We lost Naraal in the warren of ravines. It was too dangerous for us to continue pursuit and end up racing into the midst of an orc camp. We needed to find Parnard. Estarfin wanted to kill the Corsair, for obvious reasons. I wondered if Naraal might lead us to the wagon and escorts heading south, and I suspected Culufinnel had similar thoughts, but when Naraal headed northward, possibly back to Angmar, Estarfin’s immediate goal became unlikely. We knew not exactly where Naraal was heading, and to some extent it mattered not at all. I looked at Estarfin’s grim expression. Without doubt I knew that he would put an end to that particular Man’s life, in time. For now Parnard was our only focus.
Given the twists and turns we had followed, it was not so easy to remember a route I had previously traveled. There had been times, when I dwelt at Forlond, that I frequented Lin Gilliath for my research. But with Yrill now heading back to Celondim, I had to scout the way. After one wrong turn I suddenly found myself in the water, having ridden straight into it when the other two turned aside at the last moment. Iavas was confused and still inexperienced, but he turned around to try to head back towards the shore. I heard Estarfin gasp, but then he was laughing.
“Nice swim,” he said, then dismounted and helped me wade to the shore. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I answered, with a sigh at my own folly. Thankfully I had not been fully submerged, so my braided hair was dry at the top, while my tunic, cloak and hose were again sodden. I removed my boots on the bank tipping out the water, and unbound my hair, the better for it all to dry.
“Would you like a blanket?” Estarfin seemed at a loss as to how to help. “We cannot start a fire, nor linger here long.”
“The day is warming, good for the time of year. I shall use my blanket for a short while, then set it aside when it is wetter than me.” I looked up at the sky, the sun past the zenith, but still with some strength to it, and I remembered.
“Now I know, down hill and to the left, there is a path past a smaller orc camp, and beyond that is a town.”
That got the Captain’s attention. “There, past the Núrsiriant*?” he said, puzzled, glancing over his shoulder in the direction that I had indicated.
“Yes. Past that long wooden bridge live the men that call the town ‘Trestlebridge’ in their tongue, Captain.” Estarfin frowned at the mention of a Mannish town.
“We do not have time to slay them,” I quickly said, but only half in jest, for he would suffer none to live if it were possible. “Nor is our goal aided by any encounter with them.” I felt strangely odd in myself. Usually, if there was any hint of Man-slaying, I would try to discourage or distract Estarfin, but in that moment I felt, had there been time, I would have not tried to stop him! I shook my head, trying to clear it, and told myself that not all Men were the same. And yet -
“We cannot go around it?” Estarfin asked.
“Nay, meldanya, It would take us many miles away from our path. Thirty miles or more.”
“Do Elves go there?” the Captain asked, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. I knew what he meant.
“On rare occasions. There is nothing in that village our folk would have use for, nor is it a main Waypoint save the bridge itself. “
“Then we ride swiftly through it and do not stop. If any try to stop us, we ride them down.”
Estarfin grit his teeth and looked at the bridge and what lay beyond. “It is an ugly place,” he said.
I nodded also. Estarfin was correct in that the town held no beauty. “Do not ride at them purposefully; it serves us not to have a cavalcade of pursuers. But if any try to block our passing, we shall have no choice.The aim is merely to get swiftly through Trestlebridge and on to the Breelands.” Trestlebridge was not a large place, but it had some guards and traders and others who would have no liking for a disturbance. I patted Iavas’ neck to reassure him. “A swift trot straight through, my new friend.”
And then we were away. The direction we came from, that of orc camps, had the guards take defensive positions, then I called out, “Three Elves, passing through on their way South.”
They saw me first, red hair and all, and lowered their spears.
“Elves, Tom. Them be good folk mostly,” the nearest, taller guard inclined his head as I swept by.
“So they say, Harry,” the second answered, looking less certain as Estarfin, garbed mostly in black, passed near, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.
Culufinel brought up the rear. “Captain Culufinnel of Celondim, on an important mission,” he said, and gave a crisp salute.
“I hope they are not being chased by orcs,” Harry said as he glanced down the road leading to Nan Wathren.
“If orcs are nearby, I hope they are staying put to help us! ” the sandy-haired Tom shot back.
We had our eyes on the path after leaving the bridge, a rickety wooden thing, and the houses of the town were damaged from what seemed to be a recent attack, with charred remains of some buildings nearest the bridge. Several folk were gathered in what looked like a village square. “I’m telling you, that is too much. Next thing, you’ll be wanting my horse,” a white haired Man was saying, then, “Oi! Mind where you are going!”
