Recommended listening: Kalinnikov — Symphony No. 1

CHAPTER XX: THE RIVER RUNNING

Early dawn swiftly transitioned to full daybreak as Truva plied her oar to the waters of Long Lake, and it was deep into morning by the time the shores began to taper together and form the southern mouth of Celduin. A few other vessels also sailed along this wide stretch of river, though they were not nearly so numerous as those ferrying goods from Esgaroth to Dale or the other northern settlements. The reason for this soon made itself apparent, when the current's pull drew her ever faster towards the crest of Long Falls.

Her rather arduous experience at Hweodriás left Truva feeling ambivalent about navigating a second waterfall, but as the Running River narrowed further she spied a dock along the western shore, where even now a cooper transferred several score barrels from a small flatboat into the bed of a wagon. Beyond the dock lay a well-established portage-way, its dirt path bypassing the Falls via a long, circuitous route.

'Will ye fair well enough, miss?' asked the cooper, eying Truva as she drew the canoe abreast of the dock. 'Ye may have use of me wagon, if ye be needin' it.'

'I think I will manage, thank you,' replied Truva, though the cooper continued to watch her sceptically as she unloaded her supplies and drew the canoe ashore. Her pack was doubly heavy for having been filled so recently, and it took considerable effort to balance upon her back. But the Raft-elves' canoe was another business entirely; it was not nearly so light as that of Lothlórien, and when Truva hoisted it overhead, the bow swayed and wove. It would have been sent ploughing into the ground had the cooper not caught it.

'You'd best let me aid you, miss,' he said, taking the canoe into arm and tossing it into the wagon amidst the barrels as though it weighed nothing. 'The road to the lower falls isnae arduous, but it's long, and you'll not see the beauty of this land wi' that boat o'er yer head.'

Resigning herself, Truva agreed readily enough, and so the cooper handed her into the wagon seat. In moments, his two stolid mules set off along the gently sloping track. The cooper seemed disinclined to converse, and took instead to singing brash tunes – though he greeted several passing tradesmen as though they were fast friends; and thus Truva came to learn he went by the name of Öl-ker.

As she and her companion descended further, the smattering of trees at the south end of Long Lake budded into a fully-fledged forest of dense oaks and beeches. Birds rose up from the branches, lilting in chorus with Öl-ker. Then, amidst a dense thicket, the wagon-riders came upon a drover and his flock of sheep, making in the same direction.

'All right, Rút?' called the cooper.

'Oh, aye,' answered the drover. 'You wouldn't happen to be on the way to Astrup, would you?'

'That I am,' said Öl-ker. 'And you'd care for a ride, would you?'

'That I would, thankee kindly,' said Rút, clambering into the wagon and sandwiching Truva between the two Men of Dale.

Introductions were quickly exchanged, and they resumed the journey – though at a significantly slower pace, for even with the aid of a pair of collies, the sheep were not over-eager to exert themselves, and far preferred to graze in a leisurely manner. It was roundabout noon when the rush of Running River gradually became audible again, and the continuance began to peek through the trees.

'Ye're a determined lass, I'll grant ye that,' said Öl-ker to Truva as the portage-way drew alongside the river itself. He drew up his mules and hopped out of the wagon to extricate the canoe and slip it into the water. 'If ye happen to make it so far as Astrum before we, tell 'em it's me and ol' Rút what sent you. They'll fix ye a meal worth travelin' down the Falls Path for!'

'Thank you very much,' said Truva, loading her pack into the canoe's rear.

'Farewell!' called Rút, then gave a whistle for his collies to resume their drive.

Before following after them, Truva glanced back at the cataract Long Falls, which now lay a great deal further than a stone's throw to the north. Even at such a distance, it was apparent how the falls had come by their name, for the cascade of water seemed nearly so high as the Lake was long. Its bottom was more mist than fall, and crashed into the pool below with a deafening roar.

Finally looking downstream, Truva launched her canoe into the swift current and soon overtook the wagon and its escort of sheep. Giant oaks dominated the Wood of Greenleaves' eastern reaches here, soaring up around Truva to cast dappled shade across her path. Throughout the afternoon, the forest was punctuated with ramshackle houses and docks of several Northmen encampments, the residents of which simply stared as Truva paddled by. They were bemused by her unfamiliar livery and strange appearance – and even stranger vessel; for the Raft-elves had no purpose which led them further south than Esgaroth, and so the Northmen knew not what to make of the canoe's light coloration and delicate carvings.

