Fifteen: Human Error

Some years passed in relative peace. Message routes were reestablished between the north and south, and Talion and Boromir resumed exchanging letters as they had before the wraith's fall. He also kept searching for Denethor's spirit in Arda, but though there were some flickers in Minas Tirith, he never could truly find his friend and set him free. But at last Baranor announced that he wanted to die while his mind was still his own and before his body started to fail completely, and though he grieved to see him pass, Talion agreed with his decision and slipped into Minas Tirith once more to offer his power in aid. He and Idril and their children walked with him to the Farthest Shore, where they all bade him farewell and Serka came to meet him, having died in battle some years ago.

More people filtered into Mordor from all directions, and before long there were too many to stay in Sharkhburz. Some spread out along the shore of the Sea and the rivers that fed it, founding or reclaiming other fishing villages and trading stops. Others went north into the Gap and the edges of Gorgoroth, where the grassy steppes of Núrn continued steadily creeping north, overtaking the ruin of the plain. With the population boom, the mines of Tamon Angren were reopened to feed the need for metals, not only in Mordor, but all over the east and even in the west as well. Talion kept watch for Adûnaphel but still returned to Coldharbour, together with all the mithril treasure of Mordor.

Daerwen kept growing, because of course she did, and he finally made her a new harness with long straps all over so it could be extended if she grew still more. Which she did, of course, in defiance of Talion's wishes.

The Ringwraith also scouted a location to replace Minas Morgul. It required an adjustment to the trade routes through to Gondor and the west; much to Skoth's displeasure, the caravans would have to branch off in Núrn instead of continuing north to Gorgoroth, instead following the River Poros through Mordor and into Gondor. Like its brother the Harnen River, its source was a lake of snowmelt that had carved a deep valley in the mountains, and the river spilled both into Mordor, snaking away to the Sea of Núrnen, and out into Gondor, emerging in the south of Ithilien and joining the Anduin before it reached the Belegaer. Though it set them much further south than before, it made Pelargir and Emyn Arnen good stopovers for traders coming from or going to Minas Tirith and the rest of the west beyond. Privately the wraith hoped that the princes of those cities did not take notice of the increased traffic, only appreciated the revenue from the tariffs.

Talion sent Nákra from Lithlad to the new site, using the Machine Tribe's clever devices to speed the construction of the city above the lake - which had already been designated Minas Gorthrim, much to everyone's amusement but his own - and the clearing and paving of a wide road alongside the river through the mountains in both directions. He warned them to be wary, though, and to only cut trees in Ithilien when absolutely necessary, and to cover their tracks and use the utmost care when doing so. Whether because of Sauron's clouds of darkness or some other fell magic, the trees within the Ephel Dúath were ill-suited for lumber just yet, and while safer, Carnán's woods were too far from the new city.

But even the great skill of the Dark Tribe in stealth could not stop people from having eyes in their heads.

Together with Maglor, Talion was trying to work out how they would eventually conduct a census of the people of Mordor when he received a hell-hawk message from Nákra, asking him to come to Minas Gorthrim at all speed. The necromancer passed the message to the Elf, who read it and frowned. "Nákra is not prone to panic. We should go as soon as possible; Ishmoz can handle things here for a little while."

"You mean to come with me?"

"Whether as an Elda or a healer, I imagine my presence can only benefit you."

Talion hummed, then whistled for Daerwen, and Maglor's own drake Gaerdil.

They flew across the Gap to Graveshadow, picking up additional supplies for the builders, then swung south and west, arriving at the site near sundown that same day. Construction had finished for the day, and the workers, Men and Orcs and even dwarves alike, had returned to their camp. But Nákra and a few of his subordinates were still awake, the Overlord of Lithlad pacing in the gathering dark at the edge of the camp.

He looked up, then sagged in relief when Daerwen and Gaerdil alighted nearby, hurrying over and bowing to Talion's drake. "Gravewalker."

"Nákra. What's the matter?" Given the Orc's agitation, the wraith elected to skip a formal greeting.

