In An Age Before

by Phantom Bard

Part 298 posted, in which Helluin and the Riders of Norðr-vestandóttir Bý aid the Third Marshal Haleth in Rohan's defeat of the Easterling invaders. Brutal weather, disease, and failing morale play a part. Aldburg is no sooner freed of the eastern threat when tidings come of the Dunlending's invasion from the west. OCs galore as usual.

195. In An Age Before Chapter 195

In An Age Before – Part 195

Chapter One Hundred twenty-seven

Eriador and the Ettenmoors – The Third Age of the Sun

Now though the Noldor had been eager to return to Imladris after the battle, or at least to quit the lands of Angmar so soon as could be, they had offered aid to their allies and were thus detained by a long day of labor. Prince Arne had vowed to lay the Men of Angmar who had fought bravely at the last to rest with the honor due warriors who had died in battle. 'Twas a noble trait of his culture to do thus. The Elves deemed his notion honorable and not to be checked by cold counsel. Therefore, with the other knights of Rhovanion, Lindon, Gondor, and Arthedain, they doffed their armor and aided in the task of seeing the Hillmen and Easterlings to their final rest.

'Twas soon apparent that the plains of Angmar provided no fuel sufficient for the pyres of two thousand eight hundred fallen Men. The bodies were too numerous to bury in any graves deep enough to forestall scavenging by the creatures of that region, and in any case, the host lacked for picks, shovels, mattocks, and spades. Prince Arne stood scratching his head.

"In places where graves, barrows, or pyres cannot be made, burial cairns might suffice," the Lord Glorfindel suggested. All 'round them lay many loose rocks and boulders.

A smile shaped the lips of the prince. 'Twas a practical idea that could be applied quickly with so many hands available. He offered the Elf lord a bow of thanks.

"I shall accept thy counsel, my lord. I wager thou hast had experience with such measures aforetime?"

"Aye, beside a frigid path high in the Echoriath of Gondolin I was laid to rest in just such," he said, straight faced as Prince Arne gaped at him. "I cringe to think of the condition of my corpse when 'twas returned to the host by Thorondor, after its fall into Thorn Sir with the slain Balrog. Perhaps thou could enquire of Helluin, should thou meet her."

The prince of Rhovanion shook his head and sat down on a boulder. The north was the strangest place he had e'er been, and though all appeared normal at first glance, 'twas peopled with figures from folklore and deeds of great wonder.

"My lord, I am at heart a simple warrior who knows horses and battle best. 'Tis well enough for my homeland and my people, but Eriador has been a source of amazement since I first set foot upon these shores. Aforetime, I had thought Gondor the strangest place I might walk, and yet the wonders I have seen in these lands put all in the south to shame. I find I am unused to holding converse with those once dead who live again."

Glorfindel smiled and sat down beside the prince.

"I too was once a warrior foremost, head of my house and loyal subject of my king. Much do we have in common, Prince Arne, and such as separates us is the work of the Gods. Eriador seems strange to thee, as would any land aforetime unknown. Thy home once hosted the Tree Shepherds of Greenwood whom I had longed to meet, but ne'er did. From the Vale of Anduin came the Halflings, a curious folk unknown aforetime who caused great wonder when they first appeared in Eriador. I wager Rhovanion holds many secrets yet, perhaps in Fangorn."

At his shoulder, the prince nodded. For all that Glorfindel was an Elf reborn and many thousands of years old, he seemed less strange after but a short conversation together. The prince took a deep breath and looked to the sun. The sky had mostly cleared and the afternoon was passing.

"Think thou that we can truly set so many 'neath rock and stone in a day?" Arne asked.

"We have 'nigh ten fit for work for each of the fallen. I deem we can lay them to rest in timely fashion," Glorfindel said. "The sooner started the sooner done."

"My father says those very same words when a task awaits," the prince said with a smile. Perhaps not all was wholly strange in these lands.

That afternoon, Arne sent all but one supply wagon back to Fornost bearing the wounded and fallen of his own host, and then the remaining allies undertook to lay the fallen Men of Angmar 'neath cairns. There they rested with their weapons, and with ten to labor for each one fallen, the task was completed more quickly than the prince had e'er imagined. As Anor dipped to the horizon, he joined his Men for the evening meal.

'Round the battlefield, the allies rested from their day's labors in camps more akin to his own than not. Strange as the Elves of Imladris had seemed at first, Arne agreed with the Elf lord that they had much in common. The thought warmed his heart and he deemed that he would have a trove of lore to share with his father upon his return.

Twilight deepened, and somewhere a soldier burst into song, his fellow riders joining in the well known tune. From the camps of Arthedain and Gondor came the sounds of Men jesting and laughing. From the camp of the Elves came the sounds of a harp played with great skill and clear voices lifted in sweet melodies. He smiled as the stars appeared in the sky and the Elves of Rivendell began a hymn to Varda that he had also heard sung by the Sindar of Lindon.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

silivren penna míriel

o menel aglar elenath!

