July T.A. 3018, Mirkwood.
The summer was drawing slowly toward its waning, and the vast green roof of the once named Greenwood lay quiet neath a pale morning sky. Sunlight wandered among the upper boughs, but little of it reached the forest-floor below, where age-old roots coiled through mosses and fallen leaves that gathered in the hollows of the earth.
Long years had taught the Elves of the Woodland Realm that fair weather and fair fortune were not the same thing. Though sunshine may grace the high canopy leaves, beneath them lingered shadows still, and some darkness did not fade when daylight came.
Along a misty deer path in the lower reaches of the Narrows - one scarcely marked save to Elven eyes - two figures moved amongst such shadows, southward beneath the trees. Neither had spoken for some time, yet the silence between them was not unfriendly. Many years of companionship had rendered speech less necessary than it once had been.
The elder of the two was Duatheryn Galadhir, a March-marden of the Woodland Realm. Though his face was fair and unlined like all Elves, save a couple of scars, there was a gravity about him that belonged to long years. Indeed, to centuries, reflected in his eyes. His grey cloak was stained by weather and travel, and as he moved silently through the brush, his gaze seldom rested long upon a single thing.
Beside him strode good Feonir, also of the wardens, broader of shoulder and quicker of decision. Where Duatheryn observed and questioned, Feonir acted and judged.
Between them there was an understanding born not of likeness, but of long acquaintance, and a chosen brotherhood born of uncounted ventures into the dark and mirk.
At length Feonir raised a hand. "Hold." They stopped beneath a stand of beeches. Feonir swung lightly over a fallen trunk, and crouched beside the path. For a time, he studied the ground. "Orcs," he grunted.
Duatheryn who had been watching the treeline all around them with bow at the ready, came about the beeches and joined Feonir. The chaotic tracks were plain enough - several heavy-footed creatures had passed that way not long before.
"This morning," said Feonir.
"Perhaps," came Duatheryn's response.
"No perhaps about it, look at how the leaves are crushed. How the water lies within the prints."
Duatheryn smiled faintly, even as he glanced about... and upwards. Feonir always preferred certainty, even when certainty was difficult to come by.
"They were travelling south," Feonir continued. "A small company, meaning they were further north during the night." He rose. "We should mark it and inform Commander Narthiel when we return."
"Perhaps."
And Feonir sighed. "I dislike that word."
"This I have noticed," said Duatheryn with a knowing grin. The other Elf shook his head.
"Tracks are tracks, Duatheryn. One need not compose a song about them."
"Nor should one ignore the music surrounding them."
"I have no idea what that means."
"Neither do I... entirely."
Feonir groaned. "That is worse. You have spent one too many a rest day talking with the Brown Wizard. They say he smokes more than simple pipe-weed." This warranted another smile from Duatheryn, who clapped Feonir's shoulder before continuing on.
"Well spotted, Feonir, you're getting better." And Feonir sighed at Duatheryn's jape, for though Feonir was far beyond a novice warden, Duatheryn was indeed by far his elder, and apparently enjoyed reminding him.
As the morning passed, Duatheryn grew increasingly thoughtful - not because of the Orc tracks, for those were commonplace enough in the southern marches, particularly near the lower reaches of the Narrows. Of late the tracks had begun rising northward up the Narrows, which should have been warning enough of the assault on the Elven King's Realm the previous month.
Rather, it was the absence of other signs that troubled him. Several times he found himself glancing upward. The great boughs and branches bent and swayed gently overhead, yet no thrush sang amongst them. No wren darted through the leaves. No blackbird called from the undergrowth. The silence felt larger than it should have been... heavier.
Near to midday, when the dappled sunlight was faintly visible through the dense canopy, they came upon a small, shadow-laden stream that crossed their path, along the northern border of the Narrows where the land rose to meet the Mountains of Mirkwood. Once, deer had frequented the place in great number, but now it seemed the muddy banks lay untouched.
Duatheryn crouched by the bank and studied the ground, and this time Feonir came up behind with an arrow knocked and eyes peeled. There was no evidence of deer; neither track, scent, dropping nor disturbance. The water moved softly over stone, southward to join other streams, and eventually pass the dark ruin of Dol Guldur to fall from the dark Amon Lanc.
Feonir watched him for a moment. "What is it now?" Duatheryn said nothing for a time, then spoke as though speaking to himself.
"There should be deer here."
"There are deer elsewhere," Feonir said glancing about, watching the mists amongst the distant shadow.
"Not these deer," said Duatheryn, now looking up at his companion. Feonir made eye contact.
"Very well. Your deer have migrated, as deer often do."
Duatheryn laughed quietly. "Perhaps." Yet his unease remained, for he knew these woods. He had walked them in spring and winter, crossed them beneath sun and moon. He remembered where herons nested, where foxes hunted, where wild herbs grew beneath fallen logs.
The sort of things most folk forgot about or didn't see, and it seemed to him that too many small things had changed. Too many small things felt... absent from where they should be.
The day wore on, and the Narrows thickened around them, despite the name. The trees grew denser, and the dark grew darker, and the heavy air grew still yet oppressive. Not once did either Elf remark upon it aloud, but each felt it.
Toward evening, having circled back southward, they climbed a low rise from which the trees opened briefly, granting a view across a long stretch of woodland to the west. It continued also in the other direction, opening to show the vast expanse of the East Bight.
Duatheryn halted, and pulled back his hood. Far away a flight of crows lifted suddenly above the canopy. A black scattering against the western setting sun. In another season he might have thought little of it. Now he watched until they vanished from sight.
"What do you see?" asked Feonir, knowing his friend long enough to see he was troubled, and not over some simple trifle, as initially thought.
Duatheryn remained silent, until at length he answered. "I am not yet certain, though something feels deeply wrong."
"Duatheryn?"
Yet though Feonir began to fear the answer, he received no answer, for his companion looked out across the forest, toward the Vale of Anduin. The shadows between the trees seemed deeper than they ought to have been, in this rare stretch of open sunlight. "The forest is almost... cowering... hiding. From what, I do not know," Duatheryn finally said.
Feonir regarded him for too long a moment, a strange weight of nervousness resting on his shoulders as the silence stretched on. Then when he could no longer bear it, the younger Elf shook his head and nudged Duatheryn forward. "Come, you. Let us awa-"
"Do you not feel the absence?"
"Duatheryn, we must make camp by nightfall, and you have spent too many years alone with your thoughts. Come, brother."
Perhaps he had, for Duatheryn valued solitude as much as good company, yet as they moved northeastward at a double pace beneath the darkening boughs, he found himself feeling the need to hide also.
As was usual, they could see no sunset from the beneath the canopy by the time Duatheryn and Feonir returned to their camp in the central Narrows. The last light lingered upon the upper branches, faintly gilding the leaves; but the forest-floor had long since bathed in dim dusk.
Several Elves sat about a small fire, and others still tended bows or spoke quietly among themselves. Conversation lessened as the two wardens entered the camp, more from habit than from alarm. Those who patrolled the southern marches learned early that news was seldom carried by loud voices.
At the centre of the camp stood Commander Narthiel. She was old, even among the Woodland Elves, and fair as any star of legend, yet more deadly than any other warrior.
Long before Duatheryn had first taken bow in hand, she had watched these borders. Her dark hair was bound behind her shoulders, and her face, though fair indeed, possessed that grave stillness which comes to those who have endured many centuries without surrendering to either fear or hope. A characteristic shared by Duatheryn.