Come early evening, the Wood gave way to the Dark Mountains, the fir-covered peaks of which reared up directly westward. Just beyond the mountains' foothills, the Old Forest Road emerged from the treeline to intersect with the Running River, where lay a sprawling village. It appeared as a collection of lights in the descending gloam, the lamps of fishing skiffs darting all along the short stretch of river. One fisherman, wading nearly chest-deep in the water as he tended to his nets, hailed Truva cheerfully.

'Good eve, fair traveller!' he called. 'Where doest ye hail from, and where goest ye this night? There's no other place to rest yer head for any great distance beyond Astrup.'

'Astrup, you say?' replied Truva, directing her canoe towards the fisherman and slowing her speed. Several other Northmen gathered round, drawn by their curiosity. 'I was told I could find shelter for the night in Astrup when I encountered two gentlemen by the name of Öl-ker and Rút at Long Falls.'

'Oh, are those two clapping cods on the road home?' exclaimed the fisherman, a man by the name of Út-rothr. 'This night'll prove entertaining, indeed! Come stay amongst our people and sup at our tables – perhaps in exchange for a tale or two, for it seems to me ye've been to faraway lands and seen many a sight.'

'Stories I have, although I know not whether they are suitable to be told round the table,' Truva advised him.

'Allow us to make the determination as to what is suitable for our tables! I think ye'll find us amenable to all manner of talk of distant lands.'

Út-rothr took hold of the canoe's bow and guided it towards the docks, followed by a crowd of onlookers. Once the boat was moored, the congregation made for the village square, which was little more than a wide opening amidst a cluster of wooden structures, bisected by the tail end of the Old Forest Road. Propelling Truva forward, Út-rothr ducked into a narrow hall, where a gathering of villagers sat about long tables enjoying their rest from the day's labours.

'Sit, sit!' Út-rothr urged as a bowl of stew and an entire roast perch was placed before Truva. 'Still ye've not answered my questions from before, but let's begin with the more intriguing of them: from whence did ye come?'

And so Truva launched into her answer, leaving out what details she thought were best left unshared. How often had she retold such tales in days of late? Unnatural a storyteller as she was, her narration became more skilled with each new telling, drawing bigger gasps from each successive audience – though with her current listeners, their disbelief also grew with each passing word. When she came to the Battle of the Black Gates, her description of the immense Gorgoroth Trolls proved too much for one sceptic.

'You think us simple folk!' the man exclaimed. 'Imagine thinking we would believe such nonsense! Trolls the size of three grown men, with spiked hides? Impossible!'

But all such outbursts were quickly shushed, and Truva forged on. The night grew deeper, and the moon was at its zenith when Öl-ker and Rút appeared in the hall, having come at last into town and settled the drover's herd. By this time, Truva had narrated nearly all that her audience found interest in, and so their curiosity naturally turned to the future rather than the past.

'You have told us of where ye come, but where do ye go to?' asked Út-rothr. 'We do not often come across travellers seeking lands beyond Astrup.'

'I go south,' said Truva simply. She could think of no reason her hosts – however friendly – had any need to know of her reasons for venturing into Rhûn.

'Oh aye, we figured so much,' said Öl-ker, who was much more talkative when amongst his brethren. 'But where, and wherefore?'

'To see what there is to see.'

Unsettled whisperings rippled through the Northmen gathered in the hall. Truva's words perturbed them, and ignited a spark of fear.

'If it's mere curiosity that drives ye, ye'd best turn back,' said Út-rothr. 'There is nothing but trouble beyond Astrup.'

'Trolls!' said the source of the outburst earlier. 'Real ones!'

'There ain't no trolls in Dale,' Rút tutted. 'But that don't mean it's safe.'

'We haven't traded south for many a generation,' Öl-ker agreed, 'and that's not merely due to Long Lake bein' a bigger market. The old tales spoke of conflict, and fell creatures – though the details are lost to time.'

'Perhaps I can rediscover those details,' Truva suggested.

Though the Northmen were quite unconvinced, they were also eager to discuss any topic save the ominous mysteries they thought she was sure to provoke. Talk turned to their own local dealings, and slowly the wee hours of the night crept into those of predawn, and the gathering settled into the straw-strewn corners of the hall for a few winks of rest before a new day.

Truva slipped out the following morning alongside Út-rothr and the other fishermen, who were generally last to cease work in the evening yet first to rise come dawn. Putting paddle to stream once more, she sped down the River Running, encountering only a small number of additional hamlets along her way. But not even in the evenings did she linger any longer than a hasty greeting, choosing instead to spend her nights camping beneath the open sky.