Na-chaered palan-díriel

o galadhremmin ennorath,

Fanuilos, le linnathon

Nef aear sí nef aearon!

(Hymn of the Elves of Rivendell: LotR, FotR, Bk 2, Ch I, MM, pg. 231 Sindarin)

From the long rows of cairns came a grating and clunking and many thuds as of rocks shifting and being pushed aside. Now and then, the scraping of steel on stone could be heard. With a number of his riders, Prince Arne snatched up a torch and hastened to the cairns, fearing that some bold animal sought to defile the dead. When they reached the cairns they skidded to a halt and their cries of shock and horror alarmed the remainder of the host. Soon many had gathered 'nigh with their weapons and a great many torches, at first believing they were under attack.

There they witnessed a scene of horror that none would e'er forget. Slowly and clumsily rising from their cairns were the bodies of the slain Hillmen and Easterlings that they had worsted but hours aforetime. Arms and legs waved and struggled in the torchlight, scattering and tumbling the stones laid with such labor through the afternoon. Grisly were their wounds and gruesome their countenances, shaped in grimaces of torment, shrieks of pain, and the leering expressions of death set aside. The watching Men and Elves gripped more tightly their weapons, expecting to be assailed by vengeful foes resurrected through some fell enchantment, perhaps ne'er to truly die though they be defeated time and time again.

"What horror is this?" Prince Arne whispered to no one in particular.

In that moment, he rejected all the remedies he had aforetime accepted about these lands and believed with his whole being that Eriador was a land accursed, a country unfit for Men to abide. He could not wait to leave at the first opportunity, even if he had to ride all the way back to Rhovanion.

Petrified by the spectacle before them, Men and Elves stood watching as the first to free themselves from their interment stood and with uncertain steps began to make their way southwest, retracing their path back towards Fornost. The living drew back from the dead, captives of fear and visceral revulsion.

Bearing a torch, the Lord Elrond walked to the foremost of them and stood before him, blocking his progress. The watching host held their breaths, deeming the Lord of Imladris suicidal. Laid to rest with their weapons, the dead were still armed. Yet the corpse ceased its march before Elrond, regarding him with what seemed curiosity. It took no notice of its evisceration, or of the gash revealing broken bone on the side of its skull.

"How come thee to such a pass, O son of the East?" The Peredhel asked, genuinely curious for the sake of increasing his lore.

For a while the cadaver wavered, rocking unsteadily on its feet, its intestines and a kidney swinging like a pendulum 'twixt its legs, raising its arms in tattered sleeves to wring its hands, and opening wide its mouth as if to howl at the moon. No sound did it make, nor did it move to attack. Before it, Elrond waited patiently for an answer.

Finally, after its pantomime had continued awhile, it turned to look straight at Elrond again as if marking him for the first time.

"Damned and accursed art we," it declared in a rasping voice, "compelled by the conjuring of our master to service unending. We return to Fornost whence we were bespelled, there to abide our deaths 'til the end of days."

"Pity for thee, that death frees thee not from the world," the Peredhel said as he stood aside.

"The Yrch follow," the wight declared ere it continued on its way, trailing a string of entrails.

Southward into the surrounding darkened lands the limping figures shuffled. Elrond shook his head at the pathos of it all, and then he returned to the host who regarded him with amazement.

"Come, we must move our camp ere 'tis o'errun by four thousand Yrch wights," he told Eärnur and Hírochon who both blanched at his tidings.

No army had e'er struck and moved an encampment so swiftly, and as the first Yrch staggered and crawled down the same invisible path that the slain Men had followed, the whole of the cavalry was already half a mile north, nervously searching the night for any rumor of their reanimated foes. Not a wink of sleep did any of them get that night, and at the first hint of dawn, the allies rode for Fornost as the Knights of Imladris turned south for home.

Now during that day, the apprehensive riders saw 'naught of the wights. Indeed ne'er did they witness 'aught of them whilst Anor tarried above. Yet in the night, if they had been detailed to scout behind, some marked the continuing march of the dead, and then they fled back in terror to the camaraderie of their hosts.

"So Fornost is cursed to host an army of wights," Glorfindel observed. After taking a sip of wine, he added, "Elendil would turn in his grave."

The Peredhel gave him a sharp look, and then recovered himself.

"T'will ne'er be the same, I wager," he said. "I wonder if 'aught can be done to free those spirits and free the fortress as well?"

But neither of them had an answer to that question.

"I wager that Prince Arne and Prince Eärnur shall be eager to leave Eriador, and I can hardly blame them. They have both suffered and gained an upsetting impression of these lands."

"True," Elrond agreed, "they have not seen them at their best."