She acknowledged their arrival with a nod. "You have returned sooner than expected."
Feonir shrugged. "The forest was determined to give us little reason to linger." He said this even as he glanced to his feet. Narthiel's gaze shifted to the Feonir's companion.
"And what says Duatheryn?" At this, Feonir smiled faintly, for Duatheryn had paused to think.
"Perhaps..." Feonir began in jape, evidently attempting to lighten the mood. "Something longer, no doubt." A few nearby wardens chuckled, even as Duatheryn drew in a sharp breath.
"It would seem that good Feonir has intimate knowledge as to the contents of Radagast the Brown's pipe," said Duatheryn, and this only incited a more hearty uproar, as well as a moment of gaping shock from Feonir. Just a moment. Narthiel raised an eyebrow, even as she failed to hide a smile.
"To business, Duatheryn, for we know you cannot resist."
"Indeed," said he. "There are more Orcs pushing northward through than usual."
Narthiel nodded. "We know of them, we are seeing this movement since the assault on Felegoth earlier this month. They have been more daring of late." Then she folded the parchment she had been reading for details of such patterns, and regarded him more closely. "What else?"
For a moment Duatheryn said nothing, yet caught the barely covert shoulder nudge between two wardens in the shadow beyond the camp fire, which he simply smiled at. Looking at the ground, he was uncertain as to how he might describe what troubled him. At last he looked up. "The forest feels empty."
The grins vanished. Not because the statement was strange, and strange it was, but because every warden present understood precisely what he meant. Indeed, any attempt from the others to lighten the spirit in the wake of weighty shadow they all felt but feared to voice, vanished when brought to the light.
Narthiel's expression did not change. "Come."
She led them toward a rough table fashioned from an ancient fallen trunk. Several reports lay spread across its surface, weighted against the evening breeze by stones and carved pieces of wood.
For some time she studied the papers in silence. Then she gestured toward each of them in turn. "Spider activity has increased along the northwestern reaches of the Narrows." She touched another report. "Goblins have been seen farther northeast than before." Another. "A patrol failed to report from the southern most reaches three nights ago, close to the bounds of Dol Guldur."
"Which patrol?" Feonir frowned.
"Nimrion's."
Feonir looked around at the faces in the dark and indeed, saw neither Nimrion nor his squad, and it unsettled him more than he wished to admit. Nimrion was experienced, and such wardens vanished rarely.
Narthiel laid her hand upon a final report. "And there is this," she looked toward Duatheryn. "Woodmen hunters along the western eaves report unusual animal movements, stating that an emptiness lay upon the Wood."
At once Duatheryn thought of the empty stream-bank. The silent branches. The abandoned deer-trails. The fleeing crows.
"I believe the report is true," he said quietly, and Narthiel inclined her head.
"I thought you might."
"Regarded alone, each of these reports would not sound far beyond the usual. But together, I fear they confirm that what I have felt this day bears weight."
For a while the three stood in silence. The reports lay before them like scattered fragments of some unfinished puzzle. Indeed, none of them seemed remarkable alone. Spiders had troubled Mirkwood for many years. Goblins wandered where they should not, as was the prerogative of such rabble. Patrols were delayed almost every night. Animals migrated, though not by the masses - usually by a predictable pattern.
Such things indeed happened, yet together they formed a pattern that none of them could quite discern, but all could understand.
Feonir finally voiced what all three were thinking. "Do we know what links them?"
"As of yet, no," said Narthiel.
"And that is what troubles me," said Duatheryn.
Beyond the camp an owl called among the trees, and the sound seemed strangely plaintive, as though the great bird was bidding farewell to its home.
Narthiel gathered the reports and bound them together in scroll. "Save the recent assault, there is no sign yet of another threat."
"Yet?" asked Duatheryn. "We failed to catch glimpse of the assault, and it came under our noses even as we happened to turn toward it. And in response we have worked harder, yes, but we cannot afford to assume we will face nothing further. Not in Mirkwood. I fear there is more to come; I fear the forces of Dol Guldur may be mustering, and they will strike again, and the forest is warning us. Think on it, they have not directly assaulted the Elven King's Realm in how long? Now they have, they can surely do it again, and why? Certainly not on a whim. I hazard some worse development is yet to reveal itself, and yet already in motion."
For the first time something like concern flickered across Narthiel's face. She turned her eyes southward, though the darkness hid all distant lands from view.
"No sign, indeed." She regarded the two with a look in her eye that was rarely seen. "I fear I have been wrong," she added, almost to herself. The words lingered after she fell silent, and none within the camp replied. For among the wardens of the southern marches there were few who trusted their instincts more than Commander Narthiel, and she had long since decided to trust those of Duatheryn.
"Go, rest," said she. "We will speak further at first light."
The moonlight created an eerie glow where it managed to press through, and the wardens returned each to their accustomed tasks as the camp grew quieter. Indeed, when night fell and many of the creatures awoke, the wardens tried to reduce the noise they made.
One sat with whetstone in hand, drawing it slowly along the edge of a knife, and yet the gentle sound in the relative silence felt like the night ripping. Another mutely repaired the strap of a quiver near the purposefully dimmed fire, while elsewhere two younger wardens discussed in lowered tones a rumour brought by Woodmen hunters from the western eaves, concerning wolves seen where no wolves had dwelt for many years. For each Elf, after Duatheryn's tidings, it felt as though the weight of the woodland's warnings had finally been made clear to each mind.
The silence that the wardens attempted to force felt oppressive. Demanding. And yet the forest was never wholly silent. Indeed, it took on a new life at night, a fact which gave every reason for the watch perimeter to remain sharp. A circle of Elves with bow in hand, sitting unseen in the dark about the camp, low in the bushes or up in the trees, sensed all that may approach.
Feonir sat by the fire with his bow across his knees, inspecting the string. Now and again he glanced across to where Duatheryn sat cross-legged at the edge of the light, with a journal resting open upon his thigh, as was habit.
Feonir found a strange peace in watching his companion at his writing, again. Whatever happened, Duatheryn would always sit and read or write, and that was a constant. Though Feonir himself seldom bothered to read Duatheryn's work, the very fact that he could always look and see his companion engaged in frowning quill-scratching was proof that not all things changed. Not all things ended. Of course, Feonir never voiced this, but he did feel it.
A younger warden named Laerion noticed it as well. The Elf had scarcely seen two centuries and still possessed the impatience that often accompanied youth, but was a swift hand and a sure mark, and had the potential to be a formidable march-warden.
At length, the youth could contain his curiosity no longer. "Duatheryn?" asked Laerion in a hushed tone.
"Hm?" The older Elf did not lift his eyes from the page. Laerion gestured toward the journal.
"Do you intend to remember every tree in the forest?"
A few heads turned, and despite the somber armosphere, several wardens smiled. The jape at Duatheryn was one reason, and the attempt to interrupt his work was the other reason. Duatheryn, as always, said nothing for a time as he continued writing. Then at length, he spoke, his eyes still on the page.
"You have finished your novitiate of late, just after the assault on Felegoth, have you not?"
"That I have," said Laerion proudly.
"You have crossed Emyn-na-Fuin quicker than I did." At this Laerion nodded, his head seeming to inflate considerably. "Yet, you have yet to face your first Great Spider?"
Laerion considered the question a moment. "I have not yet faced a spider, although I have seen diagrams and I am ready for whatever may come. Had I been set loose during the assault this past month, my blade would have broken many a carapace. Now that I have my gilded leaf, they will fear Laerion," said he with a boastful air, and a low chuckle rose up amongst the camp. Though not for the reasons assumed by the youth.
