnur, surprised to find the Grey Wizard suddenly speaking in support of his position.
"I have a question of my own," said Aranarth. "How is it possible that Bree has remained unmolested, when it is so close to the encampment of the Witch King's armies at Fornost? We have long expected it might be overrun any day, yet I have heard from the watchmen at the gate that none of the Witch King's minions have remained within twenty-five miles of here."
"I'm sure you can guess that answer to that riddle yourself," replied Gandalf, with a twinkle in his eye. "Suffice to say that by the time I returned to the North, Fornost had already fallen. But I was determined to hold the Witch King in check, until the time had come when he could be defeated in war. I have set my power about Bree, and as long as I am here, evil things cannot enter within this little land. Only the Witch King himself could break the spell of protection I have set about the town, and he has not yet ridden south into battle. Old Carakel tried to harass the Bree-folk, but a few lighting bolts from my staff drove him off to seek easier pickings elsewhere…" The smile faded from Gandalf's face as he saw the frown on Falco's.
"Oh, dear," said Gandalf. "I take it Carakel has been giving you a hard time?"
"He has eaten more than half our sheep and kine, and some of our people as well" replied Falco. "I've no quarrel with your protecting the Bree-folk – the Hobbits here are our cousins, after all, even if somewhat estranged – but I must say that no one seems to have given any thought to us Shire-folk at all. We've been forced to fend for ourselves."
The others remained silent for a time. Then Gandalf said, "If that is true, than I am sorry for it. The business of war stands before us now; but when it is over with, and we have had the victory, I shall discuss with you and your father what at I, at least, can do to make amends."
"And so shall I," said Aranarth. "When the Witch King is driven from these lands, my Rangers and I shall do what they can to succor the folk who still dwell here. And we shall not forget the Hobbits of the Shire."
"That is much appreciated, my lords," replied Falco with a gracious bow.
"If there is nothing more to discuss," said Earnur, rising from his chair, "then let us seek our beds. We might not find ourselves sleeping under a roof again for some days."
The next morning, March the Tenth, found the Bree-land blanketed in snow, which grew heavier by the hour. The winds had died down, but the sudden cold did nothing to improve the spirits of the Men and Hobbits encamped about the town, though the Elves appeared indifferent to it. Gandalf took up his staff and put on his wide-brimmed hat, and he and the captains of the army paid their coin to Mugwort Butterbur, who was especially ingratiating toward the Grey Wizard – "Do come again, my lord!" Then they strode down the streets of Bree and out the gate, on the way to Earnur's tent.
When they arrive there, they heard the clear ringing of trumpets from some distance to the east. Not long after, a messenger appeared, informing them that the army of Rivendell had arrived. They waited for a time, and at length they saw them approaching over the snowy fields from the east; five-hundred golden-armoured warriors, marching under the azure banner of Lord Elrond. The army encamped beside the Elves of Mithlond, while its three captains rode towards Earnur's tent on pale Elven-steeds. These were Glorfindel, a High Elf akin to Gildor, and Elrohir and Elladan, twin brothers and the sons of Elrond Half-Elven, both born after the fall of Sauron nearly two-thousand years before.
"Greetings, my lords!" cried Glorfindel, his golden hair tossed to and fro by the wind. It was always difficult to discern the age of Elves by sight alone, but to the mortals present he appeared younger than Gildor. "I am Glorfindel of Rivendell. Lord Elrond sends his greetings!"
"And we are pleased to receive them," replied Gandalf with a bow.
"I am Elrohir, and this is Elladan," said one of the twins. They were nearly identical in appearance; black-haired, pale-skinned, and blue-eyed, as tall as Elves, but with a broad-shouldered build more typical amongst Men. Alone of the Elves present, their armour was silvered rather than gilded, and each wore a cape of deep blue wool. "We are the sons of Elrond," continued Elladan. "Might we have the honour of introductions?"
"You know Gildor and I, naturally," replied Gandalf. "The great-bodied Man here is Crown Prince Earnur of Gondor, and his slimmer counterpart is Lord Aranarth of the Dunedain of Arnor. And the Halfling is Falco, son of Master Bredgar of Great Smialls, of the Westfarthing in the Shire."
"Greetings, my lords," said Elladan. He stared briefly at Falco. "I have never heard of the Halflings riding into war. These are strange times indeed."
"His people march amongst my own," explained Aranarth. "The Halflings are wondrous keen at wood-craft and stealth, and fitting counterparts to my Rangers."
"Perhaps the time has come when all free folk must unite against the forces of darkness," replied Glorfindel, dismounting from his steed. Elrohir and Elladan followed him, striding into Earnur's tent as their mounts were led away by squires. "But come, my lords," continued Glorfindel, "let us take counsel together. We Elves of Rivendell hope to do our part; for though we are few in numbers, we are full in experience of fighting the minions of the Witch King."
"Well said," replied Gandalf, following them into the tent. "And not only your experience, but every good sword and longbow is needed in these grim times."