"I wonder when that was, or when t'will be," Glorfindel mused.

The Peredhel gave thought to that, but came to no decision and remained silent. It seemed that neither of them had an answer to that question either.

Somewhere in the wide, rolling lands that lie west of the northern Hithaeglir, two specks charged east southeast 'cross the landscape of western Angmar. One was dark, darker than the shadows of the night. The other was bright, brighter than the noonday sun. Dark had led light through the hours of the afternoon and on past day's end. The pursuit continued without pause 'neath Ithil's crescent and Varda's stars. In the distance, mountains loomed. There were no witnesses to that chase and no lore would recount it. Neither cared. Their conflict had been personal for o'er three millennia.

Six score miles had lain 'twixt the scene of the battle and the foothills of the Ettenmoors, though 'foothills' described that rampart but poorly. From the plain of Angmar there rose in precipices of five to eight hundred feet, a scarp of black bedrock. Atop that height stretched the high moors south of Mt. Gram, one hundred fifty miles of crags, peaks, and sheer ravines reaching east to the snowcaps of the Misty Mountains north of Imladris. That rough and trackless highland was riven in the south by the deep and narrow vale of the Hoarwell, the snow fed birthplace of the Mitheithel that clove the Ettenmoors from the Cold Fells of Rhudaur.

Through that afternoon and into the night, Helluin had chased the fleeing Witch King. Her pursuit had driven him well south of his intended escape route to Carn Dûm, and now they were racing towards the black cliffs south of Mt. Gram. She sought to deny him the sanctuary of his old fortress and any allies that might still linger thither. Indeed, had he made for Rivendell, she would have sought to frustrate that desire too, for spite's sake alone.

Now the race was not simply one of Helluin's will versus Tindomul's. It partook of their horses as well. The Ringwraith's mount had been dead for a score of years and was animated by 'naught but the Nazgûl's spells. Barq ran with the tireless resolve and spirit of a true warrior, yet he was mortal. Strong as he was, Helluin knew that eventually Barq would tire, and so 'round midnight she sought to aid him as she could.

The steel Númenórean war bow she had taken from the hidden arsenal on Weathertop had been shortened by craftsmen of the Noldor, and this weapon she unslung and set before her. With the thumb and first finger of her right hand, she held the free end of the string, and she bent the bow 'cross her lap with both hands, finally stringing the bow whilst still galloping through the night. Then, from the quiver at her back, she chose a broadhead arrow and set it to the string.

Once knocked, she hesitated not, but drew, sighted, and released. The steel limbs of the ancient weapon snapped forward, driving the arrow hence with o'er a hundred pounds of force. Her shot leapt ahead, crossing the hundred feet that separated Helluin from the Nazgûl, and after that half-heartbeat's flight, buried itself in the back of the undead horse's neck 'twixt two bones high in its spine. The horse's head was jerked aside by the impact, but it faltered not and she hadn't expected that t'would. Instead, she knocked another broadhead arrow. Again she drew, aimed, and released, the second shot as flawless as the first. The arrow struck at the same height in the horse's neck, bisecting the same joint, but at a slightly different angle. Her third arrow separated the bones in the horse's spine, leaving its head flopping to the side and depriving the Ringwraith of control through the reins and bridle.

In a rage, Tindomul cast the reins aside, then drew his sword and hewed off the horse's head. Air whistled down the tube in its severed neck, yet there was no blood. From a second tube came gasps of a foul vapour attesting to decomposing fodder chewed and swallowed two decades past. Being by his nature so strongly attuned to the sense of smell, the Ringwraith found it highly distracting. The race continued, but now the Nazgûl was forced to direct his mount with the pressure of his phantom knees alone.

Well, huh…the like of that I have not seen aforetime, Barq remarked.

"Nor I, my friend, who'd have thought…" Helluin trailed off, shaking her head at the dead and now headless horse galloping along ahead of them.

Oh, what is that smell? Barq asked with obvious distaste.

Another hour and a further curve to the south brought them within a league of the Ettenmoors. Helluin felt Barq tiring 'neath her, for though he kept his pace and admitted 'naught, his breathing had become shallower and faster o'er the last couple miles. Ere they began to fall behind, Helluin again raised her bow.

Selecting another broadhead arrow, she knocked and took aim, lower this time, and she sent her shot into the back of the left knee of the Ringwraith's horse, slicing tendons 'twixt the femur and tibia. Only a slight break in its gait she marked, but 'twas encouragement enough. A second arrow she loosed towards the same target. The broadhead sundered the tendons medial to the first arrow, and the horse's lower hind leg slewed out to the side, interrupting its gait and sending it crashing to the ground. A violent and uncontrolled tumble ensued, flinging the Ringwraith off 'cross rock and dirt. The horse came to rest on its side and lay kicking on the ground, its limbs flailing as it continued to gallop, its right foreleg obviously broken in the fall as well. Already long dead and bespelled, it had no reason to cease. T'would continue on thus indefinitely.