Then Duatheryn gave an exasperated sigh, and looked up at Laerion with the campfire reflected in his eyes. "Leave me to my peace, young warden, or I shall bring you on a run through the web-laden reaches of Gorogrod, in the depths of the Scuttledells, where I shall cast you headlong into the nets of the spawn of Ungoliant, to teach you truly of such things."
Choked silence met Duatheryn's clipped words, and Laerion appeared ashen before him. The others watched on as the younger warden swallowed loudly. Duatheryn suddenly smiled and clapped Laerion's shoulder, unable to maintain his feigned belligerence any longer, and a restrained laughter amongst the camp followed. Duatheryn laughed also, and even the young Laerion slowly saw the jape and nervously joined the chorus.
"As it would happen, Warden, I only record the important trees," Duatheryn finally answered through the din which livened the camp. Now it was Laerion's move, and after a moment he looked up. "Then why have you filled three books this month?"
At this the laughter grew louder, and Duatheryn closed the journal with a wide grin. "In fact, you may find I have filled five."
That only made matters worse, and even Commander Narthiel, passing nearby, allowed herself the smallest hint of amusement. Laerion shook his head. "I do not understand it."
"One day you might."
"I hope not."
"Perhaps you will."
"No, I think not. I prefer blade over scrawl."
Duatheryn regarded him with mock solemnity.
"Then I shall remember the trees on your behalf, and have more to write about," he said, and more laughter followed.
"On the subject of spiders, before you take to your watch post this night..." Duatheryn held Laerion's eyes as he allowed the pause to hang between them, long enough to sober the moment. "Do not forget to look up," he said, and pointed upward into the high boughs and climbing trunks. "Return to me the day you first see a Great Spider webbing down from on high, for only then shall you understand what it is we face. And do not forget, it is I who drew those very diagrams, in a journal much like this one. Now go," he finished, clapping the newly nervous Laerion's shoulder again and returning his gaze to his journal.
The laughter died off as the exchange came to an end, yet despite the oppressive sense that the Wood was beset with dread, thereafter the mood had lightened and conversation drifted quietly amongst the camp. Rumours were exchanged. News from distant patrols was discussed. All the while, the missing company of Nimrion remained absent.
Duatheryn overheard a pair discussing a report from a hunter of the western eaves, that entire flocks of birds had altered their routes. Several dismissed the tale, though Duatheryn did not.
Eventually the fire burned lower and the camp settled into its nightly stillness, but a more comfortable one, considering where they were. One by one the wardens sought their rest. Only a few lights remained atop candles, and among those few lights sat Duatheryn Galadhir in his hammock, writing. As always.
The candles burned quietly on the rock beside him, and beyond their faint circle of light the forest receded into darkness. Above, through a narrow gap between the branches, a handful of stars shone faintly, which was precisely why Duatheryn chose this spot to hang his hammock. It was a clear night, and he could gaze up at the beauty of it before he slept. If he was not rostered for the watch, like tonight, then in the morning on a fair day, he may see the sunlight as he woke.
He dipped his pen and began another entry. A record not only of danger, but also of memory. His eyes lifted toward the stars, and something stirred in his mind of a place he had long known, far from Mirkwood. Of another forest, away to the west. Far away in distance, and further still in years. Indeed, a time seven centuries past, when he was only a little wiser than good Laerion. The woodland of Falathlorn.
He remembered long summer evenings among its pink and white lind-flower laden trees. The scent of cherry and blossom carried upon the winds, and the petals floating to rest and sail upon the silver waters of the Lhûn on their own journey southwest to Mithlond. The rush of distant waterfalls, as laughter sounded in the bright halls of Tham Gelair beneath clear skies. The peace of Nen Hilith.
And then his memory ventured further northwest to Edhelion, in the Vale of Thrain, as it had once been. As he chose to remember it. Its terraces bright beneath the sun, and its gardens filled with song. Its libraries quiet and welcoming. He had not yet been a warden then, but merely a curious young Elf, forever asking questions.
There he had studied beneath the great scholar, Talagan Silvertongue. Patient old Talagan, who seemed to know every tale worth knowing and twice as many that were not. Many afternoons had vanished beneath those roofs of his master while Duatheryn listened to histories of forgotten kingdoms, old roads, and vanished peoples. He smiled faintly at the memory.
How certain he had been then that there would always be time for such things. Even when Duatheryn became a march-warden, and was posted on occasion to Edhelion on attachments to the company of Elladan and Elrohir, he would often take to study under Talagan on rest days.
The stars shimmered through moving leaves, and slowly his smile faded.
Six centuries had passed since the last of those days, yet in memory they remained strangely near, as though only yesterday he had walked the paths of Falathlorn. It felt as though only yesterday he had stood among the halls of Edhelion and wondered what lay beyond the next horizon. It was on such a rest day, six hundred years ago, that he last saw Edhelion...
For a long moment he stared northwestward through the dark-mantled trees. Then he lowered his eyes and returned to the page. Edhelion was long ago... Though not at all long enough.
He closed the journal, the candle flames flickering gently beside him. Beyond the camp the great trees stood silent, watching and listening the life of the dark. And Duatheryn lay back in his hammock, a short blade in hand as was habit and recommendation, and his bow and sword nearby. Staring up at the stars through his gap in the canopy, he allowed the dark to take him.
Mist drifted among the trunks, paling the deeper shadows into a grey haze, and droplets of dew glistened upon fern and bark. One by one the wardens emerged from their shelters and tents, and the hidden camp stirred once more to life.
Duatheryn, as ever, had risen before most. Indeed and as hoped for, the morning light graced him as his eyes had opened, a rare prize, and he got to see the blazing gold that dared not breach the canopy. Though it was dark on the woodland floor, it warmed his heart to know that if he were to but climb a tree, he would see the sun. Though he grinned at the irony that it would burn his eyes, now accustomed to the dark.
He was seated upon a fallen log, quietly oiling the wood of his bow, when a young scout approached. "Senior Warden Galadhir, Commander Narthiel wishes to speak with you."
Duatheryn glanced up. "Now?"
The scout nodded, and without another word she departed.
The summons was worrisome, for Narthiel was not a commander given to needless interruptions. When she wished to speak with a warden privately, there was usually a reason.
Duatheryn rose and crossed the camp, and Feonir joined him in stride, a friendly nod passing between them.
"It would seem we two are wanted," said Duatheryn. "What did you do this time?" He grinned at Feonir's scowl, and even more when Feonir could hold back his own grin no longer.
They found Commander Narthiel standing alone at the edge of a southward facing rise, looking out beyond the trees toward where she knew sat the Lieutenant of Dol Guldur, holding several folded reports in her hand.
For a time she did not speak, and nor did Duatheryn, or indeed, Feonir. The forest seemed unusually still, a fact which only bolstered Duatheryn's concern. It seemed even the midge flies had fled, where usually they were ravenous at this hour.
At last Commander Narthiel broke the silence.
"How long have you watched these marches?"
Duatheryn considered. "Six centuries, perhaps somewhat more."
"And I for five," added Feonir.
"Long enough to know their habits. When something is wrong."
"I would hope so," said Duatheryn.
Narthiel nodded. "I believe you do," she said without turning. "Tell me again. What did you notice yesterday?"