I turned Iavas’ head just a little and headed for the gate on the incline straight ahead.
“Them be Elves,” an older woman breathed out in distress. “Last night we had that wagon of death, and now this!”
“What is the world coming to,” muttered Culufinnel, a sour look on his face as he passed them by. But I knew what she meant by a wagon of death. Well, what she likely meant: Zairaphel’s wagon rather than a delivery of pipe weed.
I felt a small nudge as Norlome passed by at full gallop. Iavas neighed in protest though held his course. Estarfin glanced momentarily back over his shoulder. ‘Out of here,’ he muttered as three more men headed our way.
Norlomë did not swerve. The Men were fortunate they could move as fast as they did. Had they been elders of their kind they would probably have been trampled. Someone shouted from behind, a stone was thrown which was stopped by my heavy, wet cloak.
“Not so fast,” I shouted to Estarfin, as Norlomë sped through the gate and headed up the incline beyond. Though I well understood the need to be away from Trestlebridge, I wondered if the Captain or I would be able to catch up. I glanced over my shoulder a moment to see Culufinnel speaking with the Men who had sought to block our way.
Then I was also through the gate, though I did not urge Iavas on at the same speed as Norlomë. He was panting slightly, so at the brow of the hill, I slowed to a trot. But Norlomë was now some distance ahead. It seemed that her breathing was hard and fast; she was covered in sweat and wide-eyed. Estarfin was trying to calm her. “Easy, easy,” he said to her. His voice was tinged with concern as he dismounted, and moved to stand by the mare’s moving head.
‘Has he pushed her too hard?’ I wondered to myself. Then I recalled his great love for his horse friends, and that it would be the furthest from his mind. I halted Iavas also on the path between rows of tall pine trees, checking his breathing, before moving on to offer what support I could. But I had not ridden in such haste through Trestlebridge.
“She ran too fast,” Estarfin said to me. “Rest, it is past,” he told the young mare.
Culufinnel caught up, and slowed Cloud-born as he saw the situation.
“None follow,” he said. “I was asking about the ‘Wagon of death’, and they confirmed what we suspected. None really saw Zairaphel, but dealt with a soft spoken Southron who bought provisions.”
He moved closer to Norlomë, though remained mounted. “Swift of foot is your steed, and bright of eye. Is she one of the horses of Imladris?”
Estarfin nodded. “Indeed, Captain.” He began to gently pat and stroke her neck. Her breathing gradually slowed.
I stroked her face, her muzzle, and whispered, “Peace, dear one. You are stout of heart and eager to aid, but sometimes even one such as you must rest.” She twitched her ears towards me and snorted. “She is like her rider.”
Estarfin looked at me. “Perhaps,” he replied.
“She knew you despised that place, so gave her all to help you escape it.”
“We shall rest the horses here until the moon rises,” said Captain Culufinnel.
Estarfin fetched a leather sack from his saddlebag, hurriedly filled it from his own water skin, then held it out for Norlomë to drink from.
Sitting tall in his saddle, Culufinnel looked far into the distance down the cracked and weathered stone road. “I smell water, this way,” he said, and pointed to the west.
“Everclear Lake is there,” I told the others. “As well as a few small farms. It is quite near to Bree-Town, and the road, and likely a haunt for brigands.”
Estarfin and Culufinnel looked at me. Estarfin shrugged, while the Captain’s eyes glinted with a cold light. Indeed, after what we had been through, and were still going through, it was of little concern.
“Then it is decided.” I rubbed Norlomë’s ears as Estarfin gave her hooves a thorough check. “I shall ever be in your debt for carrying me from Angmar to Lin Gilliath, you know.” The mare blew softly towards my face and twitched her ears again. She knew. We were friends.
I stepped away to also encourage patient Iavas. “I know,” I said to him. “You are unused to charging through towns of Men. It shall not happen again.” I hoped it would not.
The horses rested and calmed, we all moved off at a leisurely walk. It was early evening, and the wind was warmer than usual at that time of year. Though our purpose was ever to mind, we dare not push so hard we could not make the finish. We spoke softly, less any Men were about. The scenery was beautiful to the eye, so much more while we still carried memories of barren Angmar, passing down into the Northern Bree fields. The path appeared empty, but we moved through the trees to the right, the less likely to be seen. After almost an hour, the first small farms came into sight, and the trees lessened in number. We all raised the hoods of our cloaks, to diminish our ‘different’ appearance to the Men, though our stature and grace would likely give us away to sharper eyes.