Helluin slowed Barq and approached. She saw the Nazgûl rising from the wreck. It cast a glance at the fallen horse and withdrew its spell so that the carcass lay still. Then it looked at her and drew its sword. Helluin halted Barq and dismounted.

"I deem thy run this night finished, most noble Barq," she said. "Thou hast my sincerest praise and thanks. I pray thee rest, graze, and then find thy way to Imladris whither I shall meet thee as time allows."

Oh, just in time, Barq said, for I admit I feel the beginnings of fatigue. I wish thee victory, O Helluin and I shall look to see thee again soon.

Now Helluin shouldered her bow and drew Anguirél and the Sarchram, and she advanced on the Ringwraith as he stood awaiting her. They clashed as they had west of Fornost in 1851, save that now Helluin led the Nazgûl not, but rather drove him east towards the highlands. As in the Sammath Naur in an Age before, he barely withstood her rage, for now he was one alone and not one of three. Tirelessly she engaged him and her weapons ceaselessly cursed and threatened him o'er the ringing of steel on steel.

This time I shall have thy tainted spirit, filthy ghost, the Sarchram cursed.

His sword I shall deflect and leave to thee the hewing of his neck, Anguirél offered, for he hath no longer blood to offer.

All this the Witch King endured as he gave way before her wrath, half-blinded by the Light of Aman that infused her and repeatedly forced to retreat from the whistling blade of the Black Sword and the fatal slashes of the Grave Wing.

From an increasing distance, Barq watched their swordplay, and he nodded in approval as he cropped some coarse, dry grass. To his eye, 'twas simply a matter of time ere the Nazgûl fell. Finally, as they passed out of sight o'er a low rise, he trotted south towards the Hidden Valley where sweet grass and clean water awaited.

The combat of Helluin and Tindomul continued as Anor rose and the morning passed. The dark Noldo drove the wraith before her with a sneer on her face and joy in her heart, and in the second hour after dawn, their feet felt the rising ground bordering the Ettenmoors. Then their footing became more challenging as they leapt from boulder to outcrop, and the ringing of their weapons was no longer constant. It became a tactic for the Noldo to flare with Light and swing her sword just as the Nazgûl prepared to abandon one boulder and leap to the next, thereby blinding him and adding threat to his haste. More than once as the morning wore on, he lost his balance and tumbled down 'twixt humps and shelves of rock. Then he was forced to desperately block her next down stroke as he leapt up to defend from an equal footing.

Neither tired as a mortal would, and their contest continued without respite through the day as they climbed higher and higher. Ere that day ended, they stood atop the high moors and the lands west stretched out at their feet far below. So their fight wore on by day and night, and no quarter was offered or sought. And as aforetime in that dismal, fume-filled chamber within Mt. Doom, time ceased to have meaning and 'naught impinged on their concentration. Anor crossed the sky and Ithil wheeled amidst the stars. Lothron passed and then Nórui fled. Many times Tindomul thought to abandon his physical presence and flee, but he knew that should he appear unhoused before his master without grievous wounds, Sauron would be furious at the squandering of an opportunity to lay low his greatest foe. So the fallen prince of Númenor persevered, attacking and defending, and hoping that by 'aught unforeseen, he would have a chance to tip the balance, for his prowess and his wiles had availed him 'naught.

Now just such a chance came indeed, yet it resolved to his detriment rather than to his benefit, unlikely though that had seemed at first. The Ettenmoors and the Cold Fells to the south were from of old the abode of countless Tor. Some of these he had indeed recruited aforetime, yet many more roamed independent and concerned only with their own survival and gain. On 4 Cerveth two such happened to come upon the battle as Helluin and Tindomul fought by night along the mid-slope of a deep ghyll. Being no geniuses, they reasoned that the two of them against two smaller victims assured them of a meal, and so they moved to assail the combatants, one apiece.

Helluin held an abiding contempt for the lumbering creatures and quickly dispatched hers with a blinding ril of Light. 'Twas transformed into stone as surely as if it had stood 'neath the naked sun. But Tindomul, thinking himself crafty enough to turn the Torog to his own advantage, leapt upon the creature's back and plunged his morgûl sword into its apple-sized brain. Then, as he had ruled his horse with the reins aforetime, so now he directed the Torog with his sword, urging it right and left with pressure on the hilt. The Torog actually obeyed this usurpation of its body and swung its massive club at Helluin. The Ringwraith gave a rasping croak that passed for a chortle of glee. Helluin gouged its foot with Anguirél and then blasted it with Light. The Torog was petrified in that instant, and embedded deep in the Troll's skull, Tindomul's sword was trapped in solid rock.