Duatheryn frowned slightly at the question. "The silence. The ever mounting truth that we are about to face something fearsome." Now she looked up at him, and to Feonir, who at length simply inclined his head, his brow furrowed. Indeed, it was not easy for Feonir to admit his concern, nor his growing sense that he was mistaken to doubt his companion. Narthiel handed Duatheryn the parchments. "You are right, there is a pattern here."
Duatheryn read the reports, come from different patrols and various regions of Mirkwood, and as he finished with each he passed them to Feonir in turn. At first they seemed unrelated, yet as he examined them, familiar details emerged.
A hunter reporting abandoned nesting grounds. Patrols describing unusual spider movements. Woodmen speaking of deer herds travelling north earlier than expected. Another report noting goblins upon paths they seldom used.
Rumours from travellers telling of an acute dread upon passing into the Wood.
No one report warned of anything urgent, and yet...
"Something is driving this," he said quietly, knowing that he could confirm each of these reports. Feonir read the final one and looked up.
"I must agree. I cannot deny something is afoot."
Narthiel folded her arms. "After our conversation last evening, that is my concern." She drew another report from her belt. "Last night a patrol sighted spiders in the northern border of the Narrows, close to the Mountains."
Duatheryn looked up. "What?"
"Yes. They have gotten around us. It is believed they used caves between us and the eastern camp."
That was cause for action in and of itself. Feonir gripped the engraved handle of his short sword tightly enough to make his knuckles turn white. The Great Spiders of Mirkwood did not abandon territory without reason. They had been taking more territory in the Narrows, true enough, but they were now a large jump from where they were last reported, and if they breached the Mountains which cut the southern most border of Northern Mirkwood, Emyn-nu-Fuin, there would be no stopping them.
"And with them, Orcs, no doubt," Duatheryn voiced his thoughts. Narthiel's gaze drifted once again toward the unseen south, where stood Dol Guldur, and its hoard. The commander said nothing for a moment.
Then she nodded.
"The north Narrows camps and Border Battalion are facing the Great Spiders as we speak, and I will rally the center camps to hold fast and meet any subsequent waves, in the hopes that we might cut the spiders off before they breach Emyn-nu-Fuin." She looked to both wardens in turn. "I bid you southward. Scout the border between the Ashenglades and Dol Guldur proper. Confirm whether or not fell forces are indeed mustering, but Duatheryn," she held his eyes fast. "Do not approach Barad Guldur, do you understand?"
"I do, Commander," replied Duatheryn, nodding once, and when Narthiel looked to Feonir, he too nodded in kind.
"Perhaps it is best to avoid the Malledhrim," she added. "Though they are our allies, it is their territory and we have heard no report from them as yet, and it was the same just before the assault on Felegoth. They may see your presence as a breach of jurisdiction."
"Indeed," agreed Duatheryn. "Then, to get to the Ashenglades we shall go southwestward from here and emerge along the western foothills, and turn southeast to cut into Southern Mirkwood between the Dourstocks and the Scuttledells," said he as he pointed and gestured to illustrate the rough route intended to go by. "Then descend into Emyn Lûm by way of Hrigg Vidukuni, yes?" He turned to Feonir for confirmation.
"Then we skirt Taur Morvith and hope to avoid discovery in Malledhrim territory, and infiltrate the Ashenglades through Garmadh-Maudhûl. Or shall we go further southward and come around the lower Ashenglades?"
"That would depend upon any defences posted around Garmadh-Maudhûl," said Duatheryn. "In any case, if we can make the northern ridges of the Ashenglades, we should have vantage from there, if we manage to evade the Malledhrim."
"It poses great risk," said Feonir. "And it is neither the fastest nor the most direct way. But better to avoid the bulk of the hoards, than walking straight through Lugdúmp."
Commander Narthiel planted her heavy hand on Duatheryn's shoulder. "Return by the same path as soon as haste will allow you, Duatheryn. Go."
Southward
By early morning astride mounts the pair were on the road once more - or rather, upon those paths known only to the wardens of the Woodland Realm. The camp lay behind them roughly to the northeast, and ahead stretched the western skirts of the Vale of Anduin. Soon enough they would emerge from the Narrows and follow as closely to the border of Southern Mirkwood as was reasonably safe. Though they would be exposed, passing between the Scuttledells and the Dourstocks should be relatively simple. The true sport would come when they had to enter into Malledhrim territory, for the Elves of Lothlórien are not simple goblins, but a clear match to the hunters of Eryn Lasgalen.
Feonir rode beside Duatheryn, watchful of his flank, and listening beyond the loud tramp of hoof. "Narthiel truly believes Dol Guldur will strike Felegoth again?"
"She does. You do not?"
"I believe that trouble will come from any given direction when one finds themselves in Mirkwood. What truly troubles me is that it is merely the two of us sauntering well beyond enemy lines while the majority of the center camps go north. We are alone, we will be exposed, with no force behind us."
"We will not be alone, good Feonir," said Duatheryn with a grin. "We have each other." At this Feonir cast Duatheryn his usual look.
"That does not comfort me, for it is my point exactly. We cannot rely upon the Malledhrim."
"With luck we will not encounter them, but I fear that if we can see them, they would surely see us. Indeed, no reports have come to us from the Golden Host. Thus, we may draw one of two conclusions; that they have not seen what we now see, or the more likely - that their messengers have fallen on their way to us."
"In any case, we should aim not to fall into their custody," replied Feonir.
"Of course," said Duatheryn, watching the shaded reaches ahead. "For there has been no time to declare ourselves, and to be detained would cause too much delay."
"So, we find ourselves venturing beyond enemy lines," said Feonir. "With no hope of support, and evading not one, but two factions - one of which could dispatch us on sight and likely eat us, knowing Orcs, and the other could help but instead will throw their policies at us."
"An eloquent summary, indeed," said Duatheyrn with dry sarcasm. "And we can afford neither of those outcomes. Though, I would be partial to the Orcs, rather than having to explain myself to the Elves of Lórien."
At length they finally came to the final tree on their leg southwest, and the stunning daylight assailed their eyes. Standing upon the western edge of the Narrows, they took in the awesome sight of the Vale of Anduin stretching forth to what seemed like no end. It's verdant reaches bending to the gentle breeze that promised fresh air in the welcoming summer daylight. There in the light blue distance, they could just about see the Misty Mountains breaking the hazy horizon.
Duatheryn dismounted and a march-warden appeared as though previously invisible, emerging from the shadows to take the rein of his mare. Duatheryn nodded to his masked and cowled fellow as another materialised, to take the rein of Feonir's steed.
Feonir dropped from his horse, and shouldered his pack as the two sentries bade he and Duatheryn a fair journey before disappearing, part of the Wood once again. Feonir then joined his companion, who had taken to quickly sketching the final tree before the Vale. But it was not for them to go west.
"Must the journal follow you everywhere?" he asked, regretting the question instantly, for he knew he was walking into another of Duatheryn's classic moments.
"You are mistaken, Feonir. I follow the journal," said Duatheryn, smiling again at the ease at which he could get a rise out of his fellow.
They stood there for a moment longer, almost unwilling to step further southward. Indeed, they nearly preferred to step from the cover of the endless dark canopies out to the open sky. At length, Feonir spoke. "I fear what we may find."
Duatheryn looked at his companion with the smile returning, but when he saw the other was serious, his brow furrowed.
"Good Feonir... do you so readily admit defeat simply because we must walk beyond our bounds?"