"I did what you said and covered our tracks, but I've been having scouts keep an eye on things in Ithilien while we're moving around for construction too," said the Overlord. "A week ago one of 'em said they saw strangers on the road, coming from the Crossing, and a day after that, three of 'em didn't come back."

Talion went still, but only for a moment. "Names?"

The Orc gave them, and the necromancer reached into the dark, calling their spirits close enough for the moment to receive the memories of their last breaths. Two had been attacked from behind and died without ever seeing their killers, but the third had crossed swords briefly with a Ranger before being slain by another, also from behind. Talion did not recognize the face, but he was not young and green, a newcomer to the ranks. His grey leathers were well broken in, and his cloak clasp was a seven-pointed star, which brought to mind the seven stars of Gondor's heraldry.

"Rangers of the North, from the old kingdom of Arnor, if I had to take a guess." It took a bit of maneuvering to make their powers compatible, but he was able to use something like the Elven ósanwe to pass the memory to Maglor for his thoughts. The Elf agreed with his assessment. "Are there any scouts out now?"

The Orc shook his head. "Just the guards around the camp and the city. Been keeping everyone close."

"Send everyone out as usual at dawn, but tell them not to go more than half an hour's run from here. I'll send shades with them to watch their backs."

The alarm sounded just past noon, while Talion was drowsing against Daerwen's side, still made slow and sleepy by the bright sun even though he was free of the darkness. But the instant a shade moved to defend one of the scouts, he launched back to full awareness like a lightning strike, lunging to his feet and then scattering himself into black mist, racing to where the shades were converging on the fight.

The Rangers had stayed together as they made their way south through Ithilien's forests and then east into the pass, no doubt to take advantage of their numbers against the individual scouts. Perhaps they hoped that the Orcs would be scattered, fractious, and therefore easily eliminated.

Daerwen shrieked somewhere behind him, and he opened their bond a little wider to let her follow - but he was already there, and he took an instant to observe. Ronk and the shade of his blood brother Grom were surrounded by a dwarf with an axe, an Elf with a bow, and four Rangers with swords. Three more shades appeared and met the Men and dwarf with weapons of their own, but the Elf fired between them, aiming for Ronk-

Talion caught the arrow with the edge of Urfael, deflected it and sent it spinning off into the trees. The Rangers inhaled so sharply that the wraith could have sworn he felt the wind drawn in by their breath.

Ronk yelped behind him. "Gravewalker!"

The necromancer put himself between the Orc and the Rangers without a moment's hesitation - then paused, and stared, Urfael lowering slightly. "Thorongil?"

The Ranger lowered his sword as well, surprise and joy washing over his face. "Talion," he said, relieved. "You've returned!"

"For a given definition of returned, yes." He gestured the shades back to his side, and they went but did not disperse, Grom's specter settling next to his blood brother while the others arrayed themselves further back, close to the treeline.

One of the other Rangers shifted restlessly and kept his sword up. "Captain, you know this…" His gaze fell to Talion's hand, his Ring clearly visible and glowing with power. "Nazgûl? A Nazgûl?! Strider-!"

"Some decades ago now," said Thorongil - Strider - whatever he was calling himself now, "I served in the army of Ecthelion, father of Denethor and grandfather of Faramir, then the Ruling Steward of Gondor. But after a time, I left his service and ventured east into Mordor, to see what could be seen." He sheathed his sword, and smiled, shoulders going slack and easy. "Imagine my surprise when there I found one of the Nine standing against Sauron. We met and worked together against the Dark Lord for a time, and with his leave and aid, I traveled swiftly indeed throughout Mordor, and passed on all that I learned to the Wise."

The Rangers and Elf and dwarf stared first at him, then at the necromancer, Ronk still crouched behind him, the shades watching them all warily. "Against Sauron?" the Elf asked. "How is that possible?"

"Through great effort," Talion answered tiredly. Even just the memory of his long struggle made him weary. "I am not the first to bear this Ring, only the latest - and hopefully the last. I fought Sauron's corruption while I could, though in the end I too fell."

Thorongil's brows turned up and his lips tightened in remembered grief. "I received your message, and passed it on - we were sorry to hear of it. You would have been a great ally when the One was found and sent to its doom. But…" His sorrow turned to concern. "...we thought the Nine would perish together with the One?"