Atop the Torog, Tindomul strained to free his weapon, yet 'twas stuck fast. Perhaps to draw the sword in the stone would have required the nobility of a true king, and Murazor had been but a prince. Khamûl certainly would have agreed. Now he shrieked in frustration, for Helluin was leaping up the Torog's back to assail him with the Sarchram and he was forced to give way. The Ringwraith leapt from the stricken creature and in desperation, drew his dagger. The Sarchram had missed him by but a hair. He had barely planted his feet on the ground again ere he had to tumble sideways as Helluin cast the Grave Wing at him and then leapt to the ground to continue her attack. It took long minutes of evasion ere he was able to set his hand on the frozen creature long enough to chant a spell that shattered it and freed his weapon. With a lunge he recovered his sword and then fled uphill o'er the rim of the ghyll with Helluin in pursuit.

'Twas but one of many incidents that prolonged their battle, yet finally after many weeks of constant fighting, they reached the Hoardale. There they looked down a 'nigh sheer drop of eight hundred feet to the distant rapids below. Northeast that cleft led to the Hithaeglir, whilst downstream to the southwest lay the lowlands and Rhudaur. No bridge spanned that chasm save the Last Bridge on the East Road, hundreds of miles south, and the only way to cross was a harrowing climb down and back up the dale's walls.

The Nazgûl looked o'er his shoulder to the precipice at his back. He cast his glance left and right and made his choice. After a quick feint to his left, he charged to his right, uphill and to the east towards the Misty Mountains. Helluin groaned and leapt after him.

A week later they crossed the head of the Hoardale so far upstream that the Hoarwell was 'naught but a rivulet running through a shallow ditch. For much of that week, Tindomul had fled her and their combat had not been constant. Now the Ringwraith ran south into the northern Cold Fells, perhaps hoping to find and beg the aid of some allies from the days of Angmar's subversion of Rhudaur. Yet if any Hillmen still lingered so far north, they were either well hidden, or more likely scarce, hardly a surprise after withstanding two rounds of conscription from Carn Dûm in the past couple years.

Helluin continued her pursuit, always so close that he dared not tarry or seek for any in those lands. From time to time she caught up and they clashed, the ringing of their swords carrying through the empty, forested ridges and ghylls. Amidst pinnacles and ravines they fought and 'twas a wonder that the Nazgûl managed for so long to preserve his existence, for on no few occasions did the Sarchram fly close enough to slice through his black cloak. The wraith was at his wit's end, and Helluin at the end of her patience.

'Twas the end of Urui when she finally trapped him on a jutting promontory with a drop of o'er five hundred feet on three sides. By then, the chase had lasted 'nigh five months. Tindomul stared 'round like a trapped rat, but the only path was the one he had trod aforetime, and down which Helluin now stalked forward. She was but three fathoms away when he croaked that gurgling laugh and shook his head. Ere he fled or his spirit was consigned to the Void, he played his last gambit, for he no longer reckoned that he had 'aught to lose.

"Hast thou not wondered whither disappeared thy beloved Beinvír? He asked.

Helluin froze stock still and her eyes flared with blue fire.

"She was brought to my master long ago," he said, offering more than sixteen thousand Yrch could tell ere they died. "I saw her not, yet I wager none have seen her since."

Again he laughed, for the effect on his enemy he could easily imagine. Then he threw himself to the side as the Sarchram clove the air where his head had been. It whizzed past him screaming curses and flew far out o'er the empty space behind where he had stood. Normally, Helluin would have attacked with Anguirél and awaited its return, but not this time. One other weapon she had, blessed with the ancient Light of the Two Trees. One weapon not forged on the Mortal Shores.

From its sheath at the back of her belt she snatched the hilt of her dagger, and in a 'nigh blind rage, threw it at the rising Nazgûl with the full measure of her strength.

Perhaps he marked 'naught about it worthy of his fear, judging it merely a dagger flung in a moment of wrath, and believing it could do him no harm. As soon as it entered his ethereal body, he marked his mistake. The pain was unbearable and the force with which it struck pitched him o'er the precipice behind him. He fell, but worse, he knew the feeling growing in his chest.

Light of Aman! I am dying!

In the next moment he abandoned his physical manifestation and fled as a vapor into the south.

Helluin caught the returning Grave Wing and then leaned out o'er the edge of the cliff. Fluttering to the bottom of that drop were tattered black robes, empty. She heard the clang as her dagger ricocheted off stone ere splashing into the fast running creek in the ravine. It had been 'nigh seven thousand years since she had forged it in the Blessed Realm, back when she had learnt forging and tempering from Aulë's Maiar, and for a thousand years thereafter it had absorbed the virtue of the Two Trees. It glowed blue in the presence of Yrch, and by that virtue she had hunted out their warrens and lairs in the Hithaeglir. She would rue its loss.

