Sauron book 1

THE RETURN OF SAURON

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One ring to rule them all and one ring to find them; Faraway in the west DWELLs that which will bind them, look to the fallen istari in the land of the grasses where the golden skull sings imbogtai’s cold song to the night and the way and the path that is long.

Poor Pallando is lost now and will be seen nevermore Within the others more terrible hungering to rule Lest those PROVING worthy seek out and find them: search for ring and skull in the land of the grasses: Ring and skull to rule them, ring and skull to bind them!

Michael Ashton:

BOOK 1

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SAMWISE GAMGEE

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Chapter

1

After The Rain

2

The Oracle (or The Prancing Pony Revisited)

3

Farewell To The Shire

4

The Leaping Porpoise

5

On The Great North Road

6

The Kinderlorn

7

Skaarlsdag

8

The Sighing Plains

9

The Thuraks

10

Calabr贸d

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Chapter 1

AFTER THE RAIN

Samwise Gamgee rose from the fire and tapped his pipe against the black soot crusted grate and slowly turned to face his son. He rubbed at his back and groaned as another spasm of rheumatic fever lanced across his spine. He had recently celebrated his one hundred and third birthday and even for a hobbit that was a good age, though not unusual. He sighed, but it was more than the pain in his bones that weighed heavy upon him. It was the prospect of the weary confrontation that he now faced which clouded his mood. It wasn’t as though he was going out of his way to interrupt his well earned retirement by seeking out some new adventure.

But nevertheless that was the reason his obstinate second son was standing before him on an afternoon when he should more properly have been out attending to his duties, or even, Sam reflected ruefully, getting up to mischief in the traditional way of young hobbit lads.

It was true enough to say that a hundred and three wasn’t particularly very old for a hobbit. Indeed the two masters that he had known in his life had both seen longer years than that; Frodo Baggins was twelve years his senior and his uncle Bilbo was one hundred and eleven when he threw his magnificent and still much talked about birthday party. That was nigh on eighty years ago, and although folk commented he didn’t really look too old the point was Sam Gamgee felt old and that was what mattered to him. Just as old Bilbo himself once put it, he felt ‘stretched’. And he was only too well aware his decision to go off to Bree and visit the Oracle was bound to cause upset within the family and particularly with his son Meriadoc, Merry, or Tickler as he had been known from childhood.

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Hobbits, you see, are by nature a rather staid group of people and, as is well known, not much given to having adventures. In fact they are apt to frown upon folk who do. Despite everything that old Bilbo Baggins had achieved, and then Frodo and Peregrin Took and Merry Brandybuck, and Sam himself of course, as time passed and dimmed the memory of the events of the Ring War and the subsequent invasion of the Shire, the suspicious nature of hobbit folk intervened again to demonise many events that were otherwise wholly commendable and noble.

Of late he had been what can only be described as suffering from dreams, old dreams and nightmares of things that were all too familiar but were also unwelcome. He was certian his decision to go off to Bree to visit the Oracle was as logical as a fellow with a bad cold going off to visit a doctor, and yet it was inevitable as the sun rising in the morning Tickler would do his level best to prevent it. Adventuring out in the wide world again was the last thing he wanted, but the dreams were so persistent and so real he felt an unease which would not leave him. They were also, which worried him most of all, very personal to him.

Tickler Gamgee was not particularly tall for a hobbit, and certainly not at that time when hobbits seemed to be growing taller with every passing generation. The most sensible description to be applied was probably that he was of usually average height. However, unlike most others of his kind he was exceptionally fair of face and had delicate features that were almost feminine, like Frodo Baggins’ folk would say. Well, those were old enough and still remembered the great Shire hero. Most hobbits were sturdy built with robust features and boys tended to be very boyish and girls tended to be very feminine. Tickler was the opposite, being quite delicate and something of a dandy. It amused Sam no end, for as he was the Captain of

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the Shire Watch, which was what the old ‘Bounders’* had become, he sported a bright yellow armband and a feather in his cap and he bore a small sword at his side.

It was the pommel of his little sword Tickler fingered as he as usual, gazed with great envy upon his father’s Elvish sword Sting, which hung on the wall over the fireplace. Now if he had Sting at his side folk would really sit up and take notice, and if he had the mail shirt made of shining Mithril and the grey elven cloak that his father kept in a chest beneath his bed besides, now that would guarantee him being regarded as a hobbit of substance, and perhaps folk would even take the Watch a little more seriously. As it was the Watch was an object of amusement for older hobbits and the younger generation regarded them with undisguised contempt, though Sam always said that was envy really. Sam also knew that keeping young minds and bides active was better than not, even if there had been nothing more than the odd wolf to trouble the borders of the Shire in fifty years.

‘So dad,’ Tickler said, stuffing his hands behind his back, at the same time striving to look stern, ‘you really intend on going through with this?’

‘I do,’ Sam replied defiantly, and stuffed his hands behind his back also; he sighed then searched for a moment for the right words. ‘What with one thing and another Tickler lad I feel that I am left with no choice but to visit the Oracle, for these dreams I am having are of two sorts. On the one hand I am afflicted with seeing terrible horrible things that seem to come from out of the past, where they should stay buried, and on the other hand I am seeing visions of dear old Gandalf, who tells me that I must go to him, wherever it is that he is, or rather I think that is what he is saying.’

‘But dad, you said they all went away to the Uttermost Lands. That’s what you told us in all them stories when we were kids. Ain’t it true then?’

*

Bounders were the old Shire police force: See: The Prologue

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‘Course it’s true,’ Sam replied. He pointed with his pipe at the round window through which shafts of sunlight came slanting in thick slabs, dust motes dancing and reflecting rainbow colours, and he said, in a far away voice, ‘It was in this here very room that Gandalf and Frodo decided that the Ring had to leave the Shire, for the safety of all.’

‘And you dad,’ Tickler said eagerly. ‘You were there too. That’s right, isn’t it?’

Sam coughed with a ‘hrumph’, remembering how it really was, that day long long ago when he had been caught out eavesdropping beneath that very window where Gandalf the Wizard hauled him into the room from the garden, dragging him by his shirt collar. And as Gandalf’s eyes flashed and his brows stuck out like bristles and he demanded to know what Sam had overheard he could hear his own voice echoing in his head from out of the dim mists of the past, quaking, ‘Mister Frodo, sir! Don’t let him hurt me, sir! Don’t let him turn me into anything unnatural! My old da would take on so.’

‘Yes, Tickler, I was there too,’ Sam agreed. He ambled slowly across to the window and gazed out at the garden and the hedge beyond and the lane and the hill opposite. It was August and a big yellow sun hung golden above the line of distant trees that he knew so well.

The raucous tumult of noisy young hobbits running and playing down at Bagshot Row came clearly to his ears and he remembered fondly when he and Frodo were like them, though Frodo’s nature was quieter and more given to introspection than folk thought was good for him. Then he ran his fingers across the top of the table that nestled snugly into the little recess beneath the window in what was its appointed place, where it had been for close to one hundred and sixty-four years. He felt the little rolling ridges and the hard knots and the little bubbled bits where it had been exposed to endless summer Suns. It was at that table that first Bilbo and then Frodo wrote parts of the diary that became eventually the Red Book of Westmarch, a copy of which took pride of place in the small study at Bag End. ‘I shan’t be going away on any adventures, Tickler my boy, not at my age, more’s the pity, but I will be going to Bree, for I

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shan’t be able to sleep a wink ever again unless I have these wretched dreams and visions explained to me.’

Tickler looked at him doubtfully for a moment, before saying, ‘I know that Agramor and his Ranger lads tolerate us and only train us because it is the King’s orders, but we aren’t fools for all that they think we are.’

‘I know that,’ Sam told him.

‘He and his boys have got lots of stories, and I have heard most of them, but that doesn’t make them true dad. The Oracle is a fraud. Old lady Bolger says the Oracle tells folk what they wan’t to hear and so it can’t be real, and there ain’t nobody older or wiser than Lady Bolger in all the Shire. Don’t go dad, you have done your bit. Don’t go.’

Sam sighed and took his son firmly by the elbow and led him to the door. ‘I remember my old gaffer used to say that there was no such things at Giants and Trolls and Orcs and Dragons or such like, but just because we never saw them round Hobbiton or Bywater didn’t mean that was right. An absence of proof isn’t proof of absence.’

‘But dad…’

‘No buts, Tickler lad,’ Sam said gently but firmly as he nudged his son through the now open door, ‘I ain’t going to be going no further than Bree. Lor! Mercy me! These old bones will scarce carry me that far.’ He laughed and kissed Tickler on the cheek and with a cheery, ‘now, I’m for my afternoon kip and I’m sure that you have lots to be getting on with. Goodbye,’ he slammed the door shut and slipped the bolt.

Taking an afternoon nap after a heavy meal had been Sam’s habit for nearly twenty years, since he had officially declared himself an old hobbit and retired from public service.

And this day, despite the decision he had already made, and the small confrontation with his second son, he was determined would be no exception. It was August the nineteenth and though he had a niggling feeling there was something special to that date and it should be

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marking some anniversary, he couldn’t think of anything of particular note that was attached to it. He dozed off in the chair by the fire still pondering it and when he woke, refreshed, he made himself a supper of soup and cheese and bread. He ate quickly for just a little way down the hall beyond the big round connecting door he could hear the rest of his great family bustling about.

At that time Sam occupied the original sitting room, the study, and the bedroom that had been Bilbo’s and then Frodo’s when they were the owners and occupiers of Bag End. The place was bigger than it had been under Bilbo’s and Frodo’s stewardship, and to the original kitchen and the library and three bedrooms had been added a further four bedrooms and a playroom for young hobbit children. Many of his neighbours had complained bitterly that such tunneling and extending under the hill would be sure to bring the whole place crashing down about their heads. Topper Whitfoot, the son of that very mayor that Sam and Frodo had rescued from imprisonment on their return from the War, and the very same who they made mayor again, went so far as going off to see the then Mayor to lodge a complaint. That didn’t do him any good of course, except to land him with the nickname of ‘tattle-top’. It was title which the Gamgee grand-hobbits took great delight in pursuing and tormenting him whenever they saw him out and about.

He could hear his second daughter Rose enquire loudly from up the hall, ‘is dad up an’ about?’ and quickly he donned his jacket and seized up his stick and slipped out of his front door and away down the lane he went, like a thief sneaking off after a successful raid, as dusk shadows vied with the last of the days sun thrown shades.

He whistled once clear of Bag End as he made his way to the Ivy Bush, or rather what had been the Ivy Bush. It had been renamed the Battle Standard Tavern, in memory of the Battle of Bywater, which was when Sam and Frodo and the other Ring companions had led a

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small army of sturdy hobbits in freeing and clearing the Shire of Saruman and his invaders at the close of the Ring War. It was a grander title and a grander sign swinging from its chains above the door where once the old ivy was, but the place looked just the same as ever it did.

Sam paused for a moment before going in to gaze up at the sign. The board was painted with garish depictions of fierce hobbit warriors putting Trolls to screaming flight, but all the same, impressive though it was, Sam preferred the Ivy Bush.

Barney Took, small, round bodied, whiskered in the outlandish style some Tooks favoured, jolly, and not at all like his famous cousin Peregrin, popped his head out of the door and chuckled. ‘Bring back memories, Sam lad?’

Sam chuckled back and waved his hand and called out. ‘Just you be getting a pint o’fourteen twenty in, Barney, and leave me to reminisce a moment or two longer.’

As he stood and savoured the smells redolent on the balmy evening air, the truth of it was that of late, not so much since he had started having the dreams, but more like after dear Rose passed on, which was nigh on a year to the day past, he had been feeling intolerably restless. Frodo was gone off into the West with the Elves and he had heard nothing at all from him or of him, and Merry and Pippin were twenty years living down in Gondor and Rohan.

Sometimes he got a letter from one or other of them but mostly he just heard bits and snatches of gossip, for they were great and honoured lords and friends to the King and Queen. Recently, what with his family mostly all grown up and with six of the thirteen married and with families of their own, it was true, Tickler’s suspicions were right on the mark, he was getting itchy feet.

He had to admit it, but only to himself, and only ever in quiet moments.

Twilight came down fast upon him and a west wind was sighing in the branches, leaves were whispering, and a star rose above the hill in the darkening east. Then into Sam’s head unbidden came the words of a tune that once he and the Ring Companions had sung when first

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their great quest was begun. The words were Bilbo Baggins but the tune was as old as time itself.

Upon the hearth the fire is red, Beneath the roof there is a bed; But not yet weary are our feet, Still round the corner we may meet A sudden tree or standing stone That none have seen but we alone.

Tree and flower and leaf and grass, Let them pass! Let them pass!

Hill and water under sky, Pass them by! Pass them by!

Still round the corner there may wait A new road or a secret gate, And though we may come this way And take the hidden paths that rung Towards the Moon or to the Sun. Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe, Let them go! Let them go!

Sand and stone and pool and dell, Fare you well! Fare you well!

Home is behind, the world ahead, And there are many paths to tread Through shadows to the edge of night,

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`

Until the stars are all alight.

Then world behind and home ahead, We’ll wander back to home and bed.

Mist and twilight, cloud and shade, Away shall fade! Away shall fade!

Fire and lamp, and meat and bread, And then to bed! And then to bed!

And then Sam shook himself from out of his reverie and imagined, or fancied that he did, the wind a gentle voice, and on it an echo of, ‘Sam! Sam!’ and then he muttered, tetchily, ‘go away! Let me have peace at least when I am in the waking world.’

He heard the cheerful voices from inside the tavern and cursing himself for an old fool he crossed the road and passed through the door and entered into the bar. At once as he entered into the warm snug Barney thrust a pint mug of beer into his hand and skinny old Will Rutter took his staff and propped it against the wall behind the door and handed him an already lit and smoking pipe, saying, ‘that’s best Longbottom there Mister Mayor.’

Sam sighed and said, a little wearily because although he had been elected mayor of the Shire seven times, which meant that he had held the post for forty-nine out of the previous sixty years, the length of tenure being seven years, and everybody tended to refer to him as ‘mister mayor’, currently he did not hold the position. ‘I am not the mayor, Will, and I think Master Brandybuck will have summat to say about it if he hears you keep calling me it.’

‘But you are going to run next year at the Free Fair?’

Sam placed his hand on his old friend’s shoulder and looked around the bar. Apart from two men seated quietly hunched in an alcove the only other drinkers were part of Sam’s group; Will Rutter and Barney Took, Jacob (Job) Brockhouse and Humphrey (Hump) Chubb.

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They were all of an age, as indeed could be said of the Battle Standard Tavern, with its dull yellow distempered walls and ceiling stained with smoke and peeling with age and the wooden floor sticky and uneven. But for all that the fire was always banked high and was cheery, the beer was good, the food was good, and the landlord and landlady, Master and Mistress Millner were ever welcoming and made the place homely, which was no mean feat for outsiders. That is the term Shirelings applied to any hobbits who hailed from beyond the borders of the Shire.

‘Let’s just set ourselves down and enjoy a drink and a smoke with friends and forget all this talk of mayoring and such like,’ he said, deftly deflecting Will’s question.

‘I will drink to that,’ Hump Chubb called out, and Barney Took added, ‘hear! Hear!’

Will Rutter saw that he was not going to be able to draw Sam into any sort of political debate, not that night anyway, and though that was his favourite topic of conversation, that and boasting of the improvements he was making to his tobacco crop, which was winning him all the prizes at the Free Fair year by year, he allowed himself to be manouvered to the big table by the fire where they all sat together.

‘Serious though, Sam,’ Job Brockhouse said, between taking long sucks on his pipe, ‘I hear it rumoured you be a thinking of going off adventurin’ again.’

‘Where on earth did you hear that, Job?’ Sam demanded gruffly. It seemed no part of his life was truly his own and that was the one question that was guaranteed to raise his hackles.

Job took a deep draught of his beer, burped, and replied, ‘your young Sara told my Holly as how the whole family is fretting thinking you are for the off. Right worried they are.’

‘Pchah!’ Sam spluttered, his drink sloshing and the curly hair above his ears bristling.

He blew a great cloud of smoke into the air and he really was angry then as he spoke. ‘I am over a hundred year old. Where oh where do folk think that these old bones could possibly go adventuring to? And as for magic and wizardry, I tell you this about that, for I have heard all the rumblings; time is the oldest of all magic tricks. It continues passing and passing without

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any of us having any real notion of it,’ and he rolled his finger in a circle, ‘and that is the only real magic. Time. It is what makes us all, and it is what undoes us. It has certainly overtaken me. Adventures indeed! You really think at my age I could manage to take-off into wild places?’ That outburst silenced them for a moment, mainly because they could not understand the meaning of a single word he had uttered. But then Hump Chubb, who wasn’t the brightest of hobbits even in his prime, asked, ‘So, are you going away somewhere or not? I mean no smoke without fire, right?’

‘Wrong!’ Sam heaved a deep sigh and told them. ‘I am going up to Bree for a day or two to visit the Oracle. See if she can answer a few questions for me. That’s all. No big adventuring.’

‘Bree?’ Barney Took nodded his head at that and looked thoughtful as he spoke. ‘The Oracle. Hmm. Never thought that you would be inclined to that sort of hocus pocus.’

‘Well, there you have it,’ Sam said; ‘no adventures or anything of that sort. Just a visit to Bree.’

‘Look you now Sam Gamgee,’ Barney said, all indignant, ‘I ‘as been one o’your closest friends since cousin Pippin went off with that Merry Brandybuck, but I don’t like nobody pullin’ the wool over my eyes, so to speak, if you will pardon the pun if’n one is to be found in what I am saying, for I ain’t as woolly headed as folk might think I is.’ He paused briefly to look at each of his companions largely disinterested faces before pressing on resolutely. ‘Now you told me you want me to look after them trees you did plant with them Elf seeds you brung back from faraway after the war, if they needed it and you wasn’t about to see to it for yourself.

So I reckon there is something that ain’t right and I reckon that’s a fact.’

‘There might not be any more terrible dark horrible things lurking out there for us to be afeared of, but we are your friends and we are worried for you,’ Hump Chubb added, suddenly alert.

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At this one of the two men, who had hitherto seemed not even to notice the hobbits presence and had appeared to be quietly drinking, minding his own business in the alcove in the corner, looked up sharply. He pushed the hood of his cloak back from his face and the hobbits were horrified when they saw that his dark rugged features were bisected by a ragged scar that ran from under his right eye across the bridge of his crushed nose to beneath his left ear. His hair was sparse and black and his eyes deep set and dark.

