Delioron had made his camp up in the High Moor about a hundred yards east of the path on an elevation with a good view to the path below. It was a good place for a camp. There was a cliff wall behind his back giving shelter, trees and undergrowth providing cover to his flanks and the downward-sloping hillside ensuring a clear view to the path. It was raining, but not enough to put out the fire yet. Soon he would have to withdraw into the tent to avoid getting soaking wet, but right now he wanted to feel the chilliness of the early autumn rain in Eriador for a few moments more.
Delioron had spent two days in this camp. He had done very little during that time. He had set some snares about like the wandering, solitary hunter he was pretending to be would do. He had been careful not to use irons or anything else that might upset the Eldar he knew were nearby. Delioron knew he had to be very close to Imladris, that fabled, hidden elven refuge. While he had not seen or heard anything, he had no doubt that there were elven scouts about who were aware of his presence here and kept a close eye on him. His plan was to pose as a reclusive hunter from Bree, and he could not go looking for Imladris or the elves without raising suspicions. He was hoping the elves would make contact with him first.
For two days he had been sitting in this camp, tending his horse, checking his snares, eating his rations of preserved food and trying to feel his way beneath the skin of Gwathrandir, the murdered elf. What was the connection between Gwathrandir's wife Laureanis and Sauron’s plans concerning the Elostirion-stone in Emyn Beraid, if there was any? Who had killed him and why? How could Delioron find the answers to these questions without alerting Elrond of Gondor’s presence in his realm?
Delioron picked up a leather flask of red wine from Minas Tirith and tasted it.
Gwathrandir. Maglor.
Delioron thought about that night fifteen years ago in Rhûn, when Gwathrandir had told his story to him. Gwathrandir had seemed like a walking corpse to him; a man dead inside, just going through the motions. Delioron had not wanted to hear his story, but he had listened anyway. He had waited for a long time for Gwathrandir to get to the end of it. And now, in this cold rain up in the High Moor, Delioron could see Gwathrandir’s haunted eyes staring at him across time and space.
He picked up his flask of wine, stood up and walked to the edge of the camp. That’s when he felt the eyes on him again.
Delioron stared down at the path winding past his camp. He could see nothing there, nothing was moving… and yet there was someone down there. Watching him.
He had felt the eyes on him yesterday afternoon as well. He had been sitting very still, but he could feel the eyes on him as a creeping sensation crawling down his spine. Only the wind had moved, rustling in the leaves.
There. In the woods across the path. There was nothing to see there, nothing was moving, but Delioron knew there was something in those woods. Something, or someone.
He stepped back into his camp, tossed the flask inside his tent and kicked out the fire. He picked up the sword that was leaning against a log next to the campfire and sheathed it. He had his dagger with the blackened blade concealed under his cloak.
He stepped into the woods and started heading south. The sky was gray. The afternoon was dying in a torrent of rain. After a moment he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. There was nobody there, but he knew he was being followed. It was not all in his imagination. When somebody spends a lot of time alone in the wilderness, they sharpen their sleeping, dormant senses and develop a sort of a third eye that warns of danger even when one cannot actually see or hear anything. Delioron had learned to trust the warnings of that sixth sense on his many journeys into the wild. It had often meant the difference between life and death.
The wind was rustling quietly on the crowns of the trees above him. Birds were singing and fluttering their wings. Something squeezed and rustled in the bushes to his right. Delioron pushed deeper into the woods and tried his best to keep up the pace. He could see dreadful shadows everywhere around him, dark figures constantly changing shape and location.
Delioron changed his direction slightly and started southwest, towards the sloping edge of the High Moor and the river Bruinen below. He saw many animal tracks – tracks of a deer, a boar and a bear. The tracks calmed him down and suppressed his fear of the forest. Every shadow was a hiding place. Silence was his friend. He kept following the animal tracks and moved quickly.
When he turned his head, he could see something moving in the bushes out of the corner of his eye.
Delioron came to a small clearing. He stood still for a few minutes and listened. It was all quiet – stunningly, ominously quiet. Even the birds were silent.
Delioron started to sweat. He pulled out his sword and circled around the clearing towards a rock on the other side. The silence oppressed him. His heart was pounding like a jungle drum in his chest, his throat squeezed and his eyes smarted. He wanted to get deeper into the woods before turning on whoever was following him.