Her enemy was gone, but she expected that he was not gone for good. They would meet again, for again she had failed to finish what she had started so long ago on the quay of Pelargir. With grim disappointment, she turned her steps south, to the Troll Shaws of Rhudaur.

Now following their encounter with the wights returning to Fornost, the cavalry of the allies arrived at the northern fortress on 7 Lothron, and there they met again with the infantry. Eärnur, Arne, Hírochon, and the commanders of the Sindar met with Prince Aranarth, Bregedúr Candon, Captain Berior of the Rangers of Lebennin, and Lieutenant Feredir of Gondor. They were not a bit surprised that the footmen were encamped outside the city walls.

"There are wights…" Prince Aranarth and Prince Arne began at the same moment, 'nigh as soon as they met. Then both abruptly fell silent and stared at each other.

"There are more on the way," Prince Eärnur warned.

Prince Aranarth groaned and said, "alas, they are expected. Did all the remaining Host of Angmar rise?"

"I deem it so, though I counted them not. Still, 'tis what was told by the wight the Lord Elrond questioned."

Berior nodded and said, "'tis the same rede told by the wight the prince questioned in the city, my lord."

Prince Eärnur looked at Aranarth and asked, "thou questioned one of that number?"

"Aye, and was warned of more approaching. Since then, we have marked the arrival of some twenty thousands from the pyres 'nigh Baranduin and further north. 'Twas a most gruesome procession, as thou can imagine."

He shook his head sadly. They had been burnt, reduced to little more than skeletons of blackened bone.

At the encampment outside of Fornost, the wounded were treated and the fallen were buried at last, Dúnedain of the North on the west side and those from the South Kingdom on the east side of the North Road. The next morn, the Elves of Lindon rode for home, with much thanks from Prince Aranarth for their aid. The Men of Gondor and Rhovanion were eager to ride as well, for they had become uncomfortable in Eriador, but Aranarth chose to await the coming of the remaining wights ere he took his leave. Thereafter, he would not be returning to Mithlond, for he would lead a contingent east whilst the majority of his army returned with the Gondorim to their peoples' encampment on the north bank of the Lhûn.

Another week they waited, for the wights traveled only at night and many were halt or mutilated from their war wounds. As a group, they were lucky to make ten miles a night. Yet finally, by 15 Lothron, the count of wights was close enough to the suspected strength of the Host of Angmar that they were assured the Witch King's spell was applied equally to all who had marched on Lindon from Fornost.

One aspect of that curse they had not reckoned on 'til they marked piles of gravel that appeared on the landscape during the night. The heaps seemed to have moved by every following morn. Eventually these too made their way through the city gate. 'Twas the remnants of the Tor returning, ground to gravel as the stone of their beings crumbled with each movement whilst hauling themselves up out of their pits. 'Twas as peculiar as 'aught else they had seen.

During that time, many tales had been told and much lore recounted, and many friends were made. The knights and soldiers of the south left with greater knowledge and many adventures to share in common rooms, with the comrades of their original companies in Gondor, and o'er meals at home with their kith and kin. Within each host save the Northmen, the knights and the Men at arms had lived through different experiences. These were circulated, either in official reports, or informal conversations, for all were curious about what had befallen their comrades.

Of the leaders, Prince Arne left with the impression of a horrifying and unnatural land that he swore he would ne'er visit again. Prince Eärnur left with wounded pride and a simmering rage directed at the Witch King, and deep within, the hope of redressing that shame and taking his revenge. Berior and the other captains of the Lebennin Rangers left impressed with the mettle of the Northern Dúnedain, particularly their lord, and unmet hopes of meeting with some of the Laiquendi. Still, they valued their time in the north and many hoped to return someday.

In the morn of 16 Lothron, Prince Aranarth met with the lords and commanders of the allied hosts. There he offered the official thanks of Arthedain for the aid received, and renewed the pledges of mutual support with Prince Eärnur. In the afternoon, the hosts of the allies took their leave of Fornost and made for Lindon. They returned using the same route by which they had come, and when they approached the Emyn Uial, the knights shared tales of their wonder during the ride to Annúminas.

Now on the 22nd, the allied hosts encamped six leagues east of the Hills of Twilight 'nigh the place where they had camped on 21 Gwaeron as they had marched north. The night was pleasant, and as they were wont to do, the Rangers had set their camp apart from the rest of the hosts. The evening meal was done and the tent that the captains shared was still lit, for the officers had details to review and reports to read. They sat on the tent floor 'neath a single lamp suspended from the ceiling.

Berior asked of the others if supplies required any redistribution based on losses of Rangers in battle. Ere any could answer, an unknown voice replied.

"Bountiful are these lands and none want for sustenance 'neath the blessings of the One."