"It is not that," grumbled the other Elf. "Though I wish not for that all the same. No. This growing mystery is troubling, and I would sooner march toward the Mountains to face the Great Spiders, than approach Dol Guldur."
"Have heart, for this our charge, and the safety of our kin may depend upon our deeds here. I too wish not to go south," said Duatheyrn. "Alas! For fearless Feonir, we must face this mystery."
"I know."
"Someone must, and who better than we? For we have seen into the veil behind which lies fell tidings, and indeed answers rarely arrive looking like answers. It is for us to uncover the truth of what goes on in this Wood."
Feonir sighed heavily, for Duatheryn was in one of his moods. "I should have left you with the spiders."
"And who, then, shall grace you with tirade, Feonir? Let us dander forth, my friend!" And Duatheryn laughed as he set foot southward, turning aside of the Vale, and leaving Feonir to muster himself.
As the day lengthened, they travelled steadily south, keeping a goodly distance between them and the web-thronged ridges of the Scuttledells to their left, wherein the shadows they could see the slow movement of trunk-like limbs and great silhouettes crawling through the trees. Absolutely not. Between the Scuttledells and the Dourstocks they passed, moving swiftly and unseen. There signs of turmoil were not hard to find. Spider-webs hung abandoned among the trees, thick as tattered banners, and foul tracks marked the earth where deserter Orcs had wandered of late.
The howl of ghoul and ghost called from the Dourstocks, and upon bending aside to the left, Duatheryn halted in his tracks. There before him stood a group of web-laden trees, and upon one such hung a large sack; a tangle of spider thread and bramble, pinning an unmistakable form to the tree. Duatheryn grimaced, for beneath the thick ropes gawked the masked and rotting face of a Malledhrim Elf, and in their hand was an ornate scroll case. He wrested the case from the sticky and petrified hand, and broke it open.
"And here is our messenger," he said, reading the scroll and then passing it to Feonir. "Warning us of Dol Guldur's assault on Felegoth, last month."
Feonir stared at the ground, for the sight was grim, and far too familiar. It took him a moment to remember to scan the immediate environment for threats. He turned his face away to focus on that as Duatheryn cut into the thick wrapping of silk with a boot knife. Duatheryn's grimace remained as he reached in to the filth covering the Malledhrim messenger's raiment, and pulled from the cloak the broach of Lothlórien, a silver and green ivy leaf. He also cut from the neck the leather tong which bore the messenger's name tags.
"And thus, so rests brave Gilrion," said Duatheryn, reading the name. "Scout of the Golden Host. Venturer of the Scuttledells. A song from Feonir, but alas we face the same fate should song be heard in these dark places." He wrapped the broach with the tong; if they didn't encounter the Malledhrim, then on return to camp he would send the tags and broach back to Lothlórien, as was custom.
For two days they journeyed further into the mounting black, where neither of them found the mood for banter. The Narrows well and truly lay grey and silent behind them, and further northeast there likely raged skirmish between Elf and Spider. Beneath the eaves of the dark forest, they kept to forgotten paths and abandoned deer-tracks known only to the hunters and wardens of the Woodland Realm. Indeed, the summer was far spent, yet little of its warmth remained beneath such boughs. As they went the air grew still and heavy, and the green life of the woods seemed diminished. Scorched of soul by fell magics. Many places that Duatheryn had seen once fair now stood under a shadow of unease. Birds seldom sang in those lands, and what beasts of the forest they did happen upon fled from their approach as they came within sight of them.
Beyond the rough heights of Hrigg Vidukuni the black deepened further. Before good Duatheryn and Feonir spread the southern reaches of Mirkwood like a great sea of black timber inside the deepest, darkest cave. Far away, though hidden from sight, the power of Dol Guldur could be felt, and more than once an unbidden chill caressed their heart, as though unseen eyes searched among the trees. And indeed, eyes saw them, often unbeknownst to the hanging wanderers.
By day, if day it was, the two rested in hidden places and watched. By night they travelled, at times glimpsing distant fires among the hills, or hearing the harsh cries of creatures that should not have walked abroad beneath the stars. It seemed the further he went, the less he wanted to continue. The more he wished to flee, the deeper the Wood pulled him in. He'd forgotten with whom he trekked, if he had ventured out with someone at all.
Now Duatheryn heard footfall beside him, and turned upon the threat with blade shrieking and teeth bared. And there he saw his blade against the neck of Feonir, in whose eyes there flashed fear. He lowered his blade and Feonir clapped his shoulder with a bolstering glare, and Duatheryn pressed onward.
At what was surely day break on the fourth morning, Feonir sat heavily on a fallen trunk, the humidity falling as acrid rain from the skyless canopy. "Let us rest a while, Duatheryn," said he breathlessly, the first words spoken since finding the fallen messenger. "This ever-dark wears upon me."
Duatheryn resisted in his mind, but he too had long since felt the energy drain from him, and so he allowed himself to fall onto a boulder that would just about suffice as a seat.
"Does this wood ever end?" he asked as he dug in his pack for provisions. Feonir only grunted in response.
From the stores of the king's household, they each carried a small wallet of travel-cakes akin to true waybread, wrapped in leaves and sealed with green twine. Dense were they, and sweet with honey and hazelmeal. That and dried fruits and honeyed herb tea, and they had a meal which warmed them. They ate little, yet ate as though they were starved, and drank only sparingly. The cakes sustained them for long patrols beneath the trees, and they would hopefully do them until they returned to camp, though their supplies were diminishing.
They had halted upon a ridge overlooking the dark sea of treetops. The forest stretched southward until distance swallowed it, and therein lay Dol Guldur. Between them and their destination, they could see the red of Orc camp fires scattered throughout the burned and ruined Wood. Feonir removed his gloves and rubbed tired eyes.
"To think that once this place was as fair as Felegoth," he grimaced. "Seeing this waste, I now believe there is an explanation for the changes in the Wood of late." He glanced sideways at Duatheryn, who nodded. "Though that is not reassuring, for if there is an explanation, something fell stands behind it."
"Indeed," agreed Duatheryn gruffly, with little mood for Feonir's complaining.
"What do you believe?" asked Feonir, and Duatheryn sighed and looked southward. The wind shifted, and for a moment the dread came upon him, powerful as the fell magics which lay upon the land, and he wished once again to flee. At length he answered. "I believe we are too deep now to turn back."
Feonir frowned. "Yes."
For a long moment Duatheryn stayed silent, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "I fear we may not make it back." At this, Feonir stopped chewing.
"And yet, we must," said he, inclining his head to Duatheryn. Together they watched the gathering shadows, despite the mounting sunshine to the northeast.
On the fifth day they came to a hill overlooking the next leg of their journey, and in the far southeast they could see the heavy clouds that mantled the climbing towers of Barad Guldur. Thus, without word, the crestfallen two came at length near the borders of Taur Morvith. Their next challenge lay upon them, for now they had to evade the Malledhrim, the Golden Host of Lothlórien.
There they left the more travelled ways and went cautiously beneath ancient trees whose roots drank from dark and poisoned waters, keeping Iavassúl's Watch to their left as they skirted the area's bounds. They had no desire to draw attention from the watch towers, yet fact remained that the scouts of Lórien were vigilant.
For most of the day, the two moved south eastward, unseen beneath the stricken forest. At length, with the stronghold to the north of them, Feonir and Duatheryn stopped behind cover of boulders, and watched a Malledhrim guard patrolling on the far-off rise of Iavassúl's Watch - the Malledhrim's forward position in Taur Morvith. Duatheryn was just beginning to move off again when he felt a sharp point at the nape of his neck. It was thus, on the fifth evening, as the last light faded among the black trunks and a pale mist rose from the earth, that shadowy figures stepped silently from the trees around he and Feonir.