‘Not all the evil things of the world are destroyed, little master,’ the man said sternly, then added by way of an afterthought, ‘and you would do well, even here in the warm folds and amid the gentle woods of the Shire, to remember that and think on it.’

‘Ere you!’ Mistress Millner called out from behind her bar, puffing herself up and pointing a fat chubby finger, ‘don’t you go upsetting my customers! We ‘as precious few as it is these days.’

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ Master Millner said sternly, coming up to take a stand beside his wife.

Sam raised his hand then and said loudly: ‘Nothing is amiss here, good master and mistress, save that we could all be doing with a refill in our mugs, and for my friends there in the corner also, who I am certain meant no harm.’

‘An I didn’t mean no harm neither,’ said mistress Millner sourly, ‘but I won’t have my reg’lir customers upset by strangers that passes by and never so much as a by your leave and probably never come back again.’` And as master Millner set to pouring beer into a big jug ready for serving his wife remained stubbornly rooted behind the bar, a scowl on her face and her arms folded across her ample bosom. Sam smiled to himself and shook his head. That was the Shire for you, with its timeless commonplaceness, if there is such a word. He laughed. It wouldn’t matter how many

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Dark Lords or Ringwraiths or Orcs or evil things there were at large in the world he did not think that anything could ever change the Shire or the nature of its diminutive inhabitants.

He eyed the two strangers carefully and asked them shrewdly, ‘Rangers?’

‘All that is gold does not glitter, and I know that you have heard that said before master Samwise Gamgee,’ the man replied. There was a merry twinkle in his eye. ‘I am Caniega and my friend here is Aludan.’ At this introduction the man Aludan raised his mug by way of acknowledgement. He was younger than Caniega but he looked equally as careworn and hard.

‘You are not Agramor’s lads.’

‘No,’ Caniega agreed, ‘indeed we are not. Our watch is in Minhiriath south of the Downs and the Old Forest. We are passing through you might say, on an errand for the King, Elessar. You know him, master Samwise.’

Sam chuckled. ‘Know him? I should say that I do, though he will always be Aragorn to me, for I know’d him when he wasn’t too proud to sit in a pub by a warm fire and smoke a pipe and drink a beer and swap stories and songs. But here now, what do you say to his edict that no Man should enter the Shire without invite? I thought only Agramor and his boys exempt.’

‘He bade us greet you if we should have chance to come upon you, and though we have not come out of our way so far as we might, if news had not reached us from other places, yet we had a mind for the warmth of Shire hospitality. We have leave from the King and have no leisure to visit the mayor’s office for a piece of paper that could be days in the getting.’

The hobbits chuckled and Master Millner finished filling their mugs and with a ‘pah!’ he strode away to rejoin his wife behind the bar where he commenced a furious polishing of the wooden surface.

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‘And your mission, if it is not secret and too much of an imposition, does it concern me in any way?’ Sam asked the question eagerly, perhaps a little too much in hope, he felt, once the words had tumbled out and his brain had an opportunity to engage itself.

Caniega and Aludan both laughed and Caniega replied: ‘No, indeed. Why, and we would not wish you to take this in a way it is not intended, for we were raised on stories of you and Frodo’s exploits, but even heroes should recognize when it is time to hang up the sword and rest by the fire. There are plenty another dashing and wild spirited young fella around to do what needs be done if it ever again does.’

Master Millner returned for a second time and placed a very large jug of frothing beer on the table and muttered. ‘Saves me traipsing back and forth.’ The hobbits blew great clouds of smoke into the air and their eyes gleamed in anticipation of a good tale, a fresh one from far places, and Hump Chubb stuck his big hairy feet up on a stool in front of the fire.

Caniega laughed again and, noticing the mood of the hobbits, he said, ‘I have no mighty tales or epics to relate for you, dear hobbits, but I could not help but overhear your conversation and so we will tell you something of what is happening in the wider world and something of the reason why it is two Rangers of the South are traveling in the Shire.

‘I tell you this frankly Sam for I do not think you will be aware of this, you are not alone in suffering the affliction of these strange dreams that come to you in the night. The visions are not yours alone.’ Sam was on the point of denying but the Ranger pressed on, looking directly and unnervingly into the Hobbit’s eyes. ‘I know that you have them. But here now,’ and at this he took a deep drink of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned and broke the spell between him and Sam, ‘you want to hear something and I know that you expect payment for this splendid ale. Am I right?’

‘Does a bear…’ Job began, but he was cut short by Sam, who never could abide swearing and who exclaimed suddenly, ‘Job!’ then: ‘go on master Caniega please.’

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Sam noticed that Aludan very discreetly placed his hand on his comrade’s arm and that Caniega nodded his head. It was an imperceptible movement only, an acknowledgement of an unspoken message. But Sam noticed.

‘There are many rumours afoot in the Halls of Gondor concerning the doings of the Western-Lands. I speak of the continent away across the Great Sea, which for many long years we have neglected, so it is that only the librarians and the archivists and the curious have concerned themselves with the place or know anything of it, its people or its history. Also, as I have said Sam, there is the puzzling question of these dreams and the fact that you are not alone in having them come to you night after night. Many are the folk who have reported the same dream or similar dreams, and though I am not familiar with the precise nature of yours I must suppose it to be of a like nature; Undómiel Queen and her daughter Princess Cerowynn, Dagomir, the Steward and Lord of Anorien. From Rohan, Eowyn, who is aunt to Elfwine King of the Mark, Aldumar of Eryn Vorn too, and many another besides, and not all of them can be counted among the great. There are many common folk too. It is almost as though some intelligence directs these night visions, for they are, as I have said, all very much the same if not of an identical hue, and they are as widespread as a plague covering all the land.

‘At the turn of the year a messenger arrived before the Kings Keep at the bridge over the Harnen. He came galloping hard up the Harad Road. This messenger was decked out in the attire of a Corsair of Umbar, whom we thought all destroyed at Pelargir by Elessar King during the War. He bore the weapons of a Sunlander and his face was painted with the crimson paint that once marked the warriors of the Witch King of Angmars folk.

It was a strange

combination.

‘Our Captain on duty was worthy Galobir and he would not let him pass, and neither would he grant him passage into the Keep, so the messenger delivered his message there at the foot of the tower, his great black horse rearing all the while and snorting and pawing at the dirt

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and the dust. His message was brief but cryptic and it is still being studied by the wise at Minas Tirith. It went thus:

‘Prepare the return of him who was lost; The one who is wronged by the right, The one for whom it is pre-destined.

Look in the Mirror and repent thy wrongs, For the Lord of Unforgiving is coming, Eă is most prized in the halls of the dead, And they will rise neath fair Ungollag.’

‘Then he produced from beneath his cloak a red horn and he blew three loud blasts that echoed out across the land. ‘“Do not believe the dreamer foolish men of Gondor!” he cried, and then he turned his horses head and galloped away to the south from whence he had come.

‘Then a messenger arrived at the hall of King Baldur the Dwarf in the depths of the Misty Mountains. The messenger was himself a dwarf and at first he was regarded as something of a wonder, for he came from across the Western Ocean from a Dwarfish kingdom that was hitherto unknown. But after a while, being no different to any other of his kind, he was he was made welcome as a guest. Long did this messenger speak of the wonders and achievements of his folk in their halls and many days of questioning did he patiently endure, while they feasted on great red blooded joints of meat and drank thick syrupy mead and dark beer, roistering in the manner of their folk, until at long last the messenger revealed his true mission. He told King Baldur that he had been sent by his King Surgilleus to seek the aid and assistance of their cousins on Middle-Earth. “A great evil has arisen in our land that, though it

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has not yet touched us directly, will come for us soon,” the messenger said. “It is an evil born of this continent,” he claimed, and at this news Baldur cried out that he knew it was so.

‘For as it transpired Baldur had also had the dream, and in his dream he claimed to have seen something that no other among the dreamers reported or dared claim. He said that in his dream there was a great red eye that he knew was the Eye of Sauron and he swore that what he saw was no dream at all but was real.’

At that Sam gasped out loud and looked absolutely horror struck. ‘The Eye!’ he cried out, and for a moment when he did the fire dimmed and the room darkened and they fancied later that a voice hissed ‘sssauron’ at a pitch that was just beneath the range of normal hearing for man or hobbit. All there felt the momentary touch of ice cold fingers trail down their spines and Aludan said sharply, dispelling the gloom and returning the room to normal, ‘do not even think of Him! Yea though he is gone and is no more. Do not tempt the fates.’

The room was bright again, the fire was warm, and the dark mood passed. Caniega asked Sam in a very low voice: ‘You have seen it?’

Sam shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nightmare only. A reminder of past terrors. Nothing that I can swear to as being real.’

‘Perhaps not to you,’ Caniega went on, while the hobbits were sat up now, not quite sure that they wanted to hear more but unable to break away from the spell of this news, and certainly preferring the stories of doings beyond the Shire to remain just that – faraway tales: ‘King Baldur believed that it was real and he also believed the message underlying this dream came from Tharkun himself, excuse me, Gandalf. He sent scouts to investigate Mount Doom and the ruins of Barad-dúr and he did not like the reports that they brought back. He got it quite firmly into his head that the Dark Lord somehow survived his overthrow and that the deep tunnels beneath the mountain Orodruin led off to some hiding place where lurked all

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the evil things that HE had made, just waiting the call to rise again. Nothing could shake the conviction in him. Of all the stubborn Dwarf folk ever lived Baldur was most stubborn of all.’

This raised a small smile to Sam’s face and he thought to himself as Caniega’s words continued unabated, ‘I can think of one and his name is Gimli son of Gloin.’

The King sought to persuade him to take no action of his own and wait while further and detailed investigation was undertaken, but Baldur would not wait. It has been not two months has elapsed since he led the mightiest army of Dwarves ever assembled and they descended down into the depths of Mount Doom. Right under the eyes of the Kings Heralds Uiâdrr and Byarran Híldin did they go. They were the last to see them. And no Dwarf, not a one, has been seen or heard from since. Not one Dwarf has been found anywhere on Middle-earth or below it. Not even the rock wives or any babbies have been seen. The King hoped that Bain the Younger may have been sheltering a few in Dale, but he was not. So, we are sent to the Gray Havens to speak with Kaeba the Harbour Master at Lhún to find if they have perhaps gone off to the Western-Lands, though the messenger from the West makes that seem doubtful.

I tell you, the King is sore worried.’

‘What about Gimli son of Glòin? Do you know aught of him?’ Sam asked anxiously.

Both Caniega and Aludan shook their heads and Aludan answered, ‘His name is known of course, but I do not know him personally.’

‘Nor I,’ Caniega said, ‘though I would suppose him to have gone off with his kin, for he was living in Ithilien and that is but a spit from Mordor.’

This tale of the disappearance of the Dwarves was largely of little interest to the hobbits, other than Sam of course. Most hobbits had never seen a dwarf. So when Hump Chubb piped up it was a relief to the others. ‘Not meaning to be too forward about it, mister Caniega, sir, but where did you come by that scar? Was it, he asked in a hushed whisper, in the War?’

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Caniega smiled at that and ran his thumb across it and answered, ‘Got this at the Black Gate, when it opened and out poured every terrible horrible monstrous foul thing the world ever made, and then regretted the doing of it. But that is another story.’

‘And one that will be the better on the ears if it comes with a pint of ale,’ Aludan added, ‘for I myself have heard it many times as boy and man,’ then he shouted, ‘landlord if you please!’

They spent the rest of that night drinking and smoking and swapping tales and though Sam joined in and enjoyed the company he was filled with a dark foreboding about what the solemn dark eyed Ranger had to say. And if the truth be known he was glad when his daughter Elanor came in all stern eyed and dragged him off home, scolding him for being the worse for wear and telling him his late late supper was getting cold on the table. As he went lurching off up the hill with her the sounds of his friend’s laughter echoed in his ears and everything somehow seemed so very normal.

The next day Sam set off early down to Bamfurlong in the East Farthing, intending to see his old friend Axel Maggot, who was the son of that very Farmer Maggot who had given the Ring Companions shelter in that earliest stage of their journey to Rivendell when the Black Riders were scouring the Shire for them.

Under normal circumstances he would have taken a couple of his grand-hobbits along for company, perhaps little Sam and rosy cheeked Heather. But the fact of it was that he did not think that the circumstances were at all normal considering the dreams and the visit of the two Rangers from the south, and anyway, for some reason that he could not entirely understand, he wanted to be alone.

Although the day was a little overcast and it rained sporadically Sam thought that nevertheless the Shire looked splendid, like no other place in all the wide world could look,

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and, despite his rheumatism and the pain that it brought to his aching limbs, he stepped out lightly and whistled a happy tune as he went. Once he had passed the Three Farthing Stone he left the road and set off across country following as closely as he could remember it the route that he had taken with Frodo all those years ago when first they set out with the Ring. The sun was gleaming from behind ragged clouds and the rain was spitting when he stopped beside an elm tree. Its leaves though fast turning yellow were still thick and the ground at its feet was fairly dry and sheltered. It was approaching midday and Sam decided that it was high time that he broke for some lunch.

While he sat and munched on the chicken leg and the bread and cheese that he had brought and sipped at his bottle of cool clean water he reflected upon his life of late. He realized with a groan the truth of his desire for far off places rising within him again. Inwardly, secretly, he yearned for what he could only describe as ‘adventure’, for of course that was what had been instilled in his bones from the days of the ring quest. It was a compunction that lay deep within him that he could not deny and he could not resist. His life with Rose Cotton had been years of blissful happiness that was also true, and when they had first married and moved into Bag End with Frodo Baggins, and especially after little Elanor was born, it seemed as though things just couldn’t get any better. Twelve more children followed and then seventeen grandhobbits, and Cuspin Longthorn, who was his and Rose’s foster son who came to them in the year forty-four of the Fourth Age. He laughed then at the memory of the absurd set of circumstances that had arisen that led to them acquiring a foster son entirely against their will and without any planning.

Sam then had been in the sixth year of his first term of office as Mayor of the Shire. It was during the course of this term that he had made the office into something more of an official position rather than the honorary post which folk were accustomed to. Before him mayors involved themselves with nothing more important than officiating at weddings and presiding

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at official banquets. He changed all that forever. A proper office was opened at Great Smials at Micheldeving on the White Downs and two sub-offices were also opened and manned by clerks working from Whitfurrows and Deephallow. A Postmaster was appointed and the Shire postal service was operated on a professional basis. The office of Thain, which at that time was held by Peregrin Took, was also formalised and based at Frogmorton with a permanent staff of five. The main responsibility of the Thain was to lead the military of the Shire in time of war or other unrest but the reality of it was that all that was required of him was that he ensured all able bodied hobbit males attended at the butts for archery practice on Sunday afternoons. This was also the time when Sam formed the Shire Watch from out of what had been the Bounders. The Bounders formerly had been a sort of part-time Shire police force which, as the name suggests, patrolled the borders of the Shire guarding against any unwanted intrusion. It could hardly be described as a military force since the only real invasion of the Shire prior to Saruman’s coming was many years earlier when a rampaging band of Orcs blundered into the South Farthing. Another duty of the Bounders was to bring any errant hobbits before the Shire court when summoned, but, since crime was virtually non-existent, the performance of this duty was somewhat otiose. Mainly the old part-time Bounders would concern themselves with rounding up stray animals that had escaped from out of farmers fields and gone wandering off. The new Shire Watch on the other hand was a professional force of eager young hobbits raised and sent off for training with the Kings Rangers. They were based at Bree but they came down to Scary to train the hobbits. The Watch, which was captained by Sam’s son Tickler Gamgee, took their duties very seriously as they patrolled the borders of the land, but for all that the conservative hobbitry of the Shire viewed them with a mixture of derision and suspicion and were very glad when their patrolling kept them miles away, preferably, as old Lobelia Bolger said, ‘…in somebody else’s part o’the Shire, they were secretly glad they were about. Memories of Saruman did not fade away easily.

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It was against this background of sudden and frenetic officialdom that the old farmer from down near Sarn Ford made his request to see the Mayor, all proper like and on the proper forms and in triplicate. His name was Hansi Longthorn and he was still vivid in Sam’s memory as he lay back and rested his head against the rough bark of the tree and as he remembered hebefore nodding off he slid into the past and he laughed aloud to himself:

Hansi Longthorn fingered his cap nervously and said, ‘beggin ye pardon, Mister Mayor sir, but just supposing that I was to marry like?’ he was all big hands and bigger feet, hairy hobbit feet, which he was shuffling back and forth, raising dust motes in a beam of sunlight ‘A gel like.’

‘As Shire law requires,’ Sam had agreed, trying to sound all officious. ‘Female.

Marriage between male and female. Not unusual Hansi.’

‘Ah true, Mister Mayor, very true. But I am thinking, marriage? At my age?

‘Your age?’

‘My age. I is,’ and here Hansi paused for a moment and the cap went twirling, ‘well, call a spade a spade, I suppose. I is not a young feller anymore. No, indeed, not young at all.

Why, bless me now, I was old when you an young mister Frodo and that tear away Merry Brandybuck and that mushroom tea leaf Pippin Took did come back from that ’questing’ an seen that Sharkey fella off.’

Sam sighed deeply and replied, ‘yes, Hansi, but by law there are no age restrictions. I suppose there are no age restrictions in life anyway, but so far as the law is concerned there are no age restrictions to marriage. You are free to marry.’ He paused then and wracked his memory and asked him, ‘you ain’t ever been wed before, has you Hansi?’

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The old farmer shrugged his shoulders and muttered, ‘ain’t never feeled the inclination.’

‘So who is it then?’ Sam asked brightly. ‘Old widow Puddifoot? Evaline Dimnock?

Who?’ ‘S’Maybeline Willowbane,’ Hansi blurted out in a rush.

Sam sat goggle eyed for a moment and then spluttered, ‘May Willowbane! But, but she has to be seventy, no eighty year younger…’

‘I is seventy-eight year older ‘n her if that be what you is trying to work out, but that don’t make no matter,’ Hansi said, all indignant.

‘No, no course not,’ Sam said, squirming uncomfortably in his big leather chair and taking up his pipe, his thoughts distracted momentarily by the images the proposed union threw at his brain. ‘Still, are you both sure?’

‘Sure of what?’

‘Why, marriage.’