The further south Truva migrated, the more infrequent the Northmen settlements – if they could be called such, being little more than a few hovels clustered together – became. In the east, the Wood of Greenleaves yielded to endless rolling hills. Farms sprung up on occasion: tiny patches of wheat or barley, herb gardens and apple orchards, occupied by goats and sheep and pigs. All were soon lost around the next bend of the river.

Eventually the Celduin banked eastward, drawing further away from the Wood. All hints of human development disappeared. Truva's days grew to be a monotonous pattern of early risings, unbroken travel, and late retirings. In an effort to preserve her waybread stores, her meals likewise became an unremarkable repetition of trout or eel, foraged greens and berries. She came to miss Gimli's stories, and Legolas' lilting songs, and passed more than a few hours wondering how they fared in the north.

One fortuitous morning, six dawns after her departure from Esgaroth, Truva succeeded in hooking an immense pike upon the line she always left cast throughout the day. Electing to make an impromptu break in routine, she moored the canoe beneath the sweeping branches of a beech and wandered through a copse of broadleaf trees, gathering firewood. Then, just as she bent to pick up a particularly solid branch, she spied out of the corner of her eye a delicacy most unexpected: morels!

Immediately abandoning the firewood, Truva created a makeshift sack from her tunic and began gathering the mushrooms, ascending a slight hill as she did so. The higher she climbed, the more audible a faint sound became, like that of a great river tumbling down its course. At first, Truva attributed it to the Celduin below. Yet when she reached the crest of the hill and the branches of elms and beeches parted slightly, she was granted a vision of boundless plains stretching east, their golden grasses fading gently into pale blue skies. A saker falcon circled the air currents high above, sunlight gleaming upon its mottled feathers.

In the distance, cleaving the land in two on its southward path, ran the Redwater River. It wove gently between hills like a glittering strand of mithril until it converged with the Celduin some distance ahead.

Truva raced back down the hill, precious mushroom cargo still tucked in her tunic. She could scarcely contain her renewed spirits upon finding herself so hard upon such a significant landmark – though the confluence was scarcely past halfway to her ultimate destination. Forgoing the fire, she instead gutted and filleted the pike, stringing the strips of meat up on a makeshift rack erected in the aft of the canoe.

No sooner had Truva stowed the morels beneath the fish flek than she embarked once again, thrusting her paddle into the waters of River Running as if one possessed. She could feel the ripple of muscles in her shoulders and elated in it. So vigorous was her labouring that she camped that very eve upon the arrow of land formed by the two rivers' convergence, and dined at last upon a portion of the morels she had gathered earlier.

She found it difficult to sleep that night, and rose the following morning far earlier than she was accustomed to – though she was by no means a late riser. Beyond the confluence, the Running River flowed nearly doubly wide and half as swift, for it spread shallow upon the flat plains of the border between Dale and Rhûn. Truva kept to the centre currents where the waters ran deepest, yet still her progress slackened a great deal, and so for several days she pressed on further into night, overcome by some aberrant compulsion.

Late one afternoon, when the sun blazed down ruthlessly overhead, she spied a solitary beast grazing upon the open grasslands. It was similar in appearance to oxen of the Mark, yet it was far larger, and the length of its horns nearly equal to that of its body: a Kine of Araw! Truva had heard tales of such majestic creatures from several Gondorian soldiers, but believed them to be mere fantasies. How glad she was to be wrong!

Yet no sooner had this astonishing sight faded into the distance behind her than Truva found her spirit faltering, and her strength waning. The lengthening days of late spring seemed to bring endless hours of toil under increasingly warmer weather. The River Running's southward path began to circle around eastward, and though Truva knew this indicated she drew nearer her destination, she could not help but feel as though she was making no progress at all.

Then, on the third day beyond the confluence, she spied the hints of a settlement nestled upon the plains of Rhûn, far to the northeast. A small collection of wooden huts lay a great way off in the distance, fed by a tiny spring from the River Running; but there were no fishermen upon the water, nor did livestock roam the banks. If the hamlet was not abandoned, it certainly invited no visitors. Truva drifted past.

Several similar sights appeared upon both sides of the Celduin throughout the day, yet heeding the Astrup residents' warnings, Truva did not seek these settlements out for shelter that evening. Instead, she chose to make her camp beneath a low rocky overhang, where an embankment fell sharply to the water's edge. She lit no fire, dining only on dried pike, and slept fitfully.