Before Duatheryn could reach for bow or blade, he found himself enclosed by watchers whose arrows and knives were already drawn, and trained upon the two interlopers. A blade found mark in front Feonir's heart, and so he laid down his bow and stepped back from the calmly advancing Malledhrim scout.
When he saw the moon glint off the ornate raiment of the masked Golden Host, Duatheryn knew that his road would not lead to Dol Guldur quite as swiftly as he had hoped.
The Golden Host
The hood was removed, and Duatheryn blinked against the lantern-light. After being bound and blinded, and a stiff forced march roughly southwest for a time, he found himself standing within a wooden pavilion raised among the trees. No walls enclosed it, save hanging screens of woven branches and green cloth. Beyond them he could glimpse dark trunks swaying in the night wind. Beside him stood an equally dazzled Feonir, who glared around at the surrounding Malledhrim. Their bows and knives had been taken, though their hands were merely bound before them with a leather thong.
Across a narrow table before them sat an Elf clad in the green and silver of the Malledhrim of Lórien, and this was Captain Galuil. His face was grave and watchful, and there was little in his bearing that encouraged idle speech. For a time neither he nor the two detainees spoke. The captain regarded Duatheryn with his hands folded before him. The lantern upon the table cast long shadows beneath the pavilion roof, and beyond the green screens the darkness of the forest stood watchful and silent.
At length Galuil inclined his head. "Senior Warden Duatheryn of the Woodland Realm, and of course, March-warden Feonir."
Duatheryn met his gaze. "The same," said he. "It is good to lay eyes upon Captain Galuil, considering."
"I am certain," Galuil's voice was calm. He stood and walked around the table toward the two. "You have hunted Orcs beside our folk before. You have crossed the Anduin more than once in years past, and walked beneath our golden eaves. Some among my number have shared fire and bread with you. The Malledhrim and the Woodland Wardens have shared a long and bountiful alliance. Need I say that you are welcome among us?"
Duatheryn deliberately looked down at the thong around his wrists, and Galuil leaned forward slightly.
"Which only deepens the mystery. For near to six days, you have travelled from the border of the Narrows. You have avoided any manner of danger, as is expected of you. You have avoided our roads, and even unwittingly located one of our fallen scouts." Galuil held up the very broach that Duatheryn had wrapped in the messenger Gilrion's name tags, evidently looted from him upon such gracious welcome. "We have followed you since you passed beyond the Dourstocks, and you have passed through lands under our protection without declaring your purpose. In fact, you crossed three patrol lines and never once sought welcome among us."
A faint smile touched his lips. "Though I will grant that you discovered only two of those patrols."
The remark, and the knowledge that he and Feonir had been tailed for near to the entirety of their journey, stung more than Duatheryn cared to admit.
"Now we find you sneaking through one of our most contested lines. What is your purpose in the south?" Galuil stared at Duatheryn in anticipation of a response, and yet, Duatheryn hesitated.
"If I answer, will you release us?"
"No." The answer came at once.
"Then why should we answer?" snapped Feonir, far too tired and set upon their goal to consider civility.
Galuil's expression did not change. "Because if you do not, March-warden, then I shall assume you are either fools or spies. I will not ask again."
A long silence followed, until at last Duatheryn sighed. "We go to observe Dol Guldur." Several of the surrounding scouts and guards shifted where they stood, yet Galuil merely raised an eyebrow.
"A remarkable revelation."
"I speak plainly."
"As do I," said the captain, and he spread his hands. "It may have escaped you, but we happen to observe Dol Guldur every day."
Duatheryn shook his head. "Not as Feonir and I must. We did not declare ourselves because we have no time for conversation and deliberation. Our charge is urgent, and it is critical to the Elves of the Woodland Realm that we fulfill our purpose. Perhaps even to the reaches of the world."
"And what is it you expect to see?"
For the first time frustration flashed across Duatheryn's eyes. How could he explain it? The strange unease that had settled upon the Wood. The unnatural movements of beasts. The growing conviction that something waited beyond sight. That something was rising. Even to his own ears it sounded little more than a hunter's instinct, or the ravings of one who'd spent too long in Mirkwood's shadow. Yet still he answered.
"I believe that the servants of the Enemy are mustering. I am here to verify if this is true."
Galuil stared at him, then the captain gave a short laugh. "You believe? Then you describe all of Dol Guldur."
"I can vouch for Duatheryn," said Feonir. "We do not mean simply Orcs on parade."
"Of course you do. What then, if not Orcs on parade?"
Duatheryn lowered his voice, schooling his resentment of Galuil's tone, of the laughter rising about the pavilion. "I know not for certain, but it seems as though very Wood wishes to run from what could be coming."
The laughter vanished, and for several moments no one spoke, yet all could identify with Duatheryn's words. They could feel it. Beyond the pavilion the branches creaked softly in the wind. Then Galuil circled the table again and leaned back in his chair.
"You are predicting war, Duatheryn."
"I fear calamity, Galuil, and I am trying to prevent it."
"And upon what evidence do you base this conclusion?"
Duatheryn saw then that he could offer no answer that would satisfy a soldier. "I know only that it is true. We must get to where we can look upon Barad Guldur."
Galuil regarded him for a long while. Then he rose. "The Enemy stirs daily, as does the Shadow." He moved toward the screens and looked out upon the dark-laden forest. Even now he could be struck down by goblin barb. "And every season brings some rumour of darker things to come. Yet we persist, and we hold."
"I am not mistaken, Galuil," pressed Duatheryn.
"No," said Galuil. "You are merely unconvincing," and with that the captain departed, leaving Duatheryn and Feonir to stare after him with flapping jaws, surrounded by guards.
For two days the march-wardens remained held in the hidden camp, without permission to leave the pavilion. Though watched constantly, they were treated neither cruelly nor with contempt. Their bonds were removed, yet their weapons were not returned to them. With growing frustration and worry, they ate with the Malledhrim and slept beneath their roof, yet they could not pass into the forest over threshold, for a tight circle of silent shadows ringed the pavilion, shoulder to shoulder, and blocked every means of escape, only shifting to allow one of their own entry or egress. Feonir sat with a deepening glare, even as they heard distant trumpets and far-off skirmishes.
In the late afternoon of the second day, Galuil summoned them. Led by guard, they found the captain perched upon a flet high among the trees, gazing southeast. Far away, beyond the dark forest, an unhealthy glow stained the horizon. Dol Guldur.
"You still believe it?" Galuil asked Duatheryn when the two Woodland wardens ascended the tree.
"I do."
"You have not changed your tale."
"I have not."
Galuil was silent, and at length he turned to the two glaring march-wardens. "I have watched and fought for these lines for centuries. I do not believe there is cause for concern." Duatheryn's shoulders sagged.
"But," the captain continued. "You do. I have seen enough stubborn men ride to foolish deaths to know when one cannot be turned from his road." A faint smile touched his face. From the shadows nearby several Malledhrim scouts emerged. Experienced scouts. Observers. Hunters. Feonir braced himself for a fight.
"You are fools both. Without further delay," said Galuil. "You are to leave and return home under escort." He then had to talk over Duatheryn's rise to argue. "After! After you find what you seek. We will guide you to one of our hidden watch-posts in the Ashenglades."