“We can make up some time later. Traveling this close to Bree is easier in the dark for us. We may make Cardolan before dawn.”
“Is this Bree-Town a large settlement?” asked Culufinnel.
“So I am told,” Estarfin answered, and glanced over at me. “And so I believe, seeing it from a far distance.”
I nodded in agreement. “It is not a place to visit, though its gates are open to most. Trades folk, crafters, farmers and guards are there, along with some of Mankind’s least desirable. It is probably the largest town in this old Realm of Men.”
“Here is a lake,” said Culufinnel.
We dismounted our horses, and walked to the edge of the water. To our left were two farms. The horses reached the lake first to drink their fill.
As they drank I regarded the two neri. Captain Culufinnel was peering into the gloaming, his blond hair blowing behind him, shield high and spear ready. Estarfin seemed lost (although I doubted he truly was) watching the clear water rippling in the breeze, likely listening to the soft music it made. I felt some of the weight of recent weeks fall from my shoulders, surrounded as I was by beauty.
The captain pointed into the distance. “There is another windmill, similar to the one in the North Downs,” he said.
Estarfin nodded, though spoke not.
Culufinnel seemed to consider the place was safe enough, for he put his shield on the ground and cupped the shimmering water in his hand to drink.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” said Estarfin. “Moreso after the desolation of Angmar.”
We stood in silence for a long time. Then I said to him, “This place refreshes my spirit. Angmar is an accused land, but this teems with life. What a sight it must be at night, overlaid with a starry canopy.”
He turned to me, a slight smile gracing his handsome face.
I knelt down to swallow clean water. It felt as if I was drinking light. I felt alive. “Do not think I am unaffected by what happened, meldanya,” I said softly to Estarfin, “but I do grow stronger by the day. I shall be as I was soon enough.” He looked at me with some confusion, and I saw the captain stop his suspicious watching of the distant windmill turning. He walked over to stand beside us.
“What did they do to you, Lady?” he asked. Estarfin shot him a glance.
“Do? They took us where we did not want to go. They threatened to pull the halflings apart before our eyes if we did not do as they said. They bound us, and oft bound your brother’s mouth. They dragged us through harsh, inclement lands, and murmured about slaying us all, and treated Parnard as badly as they could, those Men of Bree.”
“Then they will pay dearly for it.”
“But here is the thing, Captain: there are not many left,” I continued. “Most are already dead, slain by each other, or you. Three were left, and they were taken to Gundabad, I think. The remainder are the Umbarrim. There was one that we encountered in Nan Wathren that prevented the men from doing even more harm to us.”
Estarfin cut into the conversation: “He shall die swiftly then, as a warrior should.”
Oddly, I felt some relief at his words. Magan, and Pharazagar too, to some extent, had saved Parnard and I from worse fates, and while I knew they were ‘unfriends’, I also knew they were not without honour.
“We shall find Parnard and slay those who laid hands upon you. Any Bree-Land brigands shall have a reckoning,” said Estarfin. He scooped up more water in his hands to splash his face, as if to cool his temper.
Those words swept over me in a strange way, leaving me feeling unsettled. For a moment I could envisage myself setting a torch to Bree-Town - almost. I was angry, but it was not like me to take vengeance upon innocents. Although I shared some of Estarfin’s observations on the Race of Men, I did not share all of them.
“Do you know the way to Pelargir?” said Culufinnel. That thought had been on his mind for a while, I guessed.
“Yes,” I answered. “Down the Greenway, through hilly lands, the old Kingdom of the Númenórians. Then we reach Gondor where the roads are a little better, and there are fewer brigands, but more Men, in general. But it is my hope we reach Parnard before he is taken that far.”
The Captain nodded, seemingly satisfied at hearing what he hoped to hear, and went back to check on Cloud-born.
The early winter sunset reflected on the waters of the Lake, again holding Estarfin’s gaze. It seemed to me he was strengthened and renewed by that light. At the least, he was in no hurry to move on.
“Calinen, the Bright Water, that should be the name of this place,” he said.
“Calinen. It is a fitting name, meldanya.”
“It is good to be away from Angmar.”
*: Sindarin for, ‘Sad Stream bridge’, the river spanned by the Treslebridge