He climbed a steep path around the rock and turned deeper into the woods. Beneath the green canopy of trees the sunlight was cut down and the woods became darker.
Delioron stopped and waited behind a massive oak. A minute passed, then another. He could not see or hear anything. After a while he started to think that maybe his imagination had played tricks on him after all. He waited, feeling the weight of his sword in his hand.
”Mellon?”
Delioron turned suddenly and saw a small old hag with sad eyes and a mournful face standing in the woods behind him. Delioron could not understand how the old woman had managed to get so close to him undetected.
”Who are you?” he asked.
”That is the question I wanted to ask you.”
Delioron did not answer. He had expected an elf or perhaps a ranger, but not this small, frail old woman all alone in the woods. Her long hair was white with gray streaks, her nose was long and hooked and her toothless mouth sunken in her face. Her eyes seemed both amused and sad at the same time.
”What are you doing here?” she asked.
”Taking a walk.”
”Are you from Gondor? Your accent is Gondorian.”
”Who are you?” Delioron asked again.
”My name is Sara. I live here.”
Delioron could not believe that this slow-moving old woman was the one who had followed him from his camp. Maybe they were working together and the other person was now circling around him. But how had the old woman managed to get behind him?
”I have followed you since you came to the Trollshaws”, the woman said. ”You would have me believe that you are a hunter from Bree-land come here to get away from people. Such folk come here sometimes. But you did not come from the west, and you speak in Gondorian accent.”
”I wasn’t aware I had an accent.”
”You have learned how to talk like a Bree-lander, and you have learned well. But I can tell the difference. Why have you come here?”
”Why do you follow me?”
”Because I am curious. First the elf came from Gondor, and now you”, Sara said. Behind her frail, comic exterior there existed something that was a lie to everything Sara appeared to be.
”What elf are you talking about?” Delioron said calmly.
”You came here from Gondor like the elf before you”, Sara said. ”You came here for the same reason. Somebody in Gondor is interested in Laureanis. I want to know why.”
Sara walked across the ground until she was standing just a few feet away from Delioron. She walked so slowly it was almost painful to watch.
”You are far away from home”, she said. ”Gondor has no power this far in the north.”
”The elf who came here was killed”, Delioron said. ”He was my friend. I want to know what happened to him.”
”How many others came with you?”
”Only me.”
”And what do you expect to learn here?”
”Who killed the elf.”
”No”, Sara grinned. ”I don’t think you’re very interested in who killed him. You want to know why. And I want to know why all these people are flocking here from the south looking for Laureanis.”
Delioron said nothing.
”Go home, Gondorian”, Sara said. ”Tell your masters you didn’t find what you came for. Let Gondor mind their own business.”
The woman turned and started to walk deeper into the woods.
”Wait!” Delioron snapped and reached out his hand to stop the old woman. It should have been easy to seize the slow-moving hag… but suddenly Sara had disappeared like a mirage. Delioron blinked his eyes a couple of times and looked around. Where had she gone?
Delioron turned and quickly crossed the woods back to the direction he had come from. It was still raining and the clouds overcast the setting sun, but it was getting darker already. He stumbled across the body just as he had crossed the clearing and stepped into the woods again.
It was a ranger. Not the one he had interrogated in the Angle of Mitheithel. It was someone he had never seen before – a thin and tall man with a gaunt, bony face. Probably the friend of the ranger who had jumped off the cliff. His face was bloodless and his eyes stared vacantly into the sky, but there was a wound in his chest that looked like he had been impaled with a sword.
Delioron caught his breath, blood surging through his veins. He knelt down and started to examine the body of the dead ranger.
Knife. Flint and steel. Hemp rope. Canteen. Small container of salt. Needle and thread. Bow and arrows. Sword. Other such essentials necessary for survival when camping in the woods, but no letters or other personal items except that distinctive seven-pointed star-shaped brooch only the Dúnedain wore.
Delioron stared at the features of the dead ranger as if trying to memorize them. The dead man’s face was like a skull drawn with flesh, ashen in color.
This had to be the man who had been following him. But who had killed him? It could not have been that old, frail woman. Somebody else must have killed this ranger. Somebody with a sword. But who? And why?
His knees cracked as he stood up. Things were getting more and more complicated now, and yet he felt closer to the heart of the matter. Laureanis. Laureanis was the key to everything. Delioron was sure of it.