Duatheryn looked up sharply. "You will help us?"
"I would rather know where fools such as you are going, than allow them to vanish under my watch into the Ashenglades alone. My scouts will watch you watch, and they will verify or refute any report you return with. You will abandon your charge on their command."
Galuil's gaze returned to the distant darkness.
"As for what you expect to see..." For the first time uncertainty entered Galuil's voice. "...that remains to be proven."
Thus, Duatheryn and Feonir were reunited with their weapons and their packs, newly stocked with provisions from the Golden Host's stores. Within they found a small packet wrapped in leaves. Waybread of the Lady, which would sustain them on their journey homeward once done was done. They set out from Iavassúl's Watch with haste, forcing the scouts of Galuil to work in order to form escort around them. Led onward by two scouts, and tailed by two, Duatheryn and Feonir turned south eastward on their original course toward Garmadh-Maudhûl. The woods now were sparse and stricken, for the hordes of Dol Guldur had felled most trees and left the hammered earth trod and bare. Then the scouts cut southward as they came within sight of the crossroads, avoiding an Orc patrol.
Fell Forces
Ravaged and grey rose the Ashenglades, and no trees crowned the shocked height. Where once a forest had stood, only blackened stumps remained, twisted by fire and fell sorcery. The earth itself seemed wounded, wherein long scars ran down the hillside. Pale wisps of ash drifted upon the wind, and flaming torches cast red light upon the southward facing rise. Duatheryn and Feonir paused amongst the shadows at the foot of the slope and gazed upward.
Far beyond the crest to the northeast, hidden still from sight, Dol Guldur festered, and though they could not see the fortress, they felt its presence. As a traveller senses the sea before coming upon its shores, so too did Duatheryn sense the darkness of the Necromancer's hold, lingering still upon that gashed land though Sauron himself had long since departed. The very air seemed burdened by both memory and the influence of the keep's presiding Lieutenant. Indeed, a subtle but living horror rested upon the hearts of the six Elves, now so close to their destination.
The leading scouts exchanged brief words in low voices, plotting their upward course, and then nodded to Duatheryn and Feonir, who nodded back. Then though they used not the main pathways, they began their ascent, banking eastward along the rise to come about hopefully unseen. The leading Malledhrim moved like shadows through the broken ground, choosing gullies, hollows, and folds in the earth invisible from below. March-wardens stayed low and followed closely while the two rearward scouts watched both their trail and the lands behind which slowly fell away. Several times they halted and disappeared into the hillside, concealing their presence, and now roughly halfway up, did so again.
They watched as an Orc scavenging troup passed scarcely fifty paces ahead to the east, stumbling through the ashes with spears and torches. Their guttural voices echoed strangely upon the hillside as they shoved and scrapped in the usual manner of their race. Only when the last of the Orcs had vanished amongst the ruins below did the company continue.
The higher they climbed, the heavier grew the oppression upon Duatheryn's spirit. Many foul places had he trodden in his years beneath the eaves of Mirkwood. He had hunted spiders in dark caverns and tracked Orcs through valleys strewn with bones. He had harried wolves and spoken with shadows, and he had longed for his bed. Yet this place was different, for it felt watched. Neither by eyes or by living things, but rather it seemed that the hand of evil itself bore witness to goings and the wanderers lost in so hopeless a place.
A hand which knew every stone. Every charred stump. Every drift of grey ash upon the rancid gusts which slunk along the hillside. All cowered in the glaring witness of this ancient malice. At times Duatheryn fancied he heard distant whispers carried upon this wind, yet when he turned his head to see the spectral speaker, there was nothing but the red flame light against the darkness. Once he glimpsed movement upon a distant ridge; a dark figure standing against the sky. He dropped to his stomach and bid his companions do the same, and when he looked again, pointing, he saw only a broken tree, hanging as though frozen mid fall in the face of evil's passing strike.
The captain's warning returned to him then; the very Shadows stir neath Dol Guldur's glare. For the first time since leaving Taur Morvith, doubt crept into his thoughts. What if Galuil had spoken truly? What if this unease was nothing more than the ordinary evil of Dol Guldur, playing upon his mind after many long centuries in the dark, finally having broken in? What if he had dragged Feonir half the length of Mirkwood in pursuit of a mere fancy? The thought brought little comfort. In fact, it gave life to his now mounting doubt.
At length the foremost scout raised a hand, and the company halted. Before them stood a cluster of dead trees upon the eastern shoulder of the hill, their trunks leaned together as though conspiring against the living. Duatheryn saw there nothing remarkable, and then one of the scouts stepped between the roots and vanished. He pressed forward and a narrow passage revealed itself, gouged through the rock which threatened to tumble away in defeat.
Duatheryn tailed the vanished scout, and the others followed close behind. He came out beyond the trees, where lay a concealed platform raised amongst the rocky heights and screened on every side by cunning craft. Nets woven with grey cloth and dead branches broke its outline against the hillside. Even from a few paces away the structure was almost impossible to discern. And there upon the platform sat what at first looked like a shrub, but as the form turned Duatheryn saw kneeling another Malledhrim scout, shrouded in similar leaf-netting.
Only when he stood upon the platform did Duatheryn understand why Galuil had agreed to aid him, for from that place the whole of Dol Guldur proper was laid bare. His breath caught in his throat, for across the dark lands rose Barad Guldur, the rumbling fortress of the Enemy. Towering above the pits and courtyards below it like a mountain carved from night, the ramparts cast shadows that reached across the land like covetous fingers, seeking to grip the beating hearts of all that was good. Black walls climbed one upon another toward the crown of the hill upon which it stood, and the highest peaks boasted the battered flags of Sauron. Fires glimmered from narrow windows and watch-towers, and raged in trenches all about the lower camps. Great bats wheeled through the gathering dusk, shrieking on the wind over the howling and squabbling Orc masses.
Frozen in his heart, the sight filled Duatheryn with dread. How a scout could stand watch for extended periods here was beyond him, for his foremost wish was for naught else but to leave this terrible place and never return. Yet there could be no mistake; from this hidden eyrie every road that entered or left the fortress could be watched.
He exchanged more than a worried glance with Feonir, who had gone pale, and was visibly shaken. The nearest scout who had led them pointed toward a covered basket at the rear of the platform.
"Food. Water. Blankets. Leaf-net." His voice was little more than a whisper. "We must away by nightfall. If nothing transpires by then, then I fear you may not see it when it does. If it does."
Duatheryn nodded ruefully. He had barely time to settle the mind, let alone focus well enough to catch anything beyond the usual. The scout studied him for a moment. "Do you still expect something to happen, now that you are here?"
With reluctance, Duatheryn turned his gaze once more toward the dark fortress. Far below, tiny figures moved through the camps, and also through the courtyards at the tower's foot. It all appeared within reason, in such a mad place as this. And yet something stirred within the shadow... something bade the dark to crawl, as though the very absence of light was alight with cruel purpose. Something directed all of this. Duatheryn answered at length.
"I do," he said quietly. "Where you may have watched long here and seen naught but squabble, I believe fell happenings will where fell forces wait."
The Elf regarded him for a moment longer before departing, and Feonir gave the Elf a tired shrug of his shoulders. Duatheryn clapped Feonir's back, as much to bolster himself as to bolster his friend. Soon most of the Malledhrim scouts had vanished back down the hidden path, including the one who had already been there, leaving only the two march-wardens with two scouts. Duatheryn regarded the far western sky, and saw there the sun moving downward at an unwanted rate. While he wished not to be there, he wished less to depart ere seeing some sign that would validate his fears. The evening already darkened, and before him stood Dol Guldur.