When the next dawn came, she wondered whether some unseasonal snow had fallen upon the land, for the world was swaddled in an uncanny stillness; the river's constant rush was all that could be heard, though even that seemed somehow muffled. There were no calls of bird or beast, nor wind across the plains – only silence.

But there was, of course, no snow. Even so, Truva wrapped her cloak tighter about her shoulders as she rose and set out, warding off inexplicable shivers that flittered along her arms and legs.

The embankment continued down along the river, affording her some modicum of security when she first set out. But as the day progressed, the Running River grew narrower and swifter, and a great deal more tumultuous. Truva was forced to travel the most navigable routes regardless of where they took her. Perhaps other villages passed by, perhaps not – she could not be sure, for they were far too distant and her path allowed for little distractions.

Around noontide, she came suddenly upon the ruins of a tremendous dam. It appeared as if its destruction had followed hard upon its recent construction; both the original rock, as well as its rents and rends, showed the same degree of wear from the elements. Still, there was no movement about its shattered foundations, no signs of habitation, and so Truva pressed on.

The water grew ever choppier. Hour by hour, Truva's focus was increasingly required to keep the canoe upright as it bucked and kicked beneath her. More than once, she contemplated abandoning the river and simply walking along one bank until the waters calmed, but her desire for swiftness outweighed that of easy passage.

Then, several miles beyond the sundered dam, she caught sight of a flicker of motion upon the southern bank. Or perhaps she imagined it. When she spun to scan the grassy hillocks, there was nothing save the land itself; no sign of livestock, no wildlife – not even a solitary falcon.

In the very next moment, Truva was flung into the river. A wire strung across the width of the Celduin had rushed up and caught her across the chest, even as her head was turned in search of the movement's source. The canoe was sent tumbling on through the rapids without her.

But this time, Truva was not unprepared; the Running River was less tumultuous than the Táwarnen, and her previous experience eased her mind and lent her calm instead of panic. She floated on her back, spinning so her legs came first against the approaching rocks, and gradually drifted towards the nearest bank: the southern. The flash of motion she had seen earlier was likely the source of this ambush, yet the northern bank was far too distant, and the roiling waters of traitorous rapids lay across the expanse.

Nor was there any indication of hostilities; perhaps the trap was merely a precaution, a deterrent set by those who wished to avoid conflict.

An arrow darting into the river just beside Truva's head quickly dissipated any such thoughts. Abandoning her cautious progress, she scrambled out of the water and towards a small boulder embedded in the river bank, which offered the best promise of shelter. More arrows pelted down as she crouched behind the rock and dug into the coarse river sand, fingers raw from hidden shards.

When she solidified her position, she peeked from behind the boulder, only to quickly retract as another arrow sped by where her face had been but an instant earlier. Removing the Elven bow from about her chest, Truva judged her opponents' location as best she could – for by the strength of their attack she was certain there was far more than one assailant – and released her own shaft blindly. She received an arrowhead slice across her knuckles for her effort.

Then, over the sound of the river, she heard their movements, skidding down the embankment and approaching from both sides. She strained her ears to determine the attackers' distance, silently drawing Fréodhel. Her hands wrung the leather grip.

They fell upon her in a flash; the rush of Running River had distorted the sound of their approach and caused her to misjudge. The first adversary leapt directly over the boulder and came down directly overhead. Truva raised her sword only just in time.

Orcs!

They wore armour of no nation she knew, yet their grisly, distorted features were immediately identifiable. Truva cursed herself for being so surprised; the Astrup residents' warnings should have recalled to her mind how a great many Orcish regiments in the War originated from the East, then subsequently fled back to whence they came at that conflict's conclusion.

It seemed they had established themselves quite solidly in the lands of Rhûn – sufficient enough to ensnare a wayward Marshal of the Mark, anyway.

Four now came at Truva, their movements seamlessly interwoven as they pinned her against the boulder and attacked simultaneously, never in each other's way. No sooner would Truva fend off one assault than another two would regroup and strike together – like a well-notched watermill, unceasing and propelled by momentum. One Orc even succeeded in knocking Truva to her back with a well-placed thrust with his spear, though she swept his own feet out from beneath him even as she fell. Plucking a black-fletched arrow from the riverbank, she drove it deep into the eye-slot of his helm.

But the loss of their brethren only served to drive the remaining Orcs to a greater frenzy, and they leapt upon Truva with wild abandon. The situation was untenable; she was wholly overpowered.