Hansi heaved a great belly laugh and said, as though he were addressing a silly child, ‘Bless you, sir, but I only said supposin. Just supposing like.’

Sam, despite himself, heaved a deep sigh of pure relief. He was both relieved and annoyed. Relieved, because he could well imagine what difficulties such a marriage would cause in the Shire, where conservative behaviour was a religion almost; and annoyed, because here was the old fool taking up valuable time, official time, with supposings. He drew a deep toke on his pipe and regarded Hansi carefully for a long moment. Well, supposings never hurt anyone, Sam supposed, and anyway he was curious and unable to resist what might follow and without thinking he asked Hansi a question that was destined in time to have fateful consequences: ‘Very well, let us suppose that the sweet and dainty May Willowbane is indeed missus Longthorn.’

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‘Good on yer!’ and Hansi beamed a great silly smile. ‘And just suppose we has a sprog?’

Sam drew another great sigh and allowed his imagination a little more freedom. ‘Yes, all right, there is a fine young Longthorn. I can sees him right now. Right here in my mind’s eye. And?’ ‘And then he or she and goes and loses ‘is or’er Ma or Pa. What then? Hey? What then?’

Sam threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Hansi, you are, as you yourself have said, old. What? Third eldest in the whole Shire?’

Hansi coughed nervously, as though the thought of it was somehow distasteful to him.

He said, ‘Second, now that, um, since old…’

‘Quite. Since Chari Buckfoot got laid to rest last month,’ Sam finished for him; ‘So, supposing you was wed to May Willowbane, and supposing you and May did have a sprog, well, now, Hansi, you couldn’t really expect at your age to have too many years left to you to spend with him or her. We ain’t elves Hansi, we all got our time.’

At this Hansi set two big brown knurled hands down on the desk, his hat scrunched up, and he leaned forward. His small eyes were bright and intense in his seamed deep lined sunburn face. He was very serious as he spoke. ‘But what if it was May as did die first? Or even me and her both together! In some terrible storm or summat. What then?’

‘And this is still supposing?’

Hansi didn’t move a muscle from his position at Sam’s desk. ‘Just supposin,’ he agreed, and nodded his head enthusiastically, ‘just that. Supposin.’

‘Well then the Shire authority would look after the sprog. Same as they would any orphan.’

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Hansi groaned and slumped back and sat down heavily on the stool that Sam’s clerk Obadiah Bracegirdle had earlier set down for him at the side of the desk. At once he commenced to a great weeping and a helpless and frustrated, puzzled and very embarrassed, Mister Mayor rushed at once to his side.

Obadiah Bracegirdle, who was a practiced

eavesdropper, equally puzzled, popped his head around the door, only to be peremptorily waved away.

Sam thrust his handkerchief into the old hobbits hand and grimaced while he blew his nose loud and wet.

‘Oh, by heavens, Mister Mayor, sir,’ Hansi sobbed piteously, ‘don’t want no orphan bunk for my sprog. Even supposin it is only a supposin sprog.’

Sam set up his protest at that very gently: ‘But the orphan bunk would only be a supposin orphan bunk supposin you and May was married and supposin you…’ He stopped himself abruptly, realizing suddenly how ridiculous he was becoming in losing himself in Hansi’s supposings. He resumed his seat behind his desk and tried to come over all practical when next he spoke. ‘Now you just look here, Hansi Longthorn…’

‘Hankie, Mister Mayor, sir.’ Hansi proffered the wet rag to Sam. ‘Keep it!’

‘I’ll ‘ave May give it a wash for you, sir.’

Sam took up his pipe and drew a quick drag. He pointed the stem at the old hobbit, jabbing like it was an accusing finger. ‘You have known me all my life, Hansi Longthorn, all my life. Known all my family too.’

‘That is true, sir.’

‘Knew my old gaffer you did. An’ he never had a bad word to say agin you an’ wouldn’t ha’ heard one said neither.’

‘He was indeed one of the finest o’ hobbitry to be found anywhere, Mister Mayor, sir.’

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‘So I tell you this, Hansi Longthorn,’ and Sam placed the sword Sting, that was the magic blade the Elves gave to Frodo, and was now accepted by all as the symbol of his office, and was certainly considered by him to be a symbol of the love and regard in which he held his dear departed friend, on the table between them; ‘supposin you does have a sprog an supposing that sprog loses both parents, however it do happen, it won’t go to no orphan bunk.

It will come, he or she, to live amongst we Gamgees and we will raise it as one o’ our own and love it like one o’ our own. This I swear by my life.’

Hansi stood up and beamed a great wide smile at Sam. He expressed his heartfelt thanks and his great relief and said, ‘I won’t take up no more o’ your valuable time, Mister Mayor, sir,’ and he turned to leave, and suddenly, at that moment, a shock wave struck Sam squarely on the back of the head. ‘Go back,’ he muttered lamely.

‘Beg pardon sir?’ Hansi replied, at the door now.

‘Go back. What you said, earlier?’

‘Oh, bouts old Gaffer Gamgee?’

‘Farther.’

Hansi looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Bouts us knowing each other all our lives?’

‘The handkerchief,’ Sam said with a deep sigh, praying that he had somehow misheard.

‘Oh that. Yes. I’ll ave May give it a wash for you sir.’

‘Maybeline Willowbane? The very supposin Maybeline Willowbane we was discussin in terms of supposins? Sam asked weakly and with an air of incredulity.

Hansi nodded enthusiastically and launched immediately into an explanation. ‘Well what with her being an orphan, an’ I seen so much of her as a nipper, on account of her always a coming down to my place. Now she is all growed up I says to them Chubbs, who was her guardians, ‘well now, you just a leave her to me to look after,’ an they up an agrees ‘cos that meant it were one less mouth to be feeding an you know how much it takes to provender a

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young hobbit an you know also how tightfisted them Chubbs ‘as got. An, oh, sir,’ and here the old hobbit laughed loudly, ‘who could imagine what she would see in this old bag o’hobbit bones.’ And then he was gone out the door and Sam was left alone. After a moment sitting staring blankly at Sting he burst out laughing and muttered to himself: ‘Samwise Gamgee, you are a prized fool!’

And that is how Cuspin Longthorn came to be a part of the Gamgee family. The greedy and rapacious Chubb’s had effectively sold Maybeline to Hansi Longthorn, and as far as the old chap was concerned he thought it a very good idea that he have some pretty little thing that he had always been fond of to look after him in his dotage. That was the plan anyway. Where it all unraveled and came unstuck was when May and Hansi began to develop real feelings for one another. Maybe not love, that was perhaps too strong a word and not one that they would recognize, for they had been close for too many years, but it was near enough for two lonely misfits and close enough for May to fall pregnant with Cuspin. He was a dear little rosy cheeked tousle haired hobbit baby. And living as they did far away on the borders of the Shire in the South Farthing nothing was noticed, but Hansi and May both knew that one day it would be, and so it was that Hansi hatched his plan. It was a plan that only relied for success upon the famous code of honour by which Samwise Gamgee, Mayor and hobbit hero of the War of the Ring, lived his life.

On his deathbed Hansi Longthorn was seen to laugh and heard to whisper, ‘Some carrot cruncher me, hey?’, and two weeks after the funeral a small bundle all wrapped in swaddling was deposited at the front door of Bag End. It was Cuspin. There was a brief note left with him and his mother was never seen again in the Shire. It was rumoured she had taken ship for the West, following the Elves and the tales told her as a child by the kindly old Hansi Longthorn.

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Sam shook himself. He had drifted off into a hal sleep and a daydream, as old folk are prone to do, and it was hard to tell how much time had passed. He went on quickly after that, intending to camp down at the northern margin of Woody End before going on to Bamfurlong.

Still, in the lazy days he did not think that it did any harm at all to daydream half the day away under the shelter of a tree in his beloved Shire, and then a sudden notion struck at him. He looked all about him at the swaying grass and the kindly trees and he smelled the clean fresh earth and listened to the birds and as he did the thought nagged and worried at him as he walked on into the gathering gloom, for it was a thought that he did not want to acknowledge. He realized he was saying his goodbye’s to the Shire.

Tickler Gamgee and Arnaud Took sat by the fire in the snug of the Golden Perch at Stock. As officers of the Watch they chose to sit apart from the other lads, six sturdy young hobbits of the patrol, who were in the bar drinking and singing loudly:

If the iron sharpens the iron And the man sharpens the man Is the man who sharpens the iron?

The iron who sharpens the man?

So drink and live you Men So drink and give life you iron So drink to live you men And become the men of iron!

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‘Strange song they are belting out tonight,’ Tickler commented. His face wore a thoughtful mask.

‘Taught them by one o’the Rangers,’ Arnaud told him, taking a big slurp of his beer, a shrewd and calculating look on his face. They had been friends for a long time and Arnaud could tell when something was amiss with Tickler Gamgee. He said softly, ‘Bless you, Tickler lad, but you are really worried.’

‘Course I am you blamed fool!’ Tickler snapped. ‘I was certain he would go up the East Road and then come down here to Stock for the night. But the cussed stubborn old lad has gone off across country. Probably sleeping out at Woody End. I tell you Arnie, the whole family is right worried about him, and he knows it. And just how does he behave I ask you?’

“I am going to Bree” he says just like that. “And that is as far as I am going,” he says. Blamed irresponsible is what it is.’

Arnaud Took listened to the noise and the laughter coming from the bar. In addition to their six friends there had to be another dozen hobbits drinking there too and perhaps a half dozen outsiders and the same number of men. It was noisy and lively and smoky. The Golden Perch was a famous and popular pub, selling good wholesome food and the best beer in the Shire, reputedly.

The year had been kind, the rains good, the crops rich, the vines in the fields heavy and pregnant with goodness, and the pipe weed yield the best in living memory; Longbottom, Old Toby, Rushey Gray, and Southern Star, the leaves hanging in endless long rows in the drying sheds. The woods seemed bright and alive, as though each and every individual tree had been visited by the Entwives; the meadows were lush, the little rivers were running clean, and wild deer bounced through the tall grass while hobbit children played up and down amidst the rolling hills. Everything seemed so very normal, and that was perhaps why the odd behaviour of the revered head of the Gamgee clan was such a cause for concern, even beyond the family itself.

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‘Your dad moves as slow and cautious as a river eroding a rock when he is planning anything or when he is plotting,’ Arnaud said knowingly; ‘His deciding to go off and see the Oracle is sudden and that makes it okay I reckon. I mean when it is sudden that’s okay, but when it is planned out I reckon that’s when you have to worry.’

Tickler slowly set his mug of beer down on the table and frowned and said, ‘I don’t entire agree with what you say, though I admit you do have a point.’

‘Course I do. If the ole Mayor was planning to go off on some adventure he would be doing a bit o’planning. I know that. He is old and he just wants to go to Bree and see the Oracle for a bit o’piece o’mind. Feels a bit helpless I expect. Once he has his little adventure he will be fine, you’ll see.’

Tickler thought about this for a moment, then said: ‘Well, I don’t know nothing about that. I know he ain’t been the same since my Ma died. And then there’s all them rumours and chin-wagging about Mister Frodo and how his ma, Primula Brandybuck, and his pa, Drogo Baggins, drownded in the Brandywine and how he inherited Bag End from Mister Bilbo and how the End was bought in the first place with the loot from adventurin. And then folk gossiping an looking secret and saying the entire hill was full of money and chests of gold and silver and jools all stashed away. Bottom line is this, folks is saying that going off adventurin is in the blood and my dad has acquired that habit by association and he is definite ready for the off again for certain and is going to go. Whole Shire is expecting and hoping that he is going to be Mayor again next year but the whole Shire is whispering about how he is gonna go, and I tell you I don’t like it. In fact, I won’t have it!’

‘There is always whisperin in the Shire,’ Arnaud told him. ‘Doesn’t mean anything. If you were wise about it, cap’n, you wouldn’t go following the mister mayor about like this, spying and creeping round with the Watch. You ought to follow my advice on this.’

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‘I ain’t creepin or spying!’ Tickler retorted angrily; ‘and maybe you are right. Maybe we should just let him get on with it, but my last word on it is this, he is acting right queer, and this goes beyond anything in the stories. See if we was to believe even a part of a half of a half o’what’s been said about the dragon Smaug and that wretched Ring and Bilbo’s adventure and uncle Frodo’s, and my dad’s, why you’d be afeared half to death.’

And with that thought, the thought that if the tales were true, or even partly true, then the danger inherent in any adventuring would be too much for an old hobbit like Samwise Gamgee. If they were not true then he would be going off to risk death through exposure or to be murdered by monsters or being eaten alive by wild animals in some cold lonely place for nothing and to no purpose. Either way there was nothing to be done, and so the two friends left the snug and went into the bar and got themselves good and thoroughly drunk.

Maggot looked just like his father, with the same broad thickset body and round ruddy red face. He had a gruff but well-meaning manner about him; and, again, like his father before him, he grew the finest mushrooms, potatoes, and cabbages in the Shire. The big thatch roofed farmhouse was the same and the furniture inside was the same and even the guard dogs looked the same.

They sat together in the kitchen drinking afternoon tea and eating cheese sandwiches with their feet stuck up on stools before the warm range.

‘I’ll get the wagon out after supper and drive you up a ways to Whitfurrows,’ said Maggot, adding, an’ we will be sorry to see you go off so soon. My oh my, the missus an’ me has enjoyed having you visit again Sam. You know, we might be simple folk but we ain’t stupid. You didn’t come all the way down ere just for a bit o’supper an’ a chinwag.’

‘No,’ Sam agreed with a heavy sigh, ‘I didn’t. Not really. I suppose in my own way I am saying goodbye. To the Shire I mean, the woods, the fields, the little gurgling rivers, the

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bridges, my friends, to everything that I know.’ He chuckled. ‘This is just like it was before Frodo went off. He wandered about a bit on his own and I remember thinking then how strange he was acting an’ all.’

‘So, it’s true then. You are leaving?’

‘Leaving? No! Yes. I don’t know.’ Sam drew a deep drag on his pipe and blew a great circle of smoke into the air between them. ‘Mmm, that is good.’

‘Only the best,’ Maggot beamed and tugged on his own pipe, his sandwich half eaten on his plate.

‘It is so strange, so very very strange,’ Sam said, almost absently, ‘Bilbo had Gandalf to guide him. Frodo had Gandalf too, and Strider. What do I have? I have Gandalf’s shade; a ghost, a vision, a nightmare! Ah, I tell you my dear Maggot, I am weary.’

‘We never know what’s waiting for us in the wings of time Sam,’ said Maggot. You might have some kinda queer old destiny mapped out for you what you ain’t going to be able to avoid even suppose you wanted to.’

‘You may just be right about that,’ Sam said.

‘Know what, Samwise?’ Maggot went on, feeling he was on a bit of a roll. ‘I reckon you wouldn’t want to avoid it, even if you could.’

‘You might be right about that too.’

‘I reckon I am too. But I think you are doing the right thing anyway going to see the Oracle. I went and saw her you know.’

‘No!’ Sam exclaimed. ‘You Maggot?’

‘Yes, cost me a milk cow an’ a pretty pound o’mushrooms,’ the farmer said, ‘but it were worth it. Me an’ the missus is gonna have twins in the next two year.’ He beamed.

Sam chuckled and said, ‘I suppose, Maggot that I am really just looking for an excuse and that is my true reason for going up there to Bree.’

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‘Tchah! You don’t need no excuse. Blimey, if you want to go off then you just go.

Your kids are all growed up, and your grand-hobbits. They aren’t going to hang about in the growing neither. What then? Eh? I’ll tell you what then: they grow’s up an’ they gets their own lives and they ain’t got no time for you. An’ anyhow mebbee this is how things should start wi’ these things, nice an quiet an’ with no particular fuss, leaving aside folks natural suspicions, which is perfect normal for hobbits as you well know.’

‘Maybe,’ Sam agreed, thinking to himself: good old solid dependable Maggot. ‘Yes Maggot. I do believe you have it right.’

‘Course I do old lad,’ and he nodded his head sagely and puffed on his pipe and looked pleased with himself.

Sam could hear missus Maggot bustling about in the adjacent dairy house. She was singing a cheery little tune out of key and impossibly badly and she was accompanied by barking and howling dogs. The birds were calling to one another high overhead as they flocked and contemplated their forthcoming migratory journey to the Southlands. The late afternoon sun slanted in through the kitchen windows in big slabs and lit up the dresser with its porcelain cups and saucers and the pots and pans hanging from their ceiling hooks.

‘It’s all those ordinary little things that make up the Shire. I will miss the things that just don’t change,’ Sam said. He smiled dreamily; ‘the woods, the wild flowers and the little towns and hamlets.’ He raised his pipe and blew smoke and sighed contentment. ‘A good pipe.’

‘The best tools. Forge bellows and dairy pumps,’ Maggot joined in enthusiastically.

‘A pint o’ beer beside a warm fire.’

‘The smell o’a new turned field.’

‘The midsummer fair at Lithe, dancing till yer feet ache, fireworks, the kiddies running all about plaguing folk wi’ bangers and sparklers.’

‘An’ best o’all a good hoard o’mathom to rummage through.’

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Sam laughed. That was it. When he came right down to it there was the answer to all his unease and worry staring him right in the face. It never was the dreams, not really, although they were a big part of it, for at a pinch he could live with them. Rather, it was this feeling of being wrenched away, finally and for all time, from everything he was familiar with and knew and yet paradoxically was no longer a part of. That was it. That was it! He loved the Shire.

How could anyone not love the place? Even Gandalf had loved it. Probably Saruman too, in his own way, and that was why he wanted to destroy it and tear it down. But Sam knew then in that moment that he no longer belonged there. Maybe the Shire had evolved and moved on, or perhaps it was him who was different. But whatever the explanation the realisation that it was probably so brought a lump to his throat. It was his no longer. The Shire of Bilbo Baggins, of Frodo and Merry and Pippin, it was a thing of the past. It was a realm as dead as cursed Angmar and in the new Shire Sam was a relic and a reminder of things that were better and most properly forgotten.

Everybody knew him, and in fact most folk revered him as a war-hero, even those who were too young to remember, though if the truth be known on that score so far as most hobbits were concerned the events of the War were happenings in far off places that had nothing at all to do with good honest hobbit folk. Or, as Sam’s old gaffer once remarked long ago on the eve of Bilbo Baggins one hundred and eleventh birthday party: ‘Elves and Dragons! Cabbages and potatoes are better for me and you. Don’t go getting mixed up in the business of your betters, or you’ll land in trouble too big for you.’ And moreover they were happenings that were matters of ancient history so far as younger hobbit lads and lasses were concerned. They were like the stories and legends of the Kings at Fornost, entertaining but not something to be taken too seriously.