And though reason offered him no proof, his heart whispered the same warning it had whispered since first he rode south from the Woodland Realm.
So, it seemed to the leaf-shrouded Duatheryn that hours had passed far too quickly. The hidden watch-post stood upon its stony height overlooking northwards across the southern reaches of the forest. From his narrow perch he could glimpse the black mass of Dol Guldur rising beyond the trees directly to the east, dark against the gathering dusk, yet nothing stirred. No signal came, nor did host march forth from its gates. The waiting gnawed at him.
Twice the scouts of Lórien exchanged words in hushed voices that neither he nor Feonir could hear. Once a raven passed overhead, wheeling westward before vanishing into the deepening shadows. The bared valley below lay silent beneath a pall of mist, broken only by the red fires of Orc camps scattered as far as the eye could see, on into Gathbúrz in the northeast.
At last one of the Malledhrim touched Duatheryn's shoulder. "It is time," the scout said softly. Duatheryn blinked and tore his gaze from the looming fortress.
"Time?"
"The light is failing," said the scout, pointing southwestward. "We leave before darkness closes the roads."
"No, I stay," protested Duatheryn, and there beside him came the sigh of Feonir. The scout stiffened.
"We go."
"You shall have to drag me," snapped Duatheryn. He had come too far. Feonir, who shifted his weight and turned to the Malledhrim scout, sighed again, impatiently this time.
"I wish to leave," said he, ignoring Duatheryn's immediate glare. "Or, to have left already. But I stay with Duatheryn, adn walk where he does."
"You both come with us," pressed the other scout. "Lest we leave you to find your own path back to Iavassúl's Watch in the dark, where you will be detained again for contempt." This scout had flanked Feonir, and Duatheryn growled, staring at the black bulk of Dol Guldur. Then, reluctantly he nodded.
Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps Galuil had spoken truly. Perhaps all that had driven him south had been breaking madness after all. In dismay and defeat, he rose, and in that same instant a cry split the world. Not the cry of beast or bird, nor any voice born of flesh, for the cry silenced all such life.
No. It was a long shrieking wail that seemed to tear through the very air and assault the wind-battered perch, passing not only through Duatheryn's ears, but through his very mind.
Every memory of fear he had ever known awoke within him at once. The staggering scouts howled, one dropping to a knee, and the other pressing both hands against his temples. Feonir vomited, and yet Duatheryn could hear naught but the cry, ringing in his ears. Again came the cry, louder and nearer and all the more terrible. Then from below in the valley there rose the answering thunder of drums from the countless campfires.
Boom.
Boom.
Ba-boom.
The fury-drums of Barad Guldur joined the bands and hammered and rolled from Amon Lanc, a heavy rhythm like the beating of some monstrous heart freshly undead. The sound carried across the hills and through the trees, and each punishing beat felt to Duatheryn as though a battering ram broke through his gut.
Boom.
Ba-boom.
Ba-boom.
And after it came the braying of horns, cold and harsh upon the batter. Triumphant and rousing the roar of Orc far and wide. Thus, amid this clamour of evil did the vast gates of Barad Guldur shudder. For a keeling instant, all went abruply still, as though Duatheryn had turned deaf from the noise, and time halted.
Then the dread gates flew open, striking the stone walls with a crash that echoed across the forest and melded with the metal resurgence of Dol Guldur's orchestra.
In that moment a fell power surged through the gates, raging forth with a ferocity hitherto unknown to the writhing company. The concussive percussion crushed and pushed him back against the cleft, where at once a terror unlike any he had known descended upon the trembling Duatheryn. Though his eyes perceived nothing, he knew something had emerged, and suddenly the world around him blurred, and a dread vision flashed across the darkness behind his eyes. A towering silhouette clothed in raiment that streamed like smoke. An ancient lord, vengeful and spectral, beneath a darkened sky - and a companion of equal, terrible prowess.
Duatheryn's breath faltered, and his limbs shook and he buckled to his knees, and the strength fled from his body as water would escape broken earth. Around him the company had lost all poise. One covered his face, while the other whispered a prayer in Sindarin. And Feonir had curled into a weeping ball. The cry ripped the night again, long and shrieking, and the hordes of Dol Guldur answered with their sinister fanfare.
Boom.
Boom.
Ba-boom.
On continued the drums in the wake of this this madness, heralding an end nigh upon the world. Every thump seemed to strike directly against Duatheryn's heart, and he knew. With a certainty deeper than reason, he knew that something filled with wrath left the fortress. And in that instant every thread of courage within him snapped, and he heard another cry accompanying the searing pain in his throat. A distant cry, calling out to the shriek in answer, as though another suffered some unspeakable torment nearby. For a moment he understood not what he was hearing, but then it dawned on him. The scream was his own, endless and broken in response to the cry of Amon Lanc.
Below them the drums raged on, and still the scream poured from Duatheryn. In a fit of madness he ran, pounding his head with his fists, down the ragged slope toward the fortress.
"Fool! No!" called a familiar but muted voice. Yet on he stumbled and rolled, and clattered off rock and boulder, before finally landing with a splash in stagnant water at the base of the rise.
Boom.
Ba-boom.
Ba-boom.
The rolling beats called to their master, and Duatheryn writhed in the deeply trodden mud, a mad Elf blinded by terror, crawling with blade in hand toward the gaping gates of Barad Guldur. Toward the parade of roaring Orcs.
Indeed, the abominations saw him from a distance and a new sound layered upon the chorus; the blood thirsty howl of alarm. A rain of arrows and darts fell around the scrabbling, filth-drenched Duatheryn, and the thumping of feet rose as many Orcs approached. Rough hands hauled him up by the shoulders, and a sharp smack flashed across his face.
There was good Feonir, standing before him and shouting something inaudible at him. Feonir then dragged Duatheryn back with all his might, back toward the rise, from which the two scouts were hurling Lórien arrows into the oncoming crowd of Orcs. Black barb and dart buried into the earth and bounced off boulders all about them as Feonir wrestled Duatheryn up the slope. Up toward the heretofore hidden watch-post. Abruptly, his companion halted and buckled, and Duatheryn gawked dumbly as his gagging brother in arms turned toward him, for there in Feonir's neck was buried a Dol Guldur barb.
"No! Brother, no!" Duatheryn croaked as Feonir fell to his knees. "Feonir!"
"Go..." the pale Feonir wheezed, spilling dark red from his mouth as arrows whistled and burst against the rocks.
"No! You must stand!" Duatheryn cried, trying to pull Feonir's limp weight and fight against the slope.
"Duatheryn..." came the ragged whisper intermingled with sputtering chokes and snorts, and the crying Duatheryn stopped and fell forward, turning helplessly to hear the final words of his fading friend.
"Go... tell them..."
And with that the good Feonir passed from the world, in a rain of arrows and Orc roars, on a bed of sodden muck. In the arms of his chosen brother. And Duatheryn, trembling and numb, choked back the rising bile, for the world had rolled over and no longer made sense.
The Orcs, like screeching primates, brayed and growled, nigh upon him. With a roar, he scrabbled at his companion's name tags. Leaving Feonir behind, Duatheryn stumbled upward to the ringing crash of an Orc blade clashing against the rocks where he had just been, and he ran.
In a world of chaos and calamity, with murderous beasts on his tail, Duatheryn ran for all he was worth.