In the space between the hail of arrows – which had lightened considerably, for the few Orcs that remained up on the embankment feared striking their own kind – Truva dodged awkwardly and succeeded in driving through a gap between two adversaries. Retreating back across the riverbank, she dove into the River Running, risking the rapids' treachery over her certain fate at the hands of the Orcs.

The deluge of arrows resumed as the Orcish archers tracked her progress, but the very same thing that endangered her life made their task all the more difficult; Truva was tossed about by the current as it swept amidst the maze of rocks, and so the Orcs' shafts clattered uselessly around her, or disappeared into the water.

Aside from minor scrapes and soon-to-be bruises, Truva emerged unscathed onto the northern riverbank. She immediately ascended the steep scarp and bolted. The Orcs gave no sign of pursuit, but she was not willing to risk another miscalculation, and so she struck inland a short distance before turning east to follow the Running River along its course. There was no hope of rediscovering the canoe, but the distant villages and hamlets she had spied earlier were not far from her mind. Who was to say what kind of peoples occupied such settlements, or whether they be friend or foe? It was best to avoid them.

Not once did Truva slacken her pace. Even as late afternoon dragged on into early evening and the breath grew ragged in her chest, she drove ever further. The way was fairly even, but littered with streams and brooks, many of them terribly deep and disguised by thick tufts of feathergrass. In fording these tributaries, Truva's drying clothes became soaked yet again, and the cold water set a chill upon her skin in spite of her exertion.

When the sun began to settle at her back – a clean titian orb in an umber sky – she discerned the grey haze of a village directly ahead, right at the very edge of River Running. Determining to give the settlement a wide berth, Truva tacked diagonally towards the outskirts and pressed on, wondering whether she ought not attempt to pilfer fresh water and perhaps a bite of food. In drawing nearer, however, the settlement revealed itself to not be a village at all, but a veritable city – tall buildings towering across the expanse, looming up along both banks of the river.

Truva weighed the risks. It was a sufficiently large metropolis; perhaps she would be able to procure supplies whilst still evading notice. Coming to a decision, she altered course and began to make for the city proper, yet no sooner had she done so than the rumble of horses' hooves fast approached from the rear. Truva dropped immediately to the ground and took cover beneath what little screen the grasses afforded – for there was not so much as a tree or thicket to aid in her concealment – then turned to find the source of the sound.

Some ways away, threescore riders made with all haste towards the city, though the distance made it appear as though they were bound directly for her own position. When they drew nearer, Truva could see these were no Orcs; they were Men – of what origin she could not be certain. They appeared to be Easterling, but wore no colours or livery with which she was familiar. Their helm bore the insignia of a silver sturgeon.

They did not deviate in their path, but continued on until it became clear they had spied her.

Truva contemplated running – but to where? There was no safe haven within sight, and the Men would swiftly overcome her on their horses. She stood instead with arms raised, palms open. They surrounded her in moments.

The foremost rider urged his mount forward. When he spoke, it was in a language Truva recognized as one of the Rhûnic dialects, though she could make neither heads nor tails of his meaning. She therefore did not answer, and so he spoke again – rougher, but different in tone; a question, perhaps. When again Truva was unable to answer, the man sighed and gave a sharp whistle. From the rear came a magnificent chestnut and white pinto steed.

The man then made a gesture with the unmistakable expectation for Truva to mount. She sensed the company's sceptical eyes upon her as she moved slowly towards the horse with hand extended, heard their amused chuckles as the steed skittered away and bucked, felt the silence as she stepped forward on the diagonal once more.

Then, hesitantly, the horse assailed her curled fingers with a few short sniffs, whiskers tickling her palm. Truva rubbed her hand gently from the beast's nostrils up to his forehead, studying his ears as they twitched forward and back separate of each other. She gave his forelock a brief ruffle, then continued down his neck, running one hand through his mane and the other along the muscles rippling beneath his sleek fur. He was small – smaller than either Bron or Roheryn – but stocky, and far more fiery than they. Still, he seemed willing, and did not so much as shift when she thrust her boot into the stirrup.

No sooner was Truva in the saddle than the leader spurred his own mount on. As the other riders followed after, two fell in beside Truva and another at her rear. With this guard in place, the company made towards the city at a furious pace, soon coming upon a wide dirt road devoid of all other travellers. This they raced along until stone towers rose up like symbols either of Truva's doom or her salvation – though which, she knew not.