Perhaps that’s why Merry and Pippin went off into the south to be with Aragorn; the real reason for it. Everything in the Shire was ordered and neat and had its own place in the

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scheme of things. Even Maggot had his place, and if a person disappeared for a thousand years from the face of the Sun and popped up here at Bamfurlong he would still expect to see these same well-tilled fields and find a Farmer Maggot waiting with a mug of beer and a good pipe and a warm and welcoming hearth. The only thing that didn’t belong was Sam himself. Once he had, just in the way his old gardening shears belonged in the mossy shed at the Gaffers, but now he just stuck out like a sore thumb.

Maggot blew a long looping cloud of smoke into the air and after a pause he said matterof-factly, ‘So assuming that you do go off Sam what about the Mayoring elections? Lot o’folks is expecting you to be for that next year.’

‘Jonas Cobb is standing,’ Sam replied. ‘So I am told. He is a Stoor. A good dependable lad, and he is popular. He has some fair ideas. So I hear.’

Then Maggot laughed, and quite unexpectedly he recited.

‘The end is better that the start, The patient man gets more than the proud, And being wise it makes for strength More than any ten rulers are allowed.

Duty is the hard edge of the whetstone, Death that feather light to the touch, The war is the harvest of the acid sown crop The end is sweet and clean after the rain.’

Sam looked at him for a moment in wonder before speaking. ‘My dear Maggot, I did not know that you were a poet, or indeed harboured any fondness for a rhyme.’

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‘Bless you Sam,’ Maggot laughed, ‘that ain’t mine. An old bumpkin like me couldn’t think up nothing like that. It’s summat that I did hear when I was up at Bree seeing the Oracle.

Kind of took my fancy it did, and if you don’t mind me saying it reminded me of you.’

Sam thought about that for a moment. He supposed that it was true. When the Ring Companions returned to the Shire after the war it was to find that the evil Saruman and a band of roguish men had taken over. It was only after a brief but bloody battle at Bywater and the murder of Saruman by his servant Grima Wormtongue that order was restored. It was a fair analogy, he thought; all was sweet and clean after the rain and, despite these queer dreams and visions with which he was nightly afflicted, and despite all that he had heard from the Ranger Caniega, he really couldn’t envisage anything troubling the Shire ever again.

Missus Maggot came bustling into the kitchen huffing and puffing and went straight to the sink and commenced washing her hands. ‘Supper coming up quick as ever old Maggot there can get his fingers busy chopping some veg.’

And Sam laughed loudly and said to Maggot, ‘Now that is exactly what I am talking about.’

The following days were busy ones. Sam visited Jonas Cobb at his hole in Oatbarten, where the two locked themselves away for long hours in secret talks. Afterwards he went immediately to Micheldelving, where he visited the Mathom House. He spent some time there examining and running his fingers over the various artefacts and long discarded nik naks. They were unwanted presents mainly that filled its cluttered and untidy rooms. Old Rory Stockman was the Curator and he followed Sam around the place as he made his progress, smoking his pipe and muttering that he couldn’t be expected to keep a place like that in any kind of order; after all there had to be ‘ a thousand years o’junk in there,’ he declared.

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After that he spent a night at Tookbank and paid a visit to Tookborough. Then he wandered about the Green Hill Country for three days, visiting all the old familiar places that he knew so well, taking Cuspin along with him, much to the young hobbits delight for he idolized his ‘dad’. Later, looking back on that time, when fact became legend and legend became myth, folk would swear blind they saw him at the Marish, pacing out with his staff in one hand and his pipe in the other with Cuspin in tow, or else up at Scary, or sitting fishing at Girdley Island on the Brandywine, at Sarn Ford or Willowbottom, or pacing the road past the old hobbit holes at Harbottle. They would also swear blind that he stopped and passed the time of day with them, had a cup of tea, a mug of beer, a pipe, or else played with this young hobbit called Daisy or that one who goes by the name of Meriadoc. He was supposed to have given his blessing to a hundred or more Frodos and Pippins and Rosies, little Bilbos and Elanors, and even after he was long gone many of their children and their grand-hobbits and their children still spoke of his supposed visit.

In all he spent two weeks wandering about the Shire with Cuspin and then he returned to Bag End, where he had a grand sit down meal with all the family and afterwards spent some hours playing with his grand-hobbits in the nursery room, chasing them here and there until the squealing noisy exuberance of them wore him out and he retreated to his bed and an exhausted sleep.

The dream came upon him quickly. In his sleep his eyes stirred and fluttered, flickering rapidly, and he heard the now familiar voice calling out to him, ‘Sam, Sam’. It was almost as though it was coming from somewhere far away, not inside himself but not close by either: ‘Sam! For pity’s sake Sam!’ But though the voice cried out in urgency and desperation it could not penetrate Sam’s dream like state and it could not rouse him.

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And then, though he slept still, he felt his body rise up and up and up and he floated and he felt it was real as if he walked in the waking world. Then his eyes were tugged open and all of a sudden he saw. He slept and yet still he could see.

Sam gasped. He was looking down and seeing himself lying asleep still beneath the blankets in his big round bed. He tried to speak but he could not. His dream hands shook and he held them up rigid and hooked in front of his face, and then, as trickles of sweat ran cool ice fingers down between his shoulder blades and his heart was beating so fast he feared it would punch a hole right through his chest, it came upon him again, reaching out to him as it had so often before in this past year or so.

In the deep blackness appeared two great luminous eyes, poisonous yellow-orange and glowing in the dark, deep and malevolent and filled with an ancient all-consuming hatred. A whisper hissed out from the thing: ‘Your sssoul’ and Sam knew what it was, though nobody had told him of the thing. It was a Gallogaban that had come. The ancient and evil stealer of souls who in the legends dwelt in the wet slimy caves beneath the seas, and Sam knew then that he must fight hard for he understood instinctively that in the midst of all loss the last thing that should ever be surrendered is a person’s soul. Once that has gone there is nothing left. He groaned and shivered violently and was convulsed but his unwilling eyes were dragged to a new and more terrible sight.

It was a dark place into which he now looked where the air felt as though it were being compressed by great weight and heat. He sensed that he was in a cavern, at the back or at the entrance he could not tell. All he knew was there a vast elongated tunnel stretching back, back, back into infinity. He floated above the place, where foul reeks and stenches rose up from steaming smoke spumes and chimneys, and below him million upon million of twisted tormented terrible deformed things writhed and molded a surface that pressed relentlessly upon the bodies of their comrades who had come up against a black wall against which they were

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being remorsefully crushed to death. Hatred consumed these creatures, raw emotion rose up from the heaving mass and Sam, even in his dream state, could sense their suffering and their hate and he heard their groans and their cries of despair and their curses. And then he saw marching columns coming up out of the black maw of an opening pit in the midst of the wriggling mass and he gasped out in fearful terror, ‘Orcs!’ Then a great pulsing rock of black obsidian rose up shimmering and gleaming, and in a strange way he found it somehow beautiful and at the same time sinister. As it went up up up into the air a beam of white fire lanced down and crashed into the wall of the cave. The cave wall collapsed in tons and tons of tumbling rock and choking dust, burying the frenzied creatures beneath in their thousands and driving the rest forward to spill out now on to what had suddenly become a vast and desolate plain, and above all of this Sam went soaring over their heads out into a black night.

He was drawn forward towards the only feature on this wide plain, and as he fell towards it he cried out because he knew in his dream mind what it portended. It was a horribly familiar pinnacle of rock that soared up from the flat, a jagged tooth of stone, riven with crevices and saw-toothed ridges, and black as the blackest night. And all about the base swarmed the Orcs and other more terrible creatures and on their helms and on their shields there was daubed in red a blotch of paint in the shape of a single red eye, which he knew was the hated mark of Sauron.

Suddenly the air swarmed and buzzed with Flies and Crows and big, black eyed evil Crebain and as they flew all about him they seemed to be laughing at him. And then Sam groaned and cried out in terror. There on the spiked top awaiting him he saw a malevolent shadow. Blacker than black it was, deeper than the deepest night, it hunched, still as stone, and regarded him with enormous sickly yellow and red eyes, an amorphous writhing shade within shadow.

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It was a dream only! A dream. He whispered it to himself over and over again as he lay bathed in a cold sweat.

The shade rippled laughter.

A dream!

‘Sa-am,’ the voice hissed within his head.

And then the face of Gandalf the Wizard momentarily, but for a very brief moment only, flashed before his eyes, blinking and trying to speak, but he was unable to, and with a start Sam woke in a pool of sweat. The bedclothes lay in a heap on the floor and as his eyes adjusted it seemed to him, but he could not be sure, that a shadow rose away and stole out of the room.

Gasping for breath and panting he stumbled into his bathroom and splashed water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection that stared back at him was that of an old hobbit, the eyes still clear, the hair still thick and curly, if receding a little and graying at the sides, not too many crow’s feet round the eyes, but old all the same.

‘That was no dream Samwise Gamgee,’ he told himself firmly, that was no dream.’ Gandalf, the Eye, a Galogaban, Orcs. He didn’t know what it all signified. He could hardly bring himself to start or dare to begin to believe that it meant anything, for if it did mean something then that something could not be good. All he knew for certain, or as certain as he dared hope, was that the answer lay in Bree with the Oracle Anadriel and that the quicker he was off and on his way the better it would be. Already September had turned, and in only three short weeks it would be the sixty second anniversary of Frodo’s taking his leave of the Shire, and indeed of MiddleEarth. He didn’t necessarily see any particular relevance in this impending anniversary but he was only too well aware that winter was coming and he did not want to be traveling in bad weather at his age. He did not even want to be traveling in good bad weather, if that made sense.

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Quickly he hastened down the long familiar passageway that led deep into the hill and Cuspin’s bedroom. He woke him and together they made their way to the sitting room in Sam’s private part of Bag End. Cuspin was struggling out of sleep while Sam bustled about. The young hobbit gazed morosely out of the window through the parted curtains at the wall of night outside and he said glumly, ‘I never thought we’d be leaving in the middle of the night dad.’

Sam was too busy packing his rucksack to pay overmuch attention to Cuspin’s moaning. ‘We want to be away before any of the others know we are gone, Cuspin lad. Now, are you coming or do I need to fetch one of them for company?’

Cuspin gawped at Sam and he thought suddenly his old dad looked unusually bent, almost as if he were carrying a great weight on his shoulders. ‘Was it the dream again dad?’ he asked gently.

Sam did not answer but only nodded. It was a barely imperceptible movement of the head. He did not pack his mithril coat but he intended taking Sting along and his elven cloak, and as he held them in his hands a sudden thought occurred to him.

‘Dad, you okay?’ Cuspin asked, his face a mask of concern. It was a good face, a good youthful honest hobbit face and when Sam looked into his large brown eyes and saw that they were full of concern for him he could not do anything other than smile and reply, ‘Aye, Cuspin, your dad is fine now.’

‘Then, is this it dad? Are we off adventuring? Is this the start of it?

And Sam laughed because he remembered how he himself had been all those long years ago, and he replied, ‘Yes, oh yes. It is Cuspin. I think surely it is. It is the start of something, for better or for worse.’

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Chapter 2

THE ORACLE (Or, ‘The Prancing Pony’ Revisited)

Sam left the family a brief note explaining that he and Cuspin had gone off to Bree to see the Oracle and that they weren’t to worry and should carry on life as normal. He added as a postscript that if Rosie was going to be doing any tidying up at his part of Bag End she was to leave everything as she found it so that he would be able to find everything on his return, and then put in block capitals a further postscript beneath seven kisses that under no circumstances was Tickler to follow after them. They would be back home in a few days.

Then he and Cuspin went out and hurried away down the hill towards Hobbiton, while the moon still hung overhead in the inky dark sky and a light drizzle of rain blew into their faces.

By the time that they were passing Bywater Pool Cuspin was cold and wet and tired and already bitterly regretting his willingness to so readily agree to accompany his dad on this journey.

He reflected he could have been tucked up all cosy still beneath his duvet. Adventures were stories, not trudging along a road in the rain on a cold early September morning with your feet aching and the straps of your rucksack digging into your shoulders. Neverthele ss, despite everything, Cuspin had acquired some traits from Sam Gamgee that were such a mirror of him that a body could be forgiven for mistaking him for a natural born Gamgee. He was fiercely loyal, stubborn, generous to a fault, respectful of his elders, kind and loving. In particular he adored Sam more than anything in all the world and if need be he would die for him.

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While he was growing through childhood he and the rest of the Gamgee children were often regaled with the stories of Bilbo and his adventure with the dwarves. He learned about Trolls and Dragons, of Frodo and Merry and Pippin and the War of the Ring, and Aragorn and Arwen and the slaying of Smaug.It was stuff to stir the blood and when he ran and played with the other children on the Hill or down on the banks of the Water, one day he would be Gandalf slaying the Balrog or Peregrin Took killing the Troll at the Black Gate. And as was inevitable, after he learned his letters he would read and re-read the Red Book and the Tale of Years and the History of The Northland, and anything else beside that he could get his hands on. In the winter he would sit in Sam’s study and read all the voluminous notes and letters written by Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, and Gandalf, and Sam himself, for Sam was by nature a hoarder and he threw nothing away if he could help it and very little was ever donated by him to the Mathom House. All of this fired Cuspin’s fertile imagination so that as the years passed he formed in his mind an idea of Sam that was more than just that of father and son. From his earliest years when he could walk he would follow him about like a faithful puppy dog. His love of history and the old tales was not shared by the other Gamgee children, whose view was one of ‘heard it all before’, so that the bookish Cuspin grew up a solitary and introspective child. It was not that he wasn’t loved by his adoptive syblings or that he did not love them. It was just that he never quite felt himself a Gamgee and did not know who he was. His lack of inches, pale freckled face and mop of reddish blonde hair marked him out and made him conspicuous amongst the children round Hobbiton and Bywater, but he was brave and strong enough to face them down if they tried to bully him, and always there would be big solid Frodo, or Tickler and the other Gamgee children to back him up. From an early age he displayed a dogged determination: when set a task, or if he set himself to a job, he would always achieve it. The natural born Gamgee children didn’t mind his devotion to Sam because like their mother and father they loved Cuspin and to them he was just another little brother or big brother, depending

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on their place in the hierarchy of birth. Only Tickler Gamgee, who was six years older and Sam’s second son, (his eldest son Frodo went off while young to the new land of Westmarch to learn the gardening trade under Gordy Stormchaser), displayed any resentment towards Cuspin, though it was sporadic. But over time as the physically active Tickler grew up, his and the quieter Cuspin’s paths diverged sufficiently for there to be nothing more serious between them than the normal rivalry to be expected of siblings; and of course if ever it came down to family loyalty Tickler would always stand up for Cuspin. A blow struck against one Gamgee was a blow upon all. As for Sam, he was never the sort to favour one of his children over another and neither was Rose, but whenever he could, in between his bouts of official duty, he liked to go off wandering in the Shire, sometimes going as far as the Tower Hills and the New Lands, or the Nenuial in the North or Tharbad in the South, and when he did he would most often be accompanied by a freckle faced green eyed little hobbit who hung on his every word.

Now as they made their way along the East Road together past the Three Farthing Stone, with a pale sun coming up fast and the dew dripping from the leaves and mist rising above the fields, Cuspin cheered up and he whistled a little tune and Sam sang a familiar walking song.

‘Bell, bow, knapsack and buckle Long is the way and the dusty road, Friends in song though the way be long And always ahead, always ahead, the Sun; Always a faraway familiar distant friend.

The wind at our backs, the road beneath our feet The seasons of time forever, and forever,

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Our true companion on the endless journey, Friends in song though the way be long And always ahead, always ahead, the Sun.’

The first night of the journey was spent in Frogmorton at the Leaping Salmon Inn and it did not seem then to Cuspin that this was adventuring at all, and if it was then pleasant indeed was the experience. Sam put him right over a quiet pint late in the evening before the fire; this was still the Shire and adventures simply did not tendto happen in the Shire, he told him. ‘It will be different after we have crossed the Brandywine Bridge.’

And so it was, but not dramatically so. Once they had left the Brandywine behind, the familiar ordered fields of the Shire gave way to a wilder land above the East Road, although there were still the isolated farms and hamlets of Outland hobbits to be seen. Their fields were less well ordered than Shire fields and bounded by ill maintained hedges and fringed with open spaces given over to wild cereals and herds of half-wild white cattle and goats. There was less in the way of organisation, but Outlanders claimed this did not mean their crop production was any less than that of Shire farmers or that their animals of an inferior breeding. They claimed what differences there were only served to encourage snobbishness on the part of the folk of the Shire.

Then when Sam and Cuspin were five days out, with Sam stiff and tired from nights spent sleeping in ditches at the side of the road and once in farmer Huggle’s barn, they came to the Barrow Downs. The dark rolling hills lay to the South of the road between the Old Forest and the Greenway. Sam fell silent all of a sudden then and Cuspin grew worried. He asked him in a whisper, ‘dad, what’s up? Why are you so quiet?’

This was on the afternoon of their fifth day on the road. It was a day that was gloomy and dull under an overcast sky lying leaden upon the land. Everything was a muted green and

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pale russet and not a bird was singing and there was not a sign of any living thing moving other than the two hobbits trudging stolidly along the road.

‘Dad, what is it?’ a worried Cuspin hissed anxiously. ‘Tell me!’

‘This is still a place of evil, Cuspin lad,’ Sam answered slowly and grimly, his eyes drifting to stare up and down across the mist wreathed hills of the Downs. ‘I shall be very glad when we have gotten past those hills.’ He sighed heavily. A great weight lay upon him, bringing back memories of his last visit to this vicinity.

They hurried on in silence and soon enough the Old Forest fell behind them. When they cast a cautious backward glance over their shoulders it was to see it rising and falling in wooded ridges, green, yellow, russet, under a weak sun in a heavy grey sky. Northward the land ran away in flats and swellings of muddy and dull green and pale earth colours, until it faded into a featureless and shadowy distance. To the South the Downs rose ridge upon ridge toward a monotony that vanished in a guess, running out of eyesight into a whisper of blue and a remote dun shade of white glimmer that blended in an artist’s wash with the purple hue of the sky; but despite his deep misgivings and his memory of the cruel Wight who had almost got and killed him and Merry and Pippin all those years ago, when only Frodo’s singing of the song of Tom Bombadil had saved them, yet the Downs spoke to him, out of memory and old tales of high and distant mountains, almost as though they were calling to him by name and he was familiar and well known to them.