The voice had been female, soft and with an enchanting timbre. The five Rangers looked from their reports toward the sound with wide eyes. Seated amongst them with her back to the tent flap, (something no Ranger would have done lest a foe enter to attack), was an elleth in mixed greens, a bow and quiver o'er her shoulder and a long knife sheathed on her belt. She regarded them calmly, the hint of a grin shaping her lips.

As one, the Rangers reached for the Sarchram broaches at their throats and dipped their heads in respectful greeting.

"Mae govannen, rél in Laiquendi," Berior said.

"Mae govannen, tegidir Berior, non Mórfin. Cin gwaith dabant glasui si.¹" ¹(Mae govannen, tegidir Berior, non Mórfin. Cin gwaith dabant glasui si, Well met, captain Berior, I am Mórfin. Your people are welcome (allowed joyously) here. Sindarin)

"Our thanks for thy welcome, Mórfin. We come from Lebennin in Gondor. 'Tis our privilege to meet thee, for of thy people came our ways long ago. We offer our sympathy for the loss of Beinvír who was once our teacher."

"We have seen your ways and esteem your valor in war. Ye have our thanks for ridding these lands of the Witch King. Our loss is your loss and ye have our sympathy. Pray remain safe on your voyage home."

The five captains dipped their heads in respect for the Green Elf's words. When they looked back up, she was gone. Unlike the Dúnedain aforetime, they spent no effort seeking for her, for they knew such attempts would be futile. They went to their rest shortly later with smiles on their faces, for their pilgrimage was complete.

Now ere 'aught else is told regarding the days following the resolution of the Battle of Fornost, one further tale needs be related. When the expeditionary force had sailed from Gondor, there followed a flotilla of ragged and sundry ships, bearing hence to the north for the sake of their own profit, 'nigh fifteen thousand knaves, scoundrels, doxies, gamblers, cut-throats, cut-purses, quack doctors, fortune tellers, minstrels, money lenders, grafters, grifters, and opportunists of every other sort imaginable, the scum of the South Kingdom.

During their voyage north they had sailed in the wake of the naval armada, but being less proficient watermen, they had soon fallen behind and their fleet was beset with mishaps and calamities. They lost some vessels in the storm off the coast of the Enedwaith on 26 Gwaeron, and more aforetime and after due to poor maintenance, poor management, and poor seamanship. O'er a dozen ships failed to make the Gulf of Lhûn, and of their passengers, some drowned, some were beached, and others swam desperately from sinking ships, only to be marooned in strange lands far from home.

On 9 Gwirith, as the army of Gondor debarked their ships on the southern shore of Mithlond, the fleet of irregulars limped into the gulf. From afar they saw that the upper waters were filled with naval vessels, leaving them no access to port. Those ships, they knew, would not move from the havens 'til the expeditionary force returned. In the meantime, they had little choice but to proceed upstream so far as they could.

Now when they had sailed 'round the headland of Harlindon, they had been espied by many Elves who dwelt in Forlond and Harlond. Elven ships came forth to meet with the lead craft, and they held council with the captains of the camp followers from Gondor. These Men had ne'er aforetime met any of the Elder Children, for by then such folk had not been seen in Gondor in centuries. As such, they had little idea of the nature of Elves or of the characteristics that differentiated them from mortals. In short, they had no idea of what to expect.

The Sindar were swift to take the measure of these mortals, who spoke with false tongues and cunning glances, marking 'aught of wealth displayed by their hosts as calculating thoughts flickered transparently 'cross their faces. The Elves were not fooled in the least and they deemed that these Men had 'naught of value to offer for the advancement of the campaign against Angmar. If 'aught, they were more inclined to sell information to spies of the enemy.

"Stay thy ships whilst we make reports to our lords and arrange for thy reception," the Sindar said ere returning to their ships and sailing for port.

Soon a host of Elvish vessels came forth from Harlond and Forlond, and they congregated in the sailing lanes to block any further advance by the sundry craft from the South Kingdom. In the meantime, word was sent to the Lord Círdan in Mithlond and he took counsel with Queen Fíriel regarding the irregulars from Gondor.

"Your Grace, it hath come to my attention that a host of lesser nobility has arrived from Gondor of late," the Lord of the Havens said.

The queen raised an eyebrow, bidding him continue.

"My people report many hundred small craft bearing several thousand of Men of Gondor who seek berthing in Mithlond. They state their desire to follow the army for to provide entertainments and recreational services."

At his words, the queen groaned. She had seen such oft aforetime during her father's rule.

"They are undesirables who seek to profiteer off the labors of the soldiers and sailors, reaping their profits whilst promoting disorder, drunkenness, and dissipation. They are a fixture in the South Kingdom, tolerated only because they are citizens of the realm, though they are oft at odds with the lesser laws. They are untrustworthy and I deem them a distraction at best, or a danger should opportunities for betrayal develop. My lord, I would counsel thee to deny them berthing and restrict their mingling with thy own folk lest they be swindled."