"So did I. We all went down at the foot of Orodruin, but when the time came, I was the only one of the Nine - or rather the remaining Eight - who sought the Farthest Shore. I could not, in good conscience, choose death and peace while leaving Middle-earth and allher people-" He pointedly looked back at Ronk. "-to the cruelty of the other Seven."

Daerwen arrived then, and the shades scattered to give her space to land, which she did, spiked tail twitching. The other Rangers drew back, but the Elf and dwarf stood fast alongside Thorongil, though there was no hiding their trepidation. "I do not believe you two have met, have you? Her egg was not yet laid when you traveled through Mordor. Thorongil, this is Daerwen, my faithful friend of many long years. Daerwen, Thorongil, Ranger of the North."

"Hail and well met, Great Lady," said the Ranger, bowing slightly to her. "It is an honor indeed to meet the last dragon of Middle-earth."

Talion raised an eyebrow at him and was about to open his mouth-

"Mae govannen, Thorongil. It is an honor in turn to meet the Ranger that my Adar has spoken of so highly."

The wraith closed his eyes and sighed, and swore internally in all the dialects of Black Speech that he knew.

"What? Talion, what is it?"

"Adar refused to believe that I was a full-blooded dragon when I hatched," said Daerwen, "and has been in denial for decades."

"That's because you've never spoken in my presence before this moment, you little menace," he said sharply, though without heat. He had tried to breed language and wisdom into the drakes in the past, to no avail. In the end, he had concluded that powers of speech and similar abilities were the domain of pure dragons, not beasts like the drakes whose blood had thinned, and let it lie.

Daerwen lifted her paw-hands and wiggled her finger-toes. "Fire drakes have two legs, Adar. Not four."

He sighed again even louder. Which, of course, made her start snickering like the menace she was.

Thorongil turned his own laugh into a cough and smothered it in his fist, but the other Rangers did not bother hiding their grins. Even the dwarf lowered his axe and concealed a smile in his ruddy beard.

"I'm ignoring that for now," Talion said, even as she nuzzled him and he lifted a hand to scratch her jaw. "Will you and your companions join us for a time, or do you have business elsewhere? Or perhaps… is your business with us?" Even before Sauron's final defeat, it was rare for Men, Elves, and Dwarves to travel together, save at the greatest need. The apparent rallying of the armies of Mordor certainly qualified.

"It is with you," Thorongil confirmed. "You and your people have been quiet these last few years, but the reports that reached our ears were conflicting. Merchants and traders and even Rangers of Gondor said there is nothing of note, but my own kinsmen saw Orcs and Men alike mustered in the Morgul Vale, and also here in the south. I will be glad indeed if we can resolve this without bloodshed. Further bloodshed," he amended with a grimace.

"Did you burn the bodies?"

"No, we left them where they fell."

"Then all will be well - though Zunn might wish to spar with whoever slew him, to devise a counter. Ashgarn!"

"Gravewalker." Ashgarn the Knife, one of Ghûra's former warchiefs, appeared at his elbow, the greenish shade shimmering faintly in the sunlight. "Orders?"

"Escort the Rangers to Minas Gorthrim; see that no harm comes to them. Ronk and I will retrieve the others." Talion swung up onto Daerwen's back and pulled Ronk up behind him. The Orc hooked a clip on his belt to one of the many loops on the dragon's harness.

"You got it."

"'Minas… Gorthrim'?" one of the Rangers repeated, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "The Tower of the Dead?"

"It wasn't my idea," Talion said flatly, even as the Orcs snickered one and all. Daerwen did also, but she at least had the decency to turn her head so he could not see. "Tell Nakrá or Swinsere to find them rooms, if you beat us back."

"Got it. All right, shorties, let's get your gear and get a move-on! Gorthrim ain't far, but it ain't close, either, and we're burnin' daylight."

Daerwen took flight and winged west, following the thread-trails that Talion's Ring laid to the corpses of the scouts.

Sweetheart… he growled into their bond, but the dragon only snickered.

AN: Just imagine that Daerwen is :3 for most of her life, and you've got her down.