As they hastened quickly on, Sam unconsciously picked up the pace. He remembered clearly the song of the Barrow Wight. It came unbidden into his mind, unwelcome, summoned up from some deep recess in his brain, a place in which are stored things that you know have happened but you don’t want to think about:

Cold be hand and heart and bone,

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And cold be sleep under stone: Never more to wake on stony bed, Never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.

In the black wind the stars shall die, And still on gold here let them lie, Till the dark lord lifts his hand Over dead sea and withered land.

And as Sam listened warily, cocking his head, he just couldn’t bring himself to believe that the ancient evil that had for so long lain within the cold Downs really had died or gone away, no matter what else happened in the world. He shivered and muttered: ‘Come hoy now, old Tom Bombadil, and you Goldberry, where are you now? Have you also fled away into the West with all the others?’

Cuspin regarded him carefully, worried still as Sam stood there with his head cocked, listening on the wind. ‘Dad!’ Cuspin exclaimed, his voice as sharp as a whiplash in the gathering gloom. ‘Are you okay, dad?’

‘Everything is fine,’ Sam reassured him. The depression lifted from his mood a little, but inside him the memory was still strong. ‘We ain’t more’n ten mile from Bree,’ he said abruptly and cheerily, aware that Cuspin was finding his behaviour strange and not wanting to cause the young hobbit unnecessary alarm, ‘and, if the Prancing Pony is still there and, if it is anything even a little way close to what it was we will have a decent meal and a passable good beer and a soft bed tonight.’

The darkness lay all about them like a shroud, and they were weary and footsore when the road bent and rose up a little rise, and suddenly before them loomed the dark mass of Bree-

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hill against the glinting stars. Beneath its western slope where it was sheltered nestled the town in a spangle of lights and the promise of a warm fire and a hot meal.

In the sixty and more years that had passed since the Ringbearers had stolen into the town also in the dead of night and with Black Riders hot on their heels, Bree had grown. Like a fat old man it had spread and was now joined to Coombe on the east side of the hill and with Archet, which then had lain some distance away on the edge of the Chetwood; but the Chetwood trees had been so brutally felled and cleared that it hardly now existed as a wood and was instead a neatly kept part of a pretty parkland.

Bree had swelled to become a sizeable walled town, and the hill that dominated it and was once a wild place was now a public park where grand folk rode their carriages on Sunday afternoons. It was a well ordered town under the Mayorship of Asúnca Mahâr. He was a Gondor knight of Edhellond personally appointed by Aragorn King and under his rule it had developed a fierce and growing civic pride. Staddle to the south of the hill beside the East Road was still a mainly hobbit village. In fact the folk of Staddle claimed it was the oldest settlement of hobbits in all the wide world, and in recognition of the part played by the halflings in the War of the Ring they were permitted to retain their own government and identity independent of the rule of the Mayor of Bree. In that earlier time when Sam and his companions had first come to Bree, what had been a small surrounding country of fields and tamed woodland only a few miles broad was now a wide and prosperous land filled with squires and rustic hobbits and honest yeomen who had migrated in from Rhudaur and Cardolan after the War. Where once the people of Bree, big and little, tended not to travel often and even if they did they would not venture much beyond the confines of the four villages, and they certainly did not concern themselves with the affairs of other folk beyond Buckland, or perhaps the Last Bridge, when Sam and Cuspin visited the town matters were very different. There was a troop of Rangers based at Bree. They were hardy northmen, descendants of the Númenóreans of old

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and kin to the King, and to house them the captain Agramor had a barracks built mid-way between the town and Staddle. A Posthouse followed that; it was a large imposing timber framed building sited in the lee of the hill, and then a hospital was put up on the edge of what was left of the Chetwood. There was also an orphanage, and a poor house, a library and a museum, a records office and an armoury. In fact, when Sam and Cuspin arrived at Bree, the place was well on its way to becoming a city. One thing that hadn’t changed though was the position of the main gate. The wall was higher and thicker and had a more robust look to it, but there was still a dike and a causeway and the gate itself and the gate-keeper’s lodge and these were the same. The most striking difference now was that where the Andrath Greenway Road had been grass-grown it was now paved as far as could be seen and it seemed to be well maintained. Another change was that the gate-keeper looked a capable stern faced young soldierly type.

It was dark and the moon and stars were bright in a largely clear sky and the gate-keeper stood before the gate barring their way with a spear in one hand and a lantern in the other.

At their approach he raised the lantern high and said, ‘well now, well now, two hobbits from the Shire if I am not very much mistaken.’

‘Good evening to you sir,’ Sam replied. ‘We are indeed from the Shire.’

The man looked them very carefully up and down, decided that they were no threat, and opened the gate with a loud creak. Sam reflected briefly on the difference in this greeting and the one that he had received on his last visit when he and a desperate, exhausted and fearful Frodo and Merry and Pippin had hammered on this very gate seeking shelter from the night and sanctuary from the Dark Riders of Mordor.

‘Shire folk are always welcome here in Bree’ the man huffed. ‘There’s a new inn opened up at Lent Rise Lane. The Broken Sword it is named, and I daresay you’ll find it a welcome haven on a cold night like this.’

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‘We thought that we would try the Prancing Pony, if it is still there,’ Sam replied.

‘Oh the old Pony is still there,’ the man chuckled, then scratched his chin thoughtfully and added, ‘but hers a bit flea bitten. Most visitors make straight for the Sword these days.’

‘I daresay they do, but the Prancing Pony holds a few memories for me.’

‘Ah well,’ the man said, ‘I suppose you know your own business. You’ll find her just where she has always been, but don’t go flashing your coin around, if you know what I mean,’ and with that the gate clanged shut behind them.

The town was busy even at night and there were many folk out on the streets but Sam didn’t consider that a benefit of civilization. Everywhere they looked were hobbits and men, and dogs and ponies, and wagons pulled by big oxen or heavy limbed shaggy-footed horses.

There were drays bearing night deliveries of beer from the town’s four large breweries and wagons laden with farm produce. They also spotted a cart burdened with furniture and concluded between them that it was probably a citizen of Bree moving up in the world by flitting into a better area of the town.

Half the way up the gentle slope of what had been the track that led to Bree-hill was a busy street going off to the side at an angle and now marked with a street sign that read Hill Street. There Sam spotted the faded cream painted peeling walls of the three storied Prancing Pony wedged in between a cluster of newer houses. Aside from its somewhat dilapidated appearance the inn looked much as Sam remembered it. The street before it was roughly cobbled and every few yards a sputtering gas lamp threw out a circle of vaporous yellow light.

Where once there had been detached houses and grassed areas now the monster that was hasty urban development crammed everything together so that the houses, high and low, thin and squat, jostled one another and there was not a bit of green to be seen.

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At least the inn itself was a familiar and welcoming sight for Sam. He was pleased to see that despite all the many changes surrounding it and threatening to swamp it, it hadn’t changed that much. For the Pony time seemed to have stood still. The wide arch that led to the courtyard between the two wings was well lit. It was a welcome highlighting towards the main doorway, which was still located in the same place, or else, Sam reflected, it was for the protection of folk and intended to discourage those whose habit it was to skulk in shadows with mean intentions. Above the arch there was still a lit lamp and beneath it swung the same large signboard with its same fat white pony rearing up on its hind legs and the legend beneath:

THE PRANCING PONY BY NOB BUTTERBUR.

Cuspin was absolutely awed by what seemed to him to be the largest most magnificent place in the world, and as he stood in the street looking all around him soaking in the sights and the sounds and the smells folk bustled past him and he found himself repeating ‘Beg pardon - scuse me – sorry,’ time and again.

Sam for his part stood leaning on his walking stick gaping up at the sign and muttering softly: ‘The Prancing Pony by Nob Butterbur. It can’t be.’

Then Sam took Cuspin by the arm and led him into the smoky interior of the inn, where they were met beside the familiar big bar by a pimply faced young man dressed in a long white apron bearing a tray laden with mugs of frothy beer. ‘Be right with you sirs,’ the youth puffed as he vanished into the midst of the crowded noisy bar.

After a few moments he was back, saying, ‘Rooms for the night sirs? We have special rooms in the -’ ‘North wing,’ Sam finished for him with a grin, and Cuspin chuckled and added, ‘special for hobbits like.’

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‘Just so sir. Bed and board?’

‘I notice that the name of the licensee is Nob Butterbur. Nob?’ ‘Oh, indeed sir, Maister Nob took over the Pony after old Barliman adopted him as his son and his heir. Well, him an’ his missus didn’t have no kids o’they own,’ the pimply youth said, adding with the air of the conspirator and the practiced gossip, ‘course that were before my time, but I can tell you it were a fair old to do that were. ‘Parently old Barliman got right obssessed with hobbits after the war what brung the king back an’ he reckoned as the hobbit heros from the Shire an’ the king himself once stayed here. Here! In the old Pony. Well, who would believe that?’

‘Eric!’ a voice called out from the other side of the bar.

‘An’ as I hears it the Butterburs from Sarn ‘ad a lot to say about that.’

‘Eric Shuttleworth! Where are you boy?’ the voice shouted from the depths of the smoky gloom.

‘Is that Nob? Sam asked, a wide grin creased across his face, his hand held out before him. ‘Hobbit, scrawny, bout yea high.’

The youth Eric giggled inanely and said, ‘Aint so scrawny now, if’n he ever was. I’ll tell him you are here, seeing as how you seem acquainted with him.’

‘Er-ic!’

Sam laughed, but that was Nob yelling right enough, he would recognize that voice anywhere and across a distance of any number of years. ‘Tell him Mister Underhill of the Shire would like to see him,’ and as Eric hurried away Sam turned to Cuspin and said, ‘some things somehow never change, Cuspin lad.’

Then there was Nob coming round the bar huffing and puffing, wiping his chubby hands on the apron that was stretched across his ample belly, his face round and cheery and rosy cheeked. He squinted his eyes at them for a moment and then laughed loudly. ‘Bless me! Oh,

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lor! Mister Underhill indeed. Why, it is Sam Gamgee, so it is. Mercy me, but it has been sixty years or more. Goodness. Oh, goodness gracious me.’

‘Yes, sixty years, dear Nob,’ Sam laughed.

Then without any warning Nob clapped his hands together and shouted the common room to silence and, despite Sam protests, he announced that the renowned Sam Gamgee, Companion of the Ringbearer and Mayor of the Shire, was this very night a guest of the house.

Amid loud cheers and much acclamation Sam and Cuspin were relieved of their bags and their walking sticks. Sam protested that he was not the Mayor, but they were hustled anyway to a table by the fire and surrounded by a host of noisy Rudds, Goatleafs and Sullys, Rushlights and Heathertons, Browns, Mugworts and Sandheavers, Banks and Longholes, and there were even a few jolly and genuine Underhills. It was a boisterous gathering of drinkers, a mix of locals of all hue and calling; farmhands from the Eastlands, brewery workers, cobblers and tradesmen, shopkeepers, and the odd pickpocket and ne’er do well.

Food and drink was brought for Sam and Cuspin and as they devoured their meal they were pressed for any news and gossip from the Shire, and for information concerning various relatives and acquaintances, and Sam was forced to recount bits and bobs of his adventures in the War. Every now and then someone exclaimed: ‘Now that don’t square with the account I heard,’ or someone else might say, ‘my, they will ’ave to change the history books what with you still being around Mister Gamgee sir,’ or, ‘is that really what happened? How interesting’.

There were also two of the new breed of Bree’s civil servants present and they were particularly interested to hear of the administrative reforms that Sam had introduced into the Shire while he was Mayor.

By the time that the fire was burning low in the hearth most folk had departed and Eric was busy clearing away tables. A great deal of talking had been done and Cuspin’s head was lolling on his chest and Sam’s eyes were closing every few moments and he was yawning

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hugely. They had consumed a mighty feast, even by hobbit standards, consisting of hot soup, pies, cuts of cold meats, a strawberry tart, apple pie, warm bread, pickles, potatoes, vegetables, and cream, roasted chestnuts, big slabs of butter and cheese, and oatmeal biscuits. There had been endless mugs of frothy beer and a good smoke and friendly company. So far as hobbits are concerned there is no better way of marking the passage of time than in eating and drinking and smoking with good company, and so Sam and Cuspin were happy and contented.

After a few minutes Nob came back and joined Sam, puffing on a pipe and wheezing, ‘Ain’t as young as I once were.’

‘None of us are,’ Sam agreed, as he blew smoke rings into the air between them and fidgeted Cuspin’s head into a more comfortable position on his shoulder where the young hobbit had laid it.

‘Well, we ‘ave said a lot out of what there is to be said and though I daresay there is more we could be saying, so much that we probably won’t get round to it at all, I can see you are tired and pretty much out of it. And for sure poor Cuspin is done in. Now, you want’s the Oracle, so I have arranged with my lad Bill that he will see to the booking in the morning. Now you just have yourself a long lay in tomorrow an’ we shall get up to see her in the afternoon.’

‘Bill?’ Sam perked up a little at the mention of that name, and he was not thinking of his old pony when he did.

Nob chuckled. ‘Bless you now sir, don’t you be taking on and thinking o’getting out that famous sword. I don’t mean nothing to do wi’ that Bill Ferny. He has been in the ground for many a good year. No, my Bill is a woolly-footed tom-fool to be sure, but he is a good dependable hobbit for all that an’ he will have everything organized for you with the Oracle afore you is up an’ breakfasted.’

It had been a tiring day and Sam did not have any doubt that the kind hearted Nob was capable of an endless stream of talk, however busy Eric and his two buxom doe eyed hobbit-

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maiden assistants might be as they hurried about tidying up while the last of the customers bid their goodnights and left, but Cuspin was snoring loudly now and Sam felt that he himself would go at any moment. If a horde of Orcs or Trolls came through the door right then intent on murder, or even Bill Ferny, he could hardly have roused himself to offer any defence. No, he would not have just one more pipe, and no he could not manage another mug or even a half mug of the excellent beer, and yes he needed his bed. So, much to Nob’s disappointment, Eric helped Sam to take Cuspin upstairs to their rooms where, weary beyond reason but happy with it, Sam fell into his first dreamless sleep for many weeks.

Cuspin rose fairly early but Sam slept on until dinner-time. The young hobbit took breakfast with Nob and heard his story of how he had been taken in as an orphan by the kind hearted Barliman Butterbur and his wife, and how it happened that one day the king to be and four hobbit heroes stayed the night in the Prancing Pony, and how old Butterbur had stood resolute against the threat of the Black Riders. Then there was the small matter of the part that he, Nob, had played when he faced down one of the fearsome Dark Riders and put him to flight, or, as he coughed nervously and apologized with a chuckle and explained, that was how he preferred to remember it.

Then of course old Barliman had fallen out with his greedy relatives, most of whom lived way down beyond Sarn Ford, and how as a mark of his respect for the hobbits and to spite his sister and his wife’s two aunts and their cousins he adopted Nob. The rest was history as they say. In due course Barliman and his wife retired to Archet where after some happy years together in the twilight of their lives they died. They did not outlive one another by more than a few months and the Prancing Pony became Nobs. But somehow, and this was something that Sam commented upon on the previous evening, Barliman Butterbur would always be there,

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hovering and fussing around the bar as though his spirit had been absorbed into the wooden panels and the timebered floors and the very fabric of the building itself.

After a largish breakfast Cuspin wandered around the town, marveling at the shops and their bewildering diversity; there were butchers and bakers’ shops, stores selling clothing and cloth and shoes and all manner of fancy goods, specialist wine and cheese emporiums, and other stores that sold tools and weapons and farm implements of all sorts. There was even a shop that sold cast off items that folk had discarded and no longer wanted. And everywhere there were hobbits and men moving hither and thither with purposeful intent. Crowds filled the streets with movement and a cacophony of noise. Wagons and carts trundled and squeaked up and down the cobbled streets. The smoke from a thousand fires left a pall of gray across the face of the sun and the smell of the dye-works in Tannery Lane mingled with the acrid stench of animal manure and sweat and burning hops raised sweet scented smoke from the brewery chimneys.

When he returned to the Prancing Pony it was to find that Sam was up and breakfasted and dressed and waiting to go. ‘Dad, oh dad,’ Cuspin said enthusiastically, grasping Sam by the arms, all breathless in his youthful exuberance, ‘you should see this place. It’s amazing.

It’s like ten, no twenty, no a hundred times bigger than Tuckborough or Michel Delving or Whitfurrows, or all of them put together.

Nob chuckled. ‘He’s a fine lad this ‘un, Sam. Credit to you. Knows how to listen to a good story, even if you do have to feed him to get him to sit still long enough.’

Sam regarded Cuspin fondly and told him without warning: ‘Now you will be staying here with Nob, Cuspin lad, while I go off and see the Oracle.’ A look of deep disappointment immediately crossed the young hobbit’s face. The youngster’s excitement was instantly extinguished. Sam added quietly and gently, ‘Nob has arranged for a pony for me. You don’t ride. Besides, there’s nothing that you can help me with down there and I gather they don’t

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allow spectators and they don’t allow anybody to wait outside. So it’s here at the Prancing Pony you will stay.’

Cuspin was disappointed but he was a pragmatic soul at heart and he readily accepted his lot. He nodded his head and smiled and said, ‘So long as you are certain you don’t need me dad.’

‘Besides,’ Sam chuckled mischievously, ‘I daresay that you never noticed, but that young hobbit maid o’Nobs here, what’s her name Nob?’ ‘Jessie,’ Nob answered with a grin.

‘Well she has taken quite a shine to you Cuspin.’

‘Dad!’ Don’t you be afearing Cuspin,’ Nob said, a smirk on his face, ‘she is a harmless enough lass. Ain’t enough hay up top to make up a bale if you catch my drift?’ He paused and gave that a little thought, then nudged Cuspin with his elbow. ‘Still, that is no demerit in a lassie.’

Then, the moment Sam was sure that Cuspin was happy, when the hobbit Bill stuck his head round the door and said, ‘All saddled up an ready to go, Maister Nob sir,’ Sam, despite his aching limbs, got straight to his feet and was off, leaving a slightly forlorn Cuspin seated beside a grinning Nob.