The ancient Sinda nodded in agreement with the lady's appraisal, for such had been the opinions of his own mariners who had met them.

"Very well, your Grace, I shall accept thy counsel for it mirrors that of my own people. These newly come shall be encouraged hence, back to Gondor perhaps."

The Lord of the Havens conveyed the queen's opinions to his mariners and they returned to the mouth of the gulf where the basket of deplorables from Gondor waited. There, in spite of their lord's advice, they enacted a plan on their own behalf, for having no active part in the war, they sought some entertainment to occupy their time.

"In groups of two hundred we shall allow thee landfall in Forlond and Harlond for the duration of a week. Pray choose from amongst thy folk the groups who shall come ashore in their turn, for we deem that after thy long voyage, some time on land would be welcome."

To these terms the petty criminals agreed wholeheartedly, for any opportunity to profit was welcome. So 'twas that two hundreds were chosen to make landfall in Forlond on the north shore of the gulf, and another two hundred to dock in Harlond on the south shore. These were carefully selected to capitalize on the unfamiliarity of the Elves with their wiles and scams, the better to maximize their profits. The ship captains charged a healthy 'administrative fee' to each of those that would come ashore first, and these were conveyed to the quays north and south to begin their shore leave of a week.

Now almost immediately the gamblers produced the paraphernalia of their games, and they enlisted groups of curious Elves to play for wagers, small at first, but in e'er increasing amounts, as such was the time proven manner by which to hook and wrest the greatest wealth from their marks. The games began with the expected losses to encourage the continued participation of the Elves and all went as expected for some time. Yet when the amounts wagered increased, the Elves continued to win, and though they revealed the least proficient at slight of hand and ejected them as cheaters, for the most part the Firstborn relied on their ability to commit to flawless memory the disposition of e'ery card played. Likewise, with their flawless vision, they read their visitors' hands by the reflections of the cards they held in their eyes.

Now after relieving their guests of the bulk of their wealth, the Elves enquired if the Men would care to play some games with Elvish cards. One look at the Elvish decks, with their hundred and forty-four different cards of no suites and a single color, and the Men threw up their hands and capitulated. They closed down their games and bore their losses lest they lose all, and after but a single day of gaming, returned to their ships, gravely disappointed.

Games of Three-card Monte or peas and thimbles fared even worse, for no matter how swiftly and dexterously the Men shifted the target, the Elves easily followed their manipulations and invariable chose the right card or thimble. The shills planted in the crowds were all Men and the Elves marked them at once and ignored them. Games employing dice were played with similar results.

So it went, and after but three days, the first companies of two hundred bid their hosts farewell and returned to the flotilla so that the next hundreds might try their luck. Now the second groups of two hundreds fared no better. Little need had the Elves for loans or changes of currency. No interest had they in the remedies of quack doctors, the 'favors' of doxies, or the revelations of fortune tellers. After several pickpockets were caught red-handed and threatened with the loss of their hands, they remained aboard their ships 'til these too weighed anchor and rejoined the fleet.

In the end, 'twas only the minstrels and bards who reaped any profits at all. Their performances were received by the Elves with curiosity. The music of the minstrels held a primitive charm, though to Elvish ears, not a one of the singers could properly carry a tune. The tales told by the bards were of some interest, especially those based on historical lore. On a few occasions, the Sindar offered corrections regarding events they had actually been witness to or participated in.

One further factor served to drive the final nail into the coffin of the Men's enterprise. 'Aught that they encountered for sale and found desirable in Forlond or Harlond was outrageously expensive by their standards. Three bottles of Elvish wine cost as much as a barrel in the south. The cost of a loaf could buy a meal in the common rooms in the First Circle of Minas Anor, and the least trinket was as expensive as a piece of gold jewelry in the city of kings. They saw the Elves pay such prices without a second thought, and so they believed such prices prevailed in the northern lands. Being as the Men were swindlers rather than traders, they had 'naught of value to offer to the Elves for barter.

Word soon passed through the fleet that the Elves were very difficult to swindle, impossible to lie to, and in general, the least eager customers they had e'er encountered. By the end of a fortnight, the Men of Gondor had tallied their profits against their losses and could see no reason to tarry. Far better opportunities could be found in their own lands. On 24 Gwirith, the flotilla set sail south, back to Anduin.

As the Sindar watched the ships depart, they changed prices back to their normal levels and compared their winnings at gambling and the profits from their few retail sales. Most of those had been for ship's fittings, sail cloth, and rope, all happily provided at exorbitant prices to replace those damaged in the voyage to Eriador, for what good merchant would fail to take advantage of a captive market? Many gave thanks for the business acumen they had learnt from the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains in Forlindon, whilst others simply enjoyed retelling the astonishingly inaccurate stories they had heard. In the end, a good time was had by all.

To Be Continued