The Oracle Anadriel was an enigma. It is written that at the close of the War a tall fierce faced dark knight came galloping up the Greenway. His black cloak billowed out behind him in the wind of his passing; and where he passed it was said that flowers bloomed and crops rose up and frightened folk took heart. He rode the Weathertop Hills and cleared away the wolves that had prowled there for years and he went into the South Downs and came back with the bloody severed head of Gundril the Troll, who had for long decades terrorized the folk of Cardolan.

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Then he came to Bree, where he blew his great horn, which was the Great Horn of Gondor that Boromir had borne and which was now made anew, and when all the folk had heard it and those who would or had courage to had gathered to listen, he told them: ‘The blade that was broken is forged anew and we have a King again in far Gondor. Hence to Arnor he is coming to banish the Deadmans Dike and make Fornost anew. I am the Herald Uâidrr and to the loyal of the Imladris I say hail to you and welcome and well met. To the foemen I say come taste the steel of Elessar and feel the fire of Edain. You! Men and Halfling of Bree I am sent to bid you in the name of the King make of this place his temple of the North and prepare the way for the coming of your lord.’

Someone in the crowd shouted ‘We don’t need no king!’ and someone else added ‘an’ we don’t want one!’

Then the Herald threw back his hooded helm and the eyes he fixed them with were bright and keen; on his brow sat wisdom and duty, and in his hand was strength; his face was ageless and in the deep lines were etched memories of many things both glad and full of sorrow, and as his destrier pawed the dust on the ground he looked all around him at their fear filled faces where they shrunk back from him and those hanging out the upstairs windows of the houses and his eyes seemed to see into their individual souls and pick out their most secret terrors.

He said: ‘The King will not demand or compel or force any to the cause of the Reunited Kingdom. But this do I tell you full square, all of you, when the King returns those who are not our folk are foemen and woe to all who wear that badge. Joy to our friends! I am ordered to bring to you from out of the Northlands one whose duty it will be to help and guide you.

The King bids you build for her a house in the midst of the place that you call the Marshes of the Midgewater, or the Broughty as it is known in the ancient and blessed language of

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Númenor. She is Ïsha of Forochel, Anadriel, who was sired by Mîm, and she possesses enchanted Nauglomír. The wise will revere her. The foolish will fear her.

‘Out of doubt, out of dark to the days rising I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.

To hope’s end I ride and to heart’s breaking: Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!’

‘I shall return in thirty days people of Bree. I shall come from Norbury and I shall bring with me Ïsha Vilocârni* and I shall again blow the Horn of Gondor and when you hear it it will betoken either a call of joy or a call of woe.’ And so saying the Herald turned his horses head and galloped away into the north.

Thus it was that Anadriel came to dwell in the House of the Oracle. As the year’s lengethened and generations of Men arose she slowly gained the trust of the folk of the four villages. She guided them in their lives and in the development of King Aragorn’s vision for them of a new capital city of the North Kingdom, though the people of Bree had no idea that this was what was intended for them.

She received many distinguished visitors, including the King and Queen, and, before they went away unto the West, Elrond and his people from Rivendell, and Celeborn and Elrohir also. Baldur the Dwarf King visited her, and many great lords and ladies from Forlindon and Dale and the Wold, but mainly it was the common folk who came. In due time however the Oracle’s custom of demanding a gift for her services of dream interpretation and prophecy led to the establishment of a rich cult with priests and priestesses based at temples at Esgaroth and distant Rhûn in the north and east, Lond Daer in the west and Dol Amroth and Ras Morthîl in

*

This means Dreamweaver in the Sindarin.

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the south. Eventually, and somewhat bizarrely, many years later a center was even established on the barren shore of the Sea of Núrnen in Mordor.

The Herald Uâidrr never again returned to Bree after he blew the Great Horn the second time and then vanished along the road to the Last Bridge, and after a few years had passed folk began to say that he had never really existed. Whatever was the truth of it the Temple of the Oracle at Broughty was real enough and never again was a wolf heard howling on the Weather Hill’s.

Beyond the thin stand of trees on the far side of the hill that was all the relentless development of Bree had spared of the Chetwood, where once was a wilderness was now a tidy and well ordered patchwork of fields and farms. Sam shook his head and whistled and said, ‘Phew, well, I know of at least one Ent wouldn’t be happy about this, progress or no progress. When we passed over here with Strider this land was much different. It was all wild and scary back then. Now look at it.’

‘Lot o’changes, hey?’ Bill responded disinterestedly. He pointed down to where a dusty road ran through the middle of the hedged and walled fields. ‘If you follow that road, sir, it will take you direct to the Temple. Her priest told me to tell ee’ you should take your five gold pieces and go forward alone, cos that lets her feel yer mind so to speak, without no distractions.’

Sam pointed. ‘That’s not the East West Road?’

‘No, indeed, sir, that’s ‘bout twelve mile down there to the right o’us. This is a road what was cut about ten year since. Runs all the way through the Weather Hills to the new market town at Fritham. The Mayor has raised a tax to pay for paving it an’ we hopes to start work next year.’ Bill said this with his voice ringing with pride.

Sam whistled again. Vivid in his memory was the flight from the Ringwraiths when the Ring Companions passed through what had then been a barren wilderness. Now look at it.

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He supposed that considering the sacrifices that had been made in the war this represented the fruits of victory, or at least a part of the fruits. ‘I had been hoping to get down to the Forsake Inn for a pint,’ he murmured.

Bill chuckled and looked at Sam as though he were a daft ignorant loon. ‘Bless you, sir, but the Inn has been pulled down afore I was born an’ now there’s a village there. It is called Forsake mind. Got a choice of three inns, if beer is what you want.’

Sam just shook his head at that and nudged his pony forward and called out, ‘My thanks Bill. I will see you at the Pony on my return. Tell Nob to look out for my lad.’

‘I will sir,’ Bill called back, ‘an’ don’t you be worrying bout getting lost. Old Dinky there is trained to the path to the Temple an’ home again.’

The sun was shining clear but it was not too hot and down between the fields and the white walled farms the little woods and the trees that lined the road were still leafy and full of colour. The road itself was hedge-lined and quiet and Sam was mostly alone except for the birds and the squirrels; once a brazen fox ran across his path. The people he did see barely acknowledged him as he went by, but that wasn’t because they were a surly or unfriendly lot, only that they were used to the passing of pilgrims and, in springtime and in summer, the tradesfolk making their way to or from Bree and Fritham.

Much of the marshland at Midgewater had been drained and what once had been a pathless wilderness twenty-five miles long by fifteen miles wide, bewildering and treacherous, was now a thin and sad boggy strip of rushes and reeds and tussocks less than two miles from end to end a mile wide. It was still a dangerous place to venture into, studded with deep pools and shifting quagmires; and the flies and tiny midges that gave the place its name still filled

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the air with swarming clouds of buzzing tormentors, and the Neekerbreekers* still squeaked and chattered with their neek-breek, neek-breek, unceasingly all the night.

The Oracle’s temple was close to the straggling pools and reed-beds of the marshes but not so close as to be uncomfortable. By the time Sam reined Dinky in before the single storey building the evening was falling into a dark night and The Sickle+ was swinging bright above the dark jagged lines of the distant Weather Hills. The highest of them was at the right of the line and a little separated from the others. It was Weathertop, with its conical slightly flattened summit, atop of which was a wide ring of ancient stonework which had been broken down into a cairn of jagged boulders where the grass was scorched and shriveled and blackened with fire.

It was the ancient watchtower Amon Sûl and it was there that Frodo was stabbed almost to death by the chief of the Nazgûl. At the memory of that night Sam shuddered so that when the Oracle’s priest Murch coughed politely behind him he almost jumped out of his skin and his heart beat wildly in his chest.

‘Master Samwise Gamgee?’ Murch enquired. It was more a statement than a question.

Sam nodded his head and let his eye rove across what seemed little more than a mean hovel. The Temple was a rough construction of Red Willow and marsh reed, without windows and with just one chimney poking up out of the center of the roof. There was a simple entrance at the side. It was a gap which did not have a door set into it and it was all there was to break the square monotony of the structure.

‘Yes,’ Sam said absently. ‘Sam Gamgee of the Shire.’

Murch was an impossibly tall thin cadaverous looking man who dressed in a long plain rough gray cloth robe tied at the waist with a frayed rope, and on his feet he wore sandals made

*

Noisy creatures, relatives of crickets. They are blood suckers distinctive by the noise that they make. Their preferred habitat is bog and marshland. + The Hobbit name for the Plough or Great Bear.

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of wood. ‘You may leave your gift there in the box that you will find inside the entrance,’ he said, then indicated with a long bony hand, ‘please, enter.’

‘Five gold pieces?’ Sam asked, seeking confirmation.

‘If that is what it is,’ the priest replied lightly. ‘For some it may be a gull’s egg, others may owe jewels, or bread even. For some it is merely a promise. Yours, it would appear, is gold.’

‘Maybe Anadriel believes the silly rumours that Bag End is stuffed full with hidden treasure,’ Sam said with a laugh.

‘Perhaps the truth is rather more prosaic, master hobbit,’ the priest replied drily, entirely without humour; ‘Perhaps you are just very dangerous or very boring; one or the other.’ With that he indicated the entry again and Sam went forward, plunging into the gloom.

He carefully dropped his five gold coins into the box and at once a woman’s voice came echoing out of the deep gloom: ‘Come forward Samwise Gamgee. Where I can see you.’

A crimson glow rose and lit up the center of the single room and within the round fireplace in the middle of the temple a fire suddenly burst into flame; and as Sam stepped forward into the unexpected wash of light he could just make out the outline of a woman seated behind a gauze screen. ‘Sit,’ she commanded, and he sat down on the cushions that lay scattered on the dirt floor beside the fire. ‘Do you know what might possibly be the cruelest and most commonplace occurrence in this world? Do you Sam? Do you see it? Have you observed it as you have moved through your long life?’ He could think of nothing to say in answer. ‘No?’ She asked this in a friendly conversational way but when he only shook his head the woman snapped. ‘Speak!’

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‘No,’ Sam answered quickly. He was taken aback by the force of her voice, which he realized was an outward manifestation of her inner power. ‘No, I don’t,’ he told her honestly; ‘I haven’t really thought about it before.’

‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t suppose you have. Well I will tell you anyway. It is the issue of right and wrong, Sam. Morality. Doing what you think is right and standing by that decision no matter what. It is that which has drawn you here. It may seem obvious but I assure you it is not. Every day the righteous get what the wicked deserve and the wicked get what the righteous deserve, and that is what I call injustice. Do you agree?’

‘I do not see anything wrong with that if it is how the world is,’ Sam said. ‘It depends what there is to be got, of course, surely?’

She laughed: ‘That will very much depend upon whether you are one of the righteous.

But it is just a thought that occurred to me as you came down from the Chetwood Road. You are restless Sam Gamgee and full of strange thoughts. Strange dreams afflict your sleeping hours.’

‘Are you Anadriel?’ Sam asked her, feeling a little foolish for doing so; but he was offbalance and annoyed and confused by her sudden and unexpected questions and insights. They were in fact close to what his thoughts had been, though he did not admit that to her.

‘You are not as I imagined you would be,’ Sam told her frankly.

‘Neither was Strider,’ she retorted. ‘You are here because of the dreams Sam, and we will together, with the help of Nauglomír, strive to discover the answer for you. But I cannot do that without I clamber into the halls of your mind. The dream state Sam, it is only when that portal is open that I may do that. Do not be alarmed. For once let your suspicious nature rest.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you? Do you indeed?’

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‘I think so,’ he answered, a little uncertainly. He was hesitant because the truth of it was that he had always been a little awed by those of the Eldar folk, like Galadriel, and Elrond, who had knowledge of ways that were, or seemed, mystical, and he was uncertain about all of this. “Piffle paffle,” Nob called it – “good for business but that was about all.” Still, he reasoned that aside from five gold coins he had little to lose and - well, who could say what might emerge from this encounter.

‘Do you remember the song that the King translated from the ann-thennoth for you and your friends, while you sheltered in fear up there on Weathertop?’

‘Vaguely. Umm, yes a little,’ he replied, puzzled as to what that had to do with his dreams.

She seemed to read his mind and she said, ‘We will solve the mystery Sam, but as I said, there is a road that must be traveled first.’

‘Yes, very well,’ he said, a little irritated, ‘I remember. The tale of the meeting between Beren son of Barahir and Lúthien Tinúviel.’

‘I am going to recount the tale for you again, exactly as Aragorn told it, for there is a thing that you must know concerning that tale. Indeed it might have been that our King had some premonition that the message it contains might be wanted again at some future time:

‘Beren was a Man, a mortal, and Lúthien was the daughter of Thingol, a king of the Elves upon Middle-earth when the world was young. It was said that of all the children of the World she was the fairest of all, lovely as the stars above the mists of the Northern Lands, and in her face was a shining light. In those days Sauron of Mordor was but one among many servants of the Great Enemy. He dwelt in Angband in the North and when the Elves of the Western-lands returned and made war upon him to recover the Silmarils which he had stolen they allied themselves with the fathers of Men.

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‘But the enemy triumphed and Beren’s father Barahir was slain and he himself only escaped after many adventures to the hidden Kingdom in the forest of Neldoroth. It was there he beheld Lúthien singing and dancing in a glade beside the enchanted river Esgalduin; and he named her Tinúviel, that means Nightingale in the old language. Many sorrows befell them afterwards and they were parted long in deep sorrow.

‘Tinúviel rescued Beren from the dungeons of Sauron, and together they passed through great dangers and finally cast down the Great Enemy and took from his iron crown one of the three Silmarils, brightest of all jewels, to be the bride price for his love.

‘Yet, it was just not to be. At the last Beren was bloodily slain by the wolf that came from Angband, and he died in the arms of Tinúviel. Then she chose mortality, and to die from the world, so that she might follow him; and in the songs it is said that they met again beyond the Sundering Seas, and after a brief time walking alive again in the green woods, together they passed, long ago, beyond the confines of this world. So it is that Lúthien Tinúviel alone of the Elf-kindred has died, indeed, and left the world and they lost her whom they most loved. But from her the lineage of the Elf-lords of old descended among men. There live still those of whom Lúthien was the foremother, and it is said that her line shall never fail. Elrond of Rivendell was of that kin, for of Beren and Lúthien was born Dior Thingol’s heir; and of him Elwing the White whom Eärendil wedded, that sailed his ship out of the mists of the world into the seas of heaven with the Silmaril upon his brow. And of Eärendil came the Kings of Númenor, that is Westernesse.’

‘I remember,’ Sam whispered, the memory of Aragorn’s recounting of the tale rousing sweeter memories within him of those far off days of the Ring Companionship.

‘Yes,’ Anadriel said, ‘but it has great relevance to your dreams that story. I think Strider sensed something then which Elessar would not know now. There was something I picked up from you as you approached Broughty, something of great importance. It concerns Eärendil

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Half-elven Dragon-slayer, also known as the Mariner. You heard the story? Well, I will go through it anyway. Do nothing, Sam, say nothing, just listen. He was the son of the Edain lord, Tuor, and the Elven lady, Idril of Gondolin. Eärendil was born in the year 504 of the First Age in Gondolin, but grew up in the Elven haven of Arvernien. He became the lord of Arvernien and married Elwing, the Elven daughter of King Dior and the inheritor of the Silmaril. They had two sons: Elrond and Elros.

‘For Eärendil, whose name means “sea lover”, Cirdan built a miraculous ship called Vingilot. While he was at sea, Arvernien was attacked and Elwing was forced to flee. Seeing no means to escape she threw herself and the Silmaril into the sea. Ulmo, the Ocean Lord, took pity on her and saved her by transforming her into a sea bird and allowing her to fly to Eärendil.

The couple used the power and light of the Silmaril to find their way to the Undying Lands, to ask the aid of the Valar and the Maiar host, along with the Elves of Eldamar, who came out of the Undying Lands in the War of Wrath. It ended in the Great Battle, in which Eärendil the Mariner also fought. With Silmaril bound to his brow, and his magical ship given the power of flight, Eärendil slew Ancalagon the black, the Greatest Dragon that the world has ever known.

‘After the end of the first Age, Eärendil led the surviving Edain to the new island kingdom of Númenor. Ever after, Eärendil was destined to sail Vingilot through the firmament.

Called the Evening Star and the ‘flame of the west’, the Silmaril on his brow shone down from the night sky forever after. There was beauty there in his rise to the firmament, but horror was a twin that visited the World too at that time; for Melko bred in secret some things that were abominations, things so dreadful that the Maiar themselves consigned them to the Void.’

‘Sorry Oracle, I do not see the relevance,’ Sam said, uncertain now as to just precisely what her point was.

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‘In truth,’ Anadriel responded, her tone thoughtful, ‘neither do I yet. What I do see is a great Elf lady who shares the ‘gift’ with me. The Evening Star is her talisman. Perhaps even, so far as the appearance of Gandalf in the dreams is concerned, it points to a precedent in the return of the Elves of Eldamar from the Undying Lands.’

‘That is Galadriel!’ Sam spluttered. ‘Surely it must be her; and if there have been those before who have returned then why not Gandalf?’

‘Altariel, Queen of Lothlórien. Of course it is. I should have guessed as much.’

‘But that cannot be. How can she have anything to do with my dreams? She has gone away from the world to the Undying Lands. I know. I was there. You cannot be right in this Oracle. Gandalf, perhaps, but not Galadriel surely.’

‘We shall see.’

Her hand and arm extended out from the gauzy screen and Sam noticed in the gloom and the flicker of light from the fire how very white, like a deep-water pearl, and youthful, her skin was. It was flawless and Sam had to restrain himself from the temptation to reach over and touch her. The long fingers of the hand pushed a bowl towards him and her voice purred, ‘This is Lissua*, brewed into a sweet potion and laced with honey. Do not be frightened Sam. Drink it and sleep and dream.’

Sam hesitated. His hand hovered near the bowl, and he whispered, ‘thirty years ago I passed an ordinance in the Shire outlawing this stuff.’

‘Do not fear. It will not harm you.’

Sam shrugged his shoulders and very tentatively put the bowl to his lips. He hesitated for a moment more before draining the contents and then he felt an immediate compunction to

*

Lissua is a narcotic weed of the family Genus Nicotiana. It is similar in flavour to the Longbottom pipe-weed first cultivated by the Hobbit Tobold Hornblower in the South Farthing of the Shire. Smoked it is a highly potent hallucinogenic and is addictive, but it loses much of its potency if boiled into a tea. It is widespread and hardy, surviving in extremes of climate, though on Middle-earth it can be found growing mainly on riverbanks, proliferating particularly in Minhiriath and Enedwaith.

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lay his head down upon the cushions. At once as the liquid coursed through his body he closed his eyes while the Oracle sang a sweet song that soothed and lulled him:

What age sits comfortable at odds black or white? – Woo me my lord with sweet words of gentle right, My eternal love that healeth my bleeding wounds; Like the fairest of the Edhil crying out in the night-on The uttermost edge of Forochel, pure in Lattams light.

O’thy restless spirit is that warm and shining light, That is evermore blind to all that is black or white And holds the burning flame of the World alight; Away away across Alcaraxa point our love the way.

There is naught that you will utter is purely right, To make the World light shine again upon the dark, And our cover in the night that rights the good light And ever as we falter and stumble in the gloom.

Weeping, O’Mediath thy promise is assured one day That once of us all thy love should be proven right, In hope then look to the West to the Halls of Doriath.’

He woke shivering and trembling and bathed in sweat. He did not know how long it was he had slept for nothing had changed in the room around him and all was exactly as it had been. It was as though his head had nodded just for a moment and then he had wakened at once. She sensed this and she told him. ‘You have slept long and deep and your dreams have been powerful. They have almost overborne me.’

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Echoes rippled in the corners of Sam’s mind and he cursed himself for a fool, because if he had dreamed, as she claimed, he could not now recall anything of it.

‘It is alright Sam,’ the lady Anadriel whispered soothingly. ‘I have seen all that you have seen. Nothing has been lost.’

Now that he looked hard Sam could just see in the dimness a sparkle and light rays where the flames from the fire caught the glitter of polished gold at the Oracle’s neck. That was Nauglomír he saw, whose enchanted stones were lesser kin to milky white Nenya and the other Rings of Power, and it was the necklace that endowed Anadriel with her gifts of prophecy and divination.

He coughed as he sat up, his knee joint clicking with a noise as sharp as a snapping twig, and his limbs ached and he felt each and every one of his hundred and three years weigh heavy upon him.

‘Sam, your body’s age means nothing here, for it is your mind that is important,’ she told him, reading his thoughts, and despite his unease he laughed and he said, ‘well, that ain’t been up amongst the best any time, never mind now after all these years have eroded half of it away.’

‘Your mind is strong,’ she told him firmly, and her lack of humour and the tone of her voice bade him fall silent, and then, as she seemed to him to shift and ripple sinuously like a snake behind the gauzy screen, her voice changed and it grew deep and powerful so that it did not seem to be her speaking at all. It was a voice that was familiar to him but he could not place it, though an old buried memory tugged at him: ‘The tunnel you have seen is a gateway between two worlds. It is a bridge, but I do not know if it represents a true way or if it is but metaphor. A signpost. As to the Galogaban you have seen, that creature has not been known in the World since the earliest days of the First Age when Ilúvatar realized there was a mistake in the First Symphony and corrected it by first

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banishing the Soul Stealers to sulphurous caves beneath the Sea and then requiring Ulmo to blow his white sea-shell horn and raise the Ulumúri to wreak upon them their utter destruction.

I think that its presence represents an ancient evil that has particular relevance for you Sam but I do not think that the answer lies there. It is but a part of a greater whole.’

‘Does the answer lie in Gondor then do you think?’ Sam asked her eagerly. ‘At the Kings hall perhaps? For I remember Gandalf said that this new Age was going to be the first that would be ruled by Men. It is logical surely to seek the answer at the court of the king of Men?’ ‘No, Sam,’ she answered with certainty; ‘Gandalf the Wizard waits far from Middleearth across the Great Sea in the Western-lands. I say that because I believe that your dreams are sent by him, even those where the appearance takes on the form of nightmare and terror, for I think, and indeed I feel it, that they are the dreams that he himself dreams. They have the feel of the vision about them and I think that you are not seeing what has been or even what may be, but what is.’

‘It is possible that many evil things of Sauron escaped through tunnels that run beneath Mount Doom,’ Sam mused, thinking hard, his brow furrowing. ‘In fact I have been there and seen them for myself.’ The memory of it brought a shudder into his bones. ‘I have also heard this of late. There are rumours abroad and it is only a few days since I met a couple of Rangers from out of the south who spoke of this.’

‘No. It is more than that. The Black Rock you have seen has a name and a living identity. It has put up a barrier that I cannot penetrate; and only a great power can do that.’

‘But many have had the dreams,’ Sam protested loudly. ‘How can they be specific to me alone? These meanings that you seek to ascribe. And how can it be that Gandalf waits somewhere in the West? Gandalf is gone away to the Undying Lands!’ And though Sam was angry as he said it he knew inside himself instinctively what the truth and the answer was, and

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he knew also what he must do and what was expected of him, and he was frightened of all those ‘might be’s’ that opened up before him in his mind. ‘Gandalf has returned, hasn’t he?’ he said in a small weak voice that sounded hollow as dead wood.

‘Who can say,’ the Oracle sighed. ‘Gandalf is Gandalf and his care for this world and his sense of duty would not end even were he still living in Aman, far beyond Tondë Alquímon si Ralâval*. The Istari were sent to counter Sauron. It may be that he has returned or it may be that he sends the dream out from the Undying Land. I do not know for certain, other than to tell you that if he is indeed in the Undying Lands then he cannot return to the mortal world and is therefore so constrained, and if he is in the mortal world he is lying under some other restraint of his person. What I can say for certain is that he is not to be found in any part of Middleearth, for Middle-earth belongs to the Atani and many are the Ages of the World set aside for the sons and daughters of Aragorn and Arwen. If Gandalf were here he would not need to come in dreams or send visions and nightmares to wake us up.

‘No, if you will seek him, as I think that you must, and as he clearly desires, then you must go to the Western-Lands and ask for the city of Calabròd. I see that name clearly in my mind. It is there, across the wide Ocean, though folk in those lands consider it a mythical place.

In Calabròd under blessed Eärendil you will find the answer. As for the dream and the specific nature of it, you are correct; it is not specific and yet is specific to you. It is for you alone and yet many have been touched by it. That I do not understand.

Sam reflected upon this for a moment before he spoke. ‘I do not understand that either Oracle. If it is for me alone why then have so many experienced it, all up and down MiddleEarth? And as for taking ship to the Western-Lands,’ he sighed deeply, ‘that is a very big step, and anyway I thought that the Undying Lands lay to the west.’

*

In the language of the High Elves this means Boiling Sea, or Mist of Steam, and it is said to be an impenetrable barrier that only the White Ships can navigate, lying between the Western-lands and the Undying Lands beyond the Eldamar Straits. See: Map 1.

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The Oracle laughed. It was a thin shrill piping sound that grated harshly on Sam’s ears.

‘The dream is undoubtedly meant for you, but I fear that because Gandalf may be imprisoned, as he was at Orthanc by Saruman, or is somehow held under some other restraint, perhaps under enchantment, another more practical means of sending a message cannot be employed.

We do not know in any great detail the nature of the West. I think his vision is simply reaching out across all of Middle-Earth and is dropping here and there at random, sort of spilling out from the main, by accident or possibly more in hope than anything else. As for the Undying Lands, their nature is not easily understood. They were a part of the world at one time, but only loosely, and now they are gone away far beyond the mortal spheres. Even when they were a part of the world they lay away beyond the uttermost shores of the Western-Lands. Indeed, if you do decide to go to the Western-Lands you will find it is not so different to Middle-Earth I think. The continent has no less a vibrant life than does your own world. There are many diverse kingdoms with histories and glories and tyrannies of their own.’ She chuckled. ‘For too long have the folk of Middle-Earth lived their lives in ignorance of the West continent, and that is never more true than for the folk of the Shire, who do not seem to care much what happens beyond their own narrow borders. Perhaps,’ she said with a mischievous little chuckle, ‘there is another Red Book waiting to be written.’

Sam laughed loudly and shook his head in disbelief. Then he asked her bluntly: ‘Do you seriously mean to tell me that you believe the dreams and nightmares with which I have been afflicted, and which have also afflicted folk from Gondor to far Esgaroth, have all been accidental spills from a message meant for me alone? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘That is what you have paid your five gold coins to learn,’ the Oracle said simply, ‘and it is the truth, for the Oracle cannot lie.’

Sam was stunned into a moment of silence. Then he sighed loudly. ‘The Rabbit’s Paw is like that. Truth masked by metaphor.’

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‘What on earth does that mean, Sam?’ ‘It is an old story, nothing more. I heard it first in Gondor. The fable that tells of the old man and woman who found a severed rabbit’s paw that was reputed to grant the finder three wishes? You must know it.’

‘No, I have not heard that story,’ Anadriel said briskly. ‘Tell me. I would like to hear it. It is seldom that I am entertained.’

‘Very well I shall – and will levy no charge upon you,’ Sam sighed. ‘Well their first wish was that they would receive a lot of money, and soon. They were old and tired and very poor and the only joy in their lives lay with their son.’

‘And did they? Receive a lot of money I mean.’

‘They did,’ Sam said solemnly, and then his voice fell to a whisper. ‘On the very afternoon of the day that they made their wish their lord informed them that their beloved son had died in an accident at the lord’s tower, where he was labouring, and in recompense for the loss of the beloved son he gave them a bag of coin. As you can understand they were distraught at the loss of their only child and so, seizing up the rabbit’s paw, the old woman wished for the return of her son.’

Anadriel whispered now also. ‘Did the son come home?’

‘He did,’ Sam said. ‘It was late. The dead of night, a black night of storms and evil portent. The old couple heard a shuffling shambling noise outside their front door and a grunting and then a hammering on the door.’

‘The son?’

‘Sam nodded his head. ‘Come home. But, back from the place of the dead and not any more the son they had known.’

‘What did the old couple do then?’

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‘Why, what else could they do? The old man used the third wish to banish the returned son,’ Sam said grimly.

‘Why now, Sam, that is a fine tale but it is somewhat gruesome and it does not have a happy ending, as most Hobbit tales tend to.’

‘Neither will this tale of ours, lady. Anyway, it is not a Hobbit tale,’ Sam said simply.

‘Oracle, am I to take it that the meaning you divine from my dreams is that I am to sail to the Western-Lands and find a place called Calabròd? Simply that?’

The Oracle chuckled lightly. ‘You Hobbits. Everything always reduced to its simplest element. Simply that? Yes, and no.’

‘Yes and no!’ Sam snapped. His back ached as though he had been lying in the same position for an age. His head throbbed with the afterglow of the Lissua she had fed him. His throat was dry and, the worst of all, he was starving. ‘You speak in riddles. And expensive riddles they are too.’

‘Five gold coins!’ she retorted, and for a moment the room darkened. ‘I shall tell you something hobbit, I sense a great and powerful evil lurking at the corner of your dream, - and now it hath found me too. As to my riddles, I do not know what the answer is. This is not so simple as when Frodo took up the Ring. Things were clear then, if perilous. Here is the Ring, there is Orodruin. Take the Ring there and cast it into the fiery bowels of the Earth. All that I can tell you Sam Gamgee is that you must take ship to the west and find this city, this Calabròd.

After that I do not know.’ Then she added, sarcastically, ‘do a bit more sleeping and dreaming when you get there. If you get there.’

At this, with the notion occurring to him that this grand mysterious lady was just as vulnerable to criticism and reproach as any other, and just as tetchy and prone to tantrums as any hobbit-maid, he burst out laughing, at which after a moment she joined him. She said, ‘I have never yet made the acquaintance of a Hobbit who has not had the power to irritate and

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antagonize me.’ He said: ‘forgive me, Oracle, for it is just that I am as bewildered as ever I was on that day at Bag End when my listening in on the conversations of others landed me in bother, or in Rivendell, when the same did the same, though truth to tell there are many high and mighty folk as are right glad that I did, aye, and not the least Mister Frodo Baggins himself.

But I tell you also, and it is true as true can be, I miss them days and I miss my dear Frodo so much that I can hardly say. Yet those days and absent friends are just distant memories now for a tired old hobbit.’

‘Old and tired you may be, Sam, and it is not for me to say anything concerning why it is a halfling hero whose memory has outlived the lives of many men of this new age, should be chosen again. I know only that you have. I will say this: I think that if you do not go you will never again be able to live with yourself and you will quickly wither.’

Sam considered that for a moment. He sighed, and then muttered, rather absently, ‘them kids’ o’mine is all that I have to remind me I was ever alive. Yet if I do not go Oracle I fear that you are indeed right. I will wither and I doubt I will live a year more, so they will lose their old dad anyway.’ He sighed again, deeply. ‘How long do I have before I must leave?

Do you know?’

‘Alas Sam,’ said she, very sadly, for she knew how he loved the Shire and how he more than most deserved a peaceful and revered old age. She felt a great wave of pity wash over her for this brave doughty old hobbit, for she knew what her next words would mean for him. ‘You cannot tarry long for there is no ship that will cross the Great Sea once the winter ice blocks begin to sail south. You have slept here four days under the spell of the Lissua. Now time is pressing.’

‘Four days!’ Sam exclaimed. He ran his hand through his hair, fingers tugging with exasperation. So much time had passed. He should have come earlier to consult her. ‘That makes it the, let me see, oh dear! It is the thirteenth of September. It will take at least, oh six

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days to get through Bree and back home to Bag End, and then another day or two to pack, and four or five days to get to the Havens and find a ship. That may take a week. Mercy me, it could be gone the end o the month afore I get a ship.’

‘There is one other thing,’ she interrupted him. He looked up at that, staring hard, trying to penetrate the sheen of gauze that shielded her. She said: ‘I sense that your son will play a prominent role in all that is to happen, and I do not mean simply as a traveling companion. No, I think that there is a prominent part that he is destined to play. I saw a great banner emblazoned with the legend of a spider trapped in a cage raised up on the spout of a flame licked volcano and the hand that grasped it belonged to you but your features were hidden by a white mask.

That is the sign of a son.’

‘Frodo? Tickler?’ Sam frowned. That was something that he hadn’t counted on, yet he could hardly gainsay the Oracle.

‘I think not the child of your loins, Sam.’ ‘Cuspin? I had intended taking him along with me anyway.’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘I cannot see what possible part he can play in anything, whatever that anything may eventually turn out to be. He is woolly and his head is always up in the clouds,’ he told her.

The Oracle chuckled, but she refrained from reminding Sam of what he was like when he was but a callow youth. Instead she said, ‘it is time, Sam. This has been pleasant for me, and I hope that we may one day meet again and spend longer together, but now you must leave.

Quickly.’

‘Yes,’ Sam sighed and rubbed at his back. His limbs were protesting as he moved. ‘I do not know if it is destined that I will ever return, Oracle. Indeed, there is probably no divination that is needed to tell me that I shall not.’

There was a long silence. Sam could not see her but he knew that the Oracle was watching him intently, and though he waited in the hope that she would say more she did not.

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Instead, the light in the room died and the fire suddenly sputtered and went out and he was left alone in the darkness. Behind him a cool breeze tickled the hair on the base of his neck and quickly he turned and left and went outside to where Murch waited with his pony. Without exchanging a word with him Sam mounted and then galloped away back towards Bree.

Sam and Cuspin left the Prancing Pony in an uproar of confusion. Nob had two lively young hobbit size ponies saddled for them, but because Cuspin did not know how to ride the Horse-Master Arkoff was summoned. He pondered the problem for a few minutes and then came up with the solution that Cuspin should simply be tied on to the saddle in such a way that, whilst it would undoubtedly be very uncomfortable and undignified for him, it would suffice to hold him firmly in place and hopefully he would keep up with Sam without falling off and breaking his neck.

Food was thrust into the saddle-bags and their rucksacks tied behind them beside their bed-rolls while they looked down upon Nob and Eric and Horse-Master Arkoff and his bad tempered assistant Obasi.

‘I have long missed my home at Edoras beside the cool clean Snowbourn and it does much for my old heart to meet a friend of the Rohirrim,’ said Arkoff as he shook Sam by the hand. ‘My granddad was at the Pelennor.’

‘Your folk are the noblest in all the world,’ Sam told him, then he noticed the serving maid Jessie peeping out from an upstairs window and smiling coyly at Cuspin. He laughed loudly and called out as he trotted his pony clip-clopping down the street towards the gate.

‘Come you away now, Cuspin lad. Farewell Nob, do not change the old Pony too much and do not let them change you.’

‘Look after yourself Sam! And you Cuspin,’ Nob called back to him. ‘And don’t you worry about Esau and Hobby, they will find their own way home.’

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In later years folk still spoke about that ride home to the Shire from Bree of the hobbit hero Sam Gamgee and his companion, their ponies flanks foam flecked, their hair and cloaks billowing in the wind of their passing, the one grim faced and set of purpose, the other with a look of pure terror on his face while he hung on for dear life over the neck of his wild eyed beast. But that was just a very small part of a very much larger story.

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Chapter 3

FAREWELL TO THE SHIRE

By the time that they were finally ready to slip away it was the twentieth of September, but yet Sam and Cuspin had to wait a further two days, until Tickler went off to the South Farthing on a patrol with the Watch. Sam’s suspicious and protective second son was ever watchful and while Sam appreciated his concern he did not consider for one moment that he should take him into his confidence. Tickler had an obstinate nature, and despite himself and despite Sam, he was fast developing into a, what for want of a better expression must be termed a civil servant. He was a rubber stamper and a stickler for the rules. His dad was too old for adventuring and that was that, so far as he was concerned. Sam, for his part, could not be doing with explanations and argument and so he embarked upon his subterfuge with care and the collusion of his two eldest daughters.

Cuspin was sent on ahead of Sam to wait for him at the White Swan in the small village of Pincill, which sat at the foot of the Tower Hills and was not far from his eldest son’s ward.

He took most of their luggage with him piled high on a pony’s back. They were confident this ruse, of Sam’s seeming inactivity and no visible signs of preparation for adventuring would sufficiently allay Tickler’s suspicions so that he would feel content in leading his Watch troopers down to Sarn Ford on their annual long patrol. Still, Sam felt anxious because he had learned from the Rangers Caniega and Aludan, who stopped in at Hobbiton on their way back from Lhûn, that if they were going to get a ship it would not be from Lhûn after all. For there were few ships harboured there and those that were were lying in for winter refitting. They

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might get a passage from Díen at Harlond, but that port was a further seventy or so miles farther west from the Gray Havens and for hobbits on foot that represented a four day march.

A further matter for consideration and something that was weighing heavily upon Sam’s mind was the fact that the two Rangers had been unable to find any sign at all of the Dwarves. As far as the folk of the North knew or were aware there was not one Dwarf left in any of their ancient halls and mines in the Blue Mountains or Ered Luin. Sam couldn’t help but think about what Anadriel had told him, and with deep foreboding for the future filling his heart, he understood at last what the tale of Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel truly signified. He knew also what the dreams meant: the Ages of the Elder Races truly was at an end. It was a case of go away to the Undying Lands and preserve dignity and long life or stay and die. The world now belonged to Men. Although this was a conclusion that was not entirely pleasing to him, and it opened up the prospect of there being not one jolly Hobbit left alive in the world in the years to come, and now it seemed that the Dwarves were gone and nearly all the Elves too, yet he would let none of this alter his decision to sail to the West to seek for Calabròd.

On that last day when Sam did leave Bag End he spent the morning playing with all seventeen of his boisterous grand-hobbits and everything was jolly and happy and hobbit-like.

He hugged them all, even when they were wriggling and giggling or pulling at his ears or pinching his nose. Little Hazel in particular he clutched close to his bosom, for he had never gotten to know her as well as he did the others. She was very young and very shy, like her mother Goldie, and while he held her, hugging her tightly and struggling to hold back his tears, little Frodo and Merry and Bilbo shrieked with laughter at some joke and his son Pippin’s wife Harriet suggested that they all go off for a picnic down to the Farthing Stone. But of course that was not to be.

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He said his goodbyes to them all in his own way, for they did not realize that he was saying goodbye, and then he drew his eldest daughters Elanor and Rose away to the door at the end of the corridor that led to his part of the End. They knew already what was afoot. They had collaborated with him in his deception, and in particular in making certain that Tickler would not discover anything was going on, for they knew that once their old dad had made up his mind on a thing there was no deflecting him from it. They did not agree with his decision to go off but they were good solid dependable hobbit-maidens, like their mother, and they did not attempt to stand in his way. He felt a great weight removed from his shoulders when the girls assured him that they knew what was to be done concerning the arrangements he had made in case he did not return and he felt better for knowing that he could rely upon them utterly. He knew also that his eldest, the dependable Frodo, would know what was best for them all and would conduct himself accordingly. He was more like Gaffer Gamgee, Rosie used to joke, than ever Sam was. He was sensible and solid as a rock, a good hobbit, and the thought of it comforted Sam. After, he went to his sitting room and sat down for the last time and lit a pipe and wept as he smoked; and when the feelings of helplessness and abject desolation left him, which was not soon and was not entirely, though the room was so overwhelmingly comfortable and familiar to him and he really did not want to leave, he forced himself to put on his shirt of Mithril, and a clean white woolen shirt over that, and a bright green waistcoat and a tweedy jacket and his elven cloak on top. He paused for a moment to look at himself in the mirror, then he fastened his sword Sting at his side, took up his walking stick, weighted it in his hand for a minute, paused again, sighed, then went straight out the front door and down the garden path and through the gate, which swung behind him, and away up the hill he went.

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He was pleased that the weather had cleared and that the heavy rain that had been falling for two days had given way to a dry snap.

The sky was clearing and the sun was slithering

down and there was the promise of a cool pale evening to come. At the top of the Hill, just this side of Overhill, he stopped and turned around and gazed down at Bagshot Row and Hobbiton.

The gardens looked splendid still and the yellow rays of the late day’s sun dappled the slopes to his left.

He leaned on his walking stick and allowed his thoughts free rein to wander: it was strange, he thought, how it was impossible to really know anything about the true nature of folk and what went on inside their heads. Gandalf was right, of course, in his assessment of Hobbits, and Sam could hear the old Wizard’s words coming back to him across all the long years from that voidless place where such memories are kept stored: ‘You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you at a pinch.’ At a pinch they could, in fact, do anything, and Sam hoped and prayed that even if the world did change and was given over to Men somewhere there would still be a place for a Hobbit or two.

‘Farewell old girl,’ he whispered, and then he climbed over the bank and the wall at the side of the road and pushed through the old gap in the hedgerow and walked away down the hill towards the Water and the West.

The old man lay quiet under his heavy blankets. His white hair was fastened in a bun on the top of his head, his beard trimmed neat and short, white like the hair on his head. His ancient eyes were glazed over in his lined and creased face and the mark of imminent death was evident in his every ragged breath.

The fire in the room was banked high and the deep windows were covered with thick dark curtains specially brought from the storage cupboards for this occasion, almost as though

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the mourning time had already begun, for they swished and sighed with every passing breath of wind that snuck in between the old panes of warped glass in the frames of the windows. Far above there was vaulting that gleamed with silver inlaid with lines of colour. The bed dominated the room but it was otherwise mostly bare. But mostly isn’t bare and lining the walls were busts that stood on plinths of marble, depicting exalted and revered ancestors, for this was Myirrâ, the Hall of Death.

Into that place strode Olwynn Prince of Rohan, shrugging from his shoulders his thick fur cloak and letting it fall irreverently to the planked floor. He was tall and broad shouldered and narrow in the hips and his face was youthful with bright eyes framed by long flowing blonde hair. Yet, though he looked boyish, there was something sad about the eyes and in his face that spoke of some half-forgotten grief, and that was true for he had held his mother and two sisters in his arms as they died from fever when he was but a boy and the memory of it had never left him.

He unbuckled his heavy sword and handed it to the nearest Eoérmâs, then ordered them, ‘Out!’ and as the white robed priestesses filed past him, six of them, he added, ‘the last sound the Warden of the South Marches of Rohan hears in life should not be the sound of wailing women.’

He went quickly to his father then and kissed him tenderly on the brow and whispered, ‘Dark indeed is the hour, Edeomas my father.’

‘It is only what comes to all men,’ the old man whispered back hoarsely. He placed his hand into that of his son’s. He looked into Olwynn’s face and his pride in this strong handsome son could not be disguised and it brought tears to his eyes. The Prince would have wept also, for the love between father and son was great indeed, intense almost since they had shared the loss of wife mother and daughter sisters, but the old man said, ‘no, my son. No. I have done all the weeping that needs to be done, for I am not like others who on reaching an old age are content

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to leave the cares and the ills and the pains of this life behind them. And, too, I have something to tell you that you should know. It concerns what may ultimately be your destiny.’

‘Father, there is much rumour concerning these visions. Some folk are saying these queer dreams are the mark and sign of devilry.’

The dying man smiled weakly and said, simply, with deep certainty, ‘They are not.

They are not. Now listen you Olwynn. Long is our memory of the day when our people came from out of the East of the Mountains of Mist, and strong and fair were we when we entered the histories of the Westlands. It was the fire and glory of the Twentieth Century of the third Age of the Sun, our coming. But few there are now who know just how far we came or what were our true origins.

‘Father,’ Olwynn interrupted him gently.

‘Why do you not listen?’ the old man said testily, a frown creasing the parched yellow skin of his brow. He squeezed his son’s hand and he was earnest as he spoke. ‘The old do not learn from the young, and that is not right, but that is because they think that they know better.

The young will not learn from the old, and that is not right either, but that is because they are convinced that they know better. Certainty is nothing without experience. It may be that you are right and I am wrong or that you will be proven right, but as these are my last words to you in life, and tho’ the tale is old and familiar, I pray you indulge me and let me speak, for it is the last time I shall hear it myself. It is the recital of lineage you will make over my resting barrow.

Your voice must be heard.’

Olwynn smiled then and nodded his head and whispered, ‘it will be so father.’ He squeezed his father’s hand. It was a recitation he had heard often when he was a boy and he had to swallow and fight back his tears as the old man spoke: ‘We descended into the Vale of Anduin then, between the Carrock and Gladden, led by our great and honoured chieftain Frumgar. We were named the Éothéod and we were the

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greatest horsemen in all the wide world. Our line was ancient and proud even then. The son of Frumgar was named Fram and he slew Scatha the Worm, a dragon of the Grey Mountains. Of Frumgar’s line was Léod and his son Eorl the Young, who first tamed the horse Felaróf, sire of the Mearas, the prince of all Horses. Eorl led the Éothéod cavalry into the Battle of the Field of Celebrant and crushed the Balchoth and the Orcs who had broken the shield-wall of Gondor’s army. In reward of that rescue Cirion, Ruling Steward of Gondor, made a gift of the southern province of Calenard-hon (which was called the Mark) to the Éothéod, who came south willingly and ever afterwards were known as the Rohirrim, the ‘horse lords’. Eorl became the first in the line of Kings of the Mark, and we are the lords of this richest of rolling grasslands. Glory there is in our line. And though you have been pre-destined to kingship and though Elfwine seeks for you to take the throne and though the Rohirrim wait for you to lead them, I bid you Rohan go to the King Elessar and seek his blessing for you must take ship for the West! To the West where was sired Frumgar’s grandsire and his grandsire’s’ ‘The West, father?’ Olwynn said with a chuckle. ‘I thought the hope ever was that we would take our spears into Rhûn and make a funerary pyre of the barbarian city Cněrtne.’

The dying man coughed frenetically for a minute and Olwynn held him in his arms until the racking coughs subsided. ‘Your destiny lies in the West. I have seen she who will be the Queen of the Mark. Oh, my son, but she is the most beautiful Elf maiden that has ever drawn breath and felt the sweet wind of this world in her hair. She has the fairest face and blonde hair the colour of the Sun and eyes as green as the Sea and her form is comely and soft. Her name is Emá and she waits for you in the West. The West, Olwynn. It is from her the greatest of all dynasties will spring. I see it! Without her our people will have no future, nothing! You must go. All our long history awaits this, Olwynn, I feel it. All that hath gone before is but prelude.

You must return to our past to find our future.’

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‘I will go to the King and I will seek counsel and I will speak with my friend Dagomir.

And yes, my father, I will go to the West.’ And though it was much against his instinct and his better judgement he soothed the dying man with a promise and a solemn oath his nature would never allow him to break.

Then the great Warden of the South Marches smiled and was content and he drew a last breath and then he died.

‘And we will name our first born son for you my father. Edeomas he will be,’ said Olwynn. His tears rose and he laid his father’s head back down on to the white pillow and he kissed him gently on both cheeks and then he turned away and looked upon him no more.

He went out into the corridor and left the doors standing wide open and at once the Eoérmâs set up a great wailing and filed past him. A host of people waited there, including his uncle Lurmaż, the Warden of Adorn, and Olwynn went straight to him and kissed his cheek.

The Death Master Addua was there and Olwynn asked him in the formal manner, aware that he was now more than he had been in the eyes of all gathered there, ‘Is the pyre ready?

Lord of the Dead is the gray weed prepared?’

‘It is, lord,’ Addua replied, his dark eyes and his manner suitably somber and respectful.

Méola, his father’s groom was there too and to him the prince said, ‘Méola, I bid you have Infillitatis saddled for me and ready. When we have seen the lord Edeomas smoke risen and his ashes in the earth I leave at once for Gondor.’

‘Lurmaż said, ‘Elfwine the Fair has retreated to his mother’s citadel at Dol Amroth, my nephew. He is no true son of Eomer and Lothíriel. He does not want to rule anymore and he has bequeathed the kingdom to you. You cannot listen to the rantings of a dying man and abandon your birthright and your responsibility.’

‘Uncle, I am Prince,’ he said, ‘but I am also a man and I will obey the last command of the Warden of the South Marches. Edeomas, your brother and our Lord.’

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Then he sighed and after a moment added, ‘As to the kingship, if Elfwine wishes to abdicate in my favour then so be it. My first act, ordered before these gathered witnesses, is to appoint you my uncle to be my regent. You are First Marshall of the Riddermark. If I return from out of the West Rohan shall have its king and if I do not then the Eorlingas will have you.

Make what you will of it uncle for they shall have to do likewise.’

And Lurmaż did not gainsay that command, for though his ability did not match his ambition, which was great, as he watched his nephew ride out later that night he knew that he would not pray too hard for Olwynn’s safe or speedy return.

Sam and Cuspin did not tarry at the White Swan, though Sam would in other circumstances have wanted to stay there and enjoy a pint, even though they were recognized by two hobbits from Waymeet out on business.

‘You’ll stay and have a drink at least,’ one fellow said.

‘Business to be about. Very sorry,’ said Sam, as he pushed Cuspin out the door, a half a mug of beer still in his hand. ‘Very urgent matters to attend to.’

And when Sam and Cuspin had vanished away out the door the one fellow turned to the other and said, ‘thought he was still Mayor?’

‘No, you daft hapworth,’ the other said. ‘Him ain’t been mayor for six year.’

‘Well now, where’s he going in such a dang fire hurry?’

‘Shires at his back,’ the second fellow said thoughtfully, sucking on his pipe and scratching at his hairy feet at the same time, ‘sea is at his face. That’s them Gamgees for you.

I do expect he is off adventuring again.’

The first fellow thought about that for a moment then shrugged his shoulders and muttered laconically, ‘Bit long in the tooth for that malarkey.’

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And that is exactly what occurred to Sam and it was how he felt as he and Cuspin led their heavily laden pony across the gentle, rolling, but somehow incredibly bleak moorland that fell away in an increasing decline to the rocky cliffs that lined the length of the gulf of Lhûn.

The wind sloughed in the waving grass and here and there the shoreline dipped down to a cleft, in which a small fishing village or hamlet could be seen nestling and shivering in the lee of the black rocks and the choppy dark water, but they were few and far between. More often than not there was just the rippling windswept grass and the thorny yellow tipped gorse fringed edge of a two or three hundred foot sheer rocky drop.

Inland, and reaching all the way across the grasslands to lap at the feet of the Blue Mountains there were croft houses where the people who worked the peat fields made their home. These folk lived out a harsh existence, dwelling as they did on the high exposed seashore plateau where the wind from the Great Sea blew cold and fierce through all the seasons, so that not even the rough wattle and mud their crofts were made from kept them warm indoors in summers that were wet and winters that were bitter and in a bad year murderous.

For living they went out onto their peat fields and cut and turned the sods in long lines with their wide-lipped shovels, then left them to dry out under the wind, before finishing the process in timber storage huts that lined the western face of the mountains to the east and in some cases were built up and into the long valleys that clawed into the foothills. The peat made for good fuel and the ‘Boggies’, as the peat dwellers were known, and not in a respectful way, ekked a meager living by taking their carts to the fishing villages that lined the Lhûn and the Western shore of the sea. Sometimes they would travel as far as the Shire, but more often than not trading with the Shire and Bree folk was done from Pincill, where hobbit merchants would take possession of a pre-arranged and packed cargo and pay the ‘Boggies’ either in cash or trade goods. The Shire folk considered it a welcome opportunity and excuse for a pint at the White Swan but the peat diggers would never stay long enough to have a drink or for anybody

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to get to know them, so that over time they developed an evil reputation and many scurrilous and unfounded rumours abounded concerning them. At Pincill they were avoided by local folk and often calumnised terribly.

Whatever was the truth concerning the ‘Boggies’, and in spite of the icy cold wind that blasted in from the sea and the heavy gray overcast skies and the spittery rain that blew across the Lhûn, Sam informed Cuspin tersely that they would not be seeking a bed for the night on either the shore or inland. Instead, they spent two miserable nights huddled under the canvas of their little tent; gazing out at the night through the fluttering flap to where the white peaks of Ered Luin sat lonely and forlorn in the north while the wind tore at them and howled like a banshee. To make matters worse for them they had to endure prowling wolves that were only kept at bay by the sputtering flames of the peat fire they made, but though this provided the pony with a little warmth it meant also that one of them had to remain awake through the night to keep the fire fed and in this task they took turns, sitting outside shivering while the pony whinnied in nervous fear.

Finally when they came off Eris-lindon and descended down a steep path to the little port of Díen at Harlond they were both thoroughly miserable and feeling quite dejected. To the south and east the sky was iron gray above the jagged mountain peaks while to the north white striations pregnant with snow melded with Forlindons distant milky greens and purples.

Out in the west across the hazy curved horizon of the Great Sea heavy black clouds sucked water from the ocean surface and grew blacker and heavier still.

‘Crikey,’ Cuspin said brightly, doing his best to lift the mood. ‘Did you ever see that much water in your life, dad? Where’s it all coming from?’

‘The only place I want to see water is in a mug all mixed up with oats and barley and that’s called beer,’ Sam snapped back at him, raising his voice to be heard above the wind, then

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adding, a little more gently, ‘I know an old tale of the Sea that I once heard from an Elf-friend, Erestor, in Rivendell. Maybe I shall tell it to you, Cuspin, later if we get warm and settled.’

‘Lor! Mister Mayor, sir, but you are fair lucky to have known all them elves and magic folk, but of em all of course, and for me, it is the elves.’

Sam stopped dead in his tracks and turned very slowly and glared at Cuspin, who said, ‘oops. Sorry dad, I only say it when I get excited or scared.’

‘Then don’t get scared and don’t get excited! Calling me that might get us in all kinds o’trouble. I am Mister Underhill and you are Master Underhill, not Mister Mayor, nor nothing else! Mister Underhill it is, right?’

And with that Sam turned away and stamped off down the path followed by Cuspin, who tugged at the pony’s rein and was muttering and moaning. ‘Most folks would be pleased and take it as a compliment. Not him, no, not Mister blessed Underhill.’

The port of Díen was hardly worth the title of port, or even village, Cuspin thought.

The place consisted of one line of mean wooden huts that seemed to serve as houses. They did not have any windows that could be seen and only doors and holes in the roof, out of both of which issued thick billowing smoke that curled up towards a darkening sky. These holes provided the only illumination and fresh air, where it could get in past the smoke that poured out. In some houses the door and the hole in the roof was augmented by a tiny air vent cut crudely into the planks but these were just odd higgledy piggledy gaps filled in with homemade paper or sailcloth. At the end of the line of three dozen or so rude homes stood a lone two storied structure of cut pine daubed and streaked with whitewash which, though no respectable hobbit would ever consider living there, seemed to be the main place in this nasty little settlement.

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Mangy dogs barked at them and ran out and worried the pony as they passed and Sam struck out at them with his stick while Cuspin hissed ‘gertcha!’, and heads popped out of doorways and eyes regarded them with disinterest for a moment before ducking back inside.

Mud sucked at their feet as they walked and a baby cried in one of the houses and a man and a woman shouted and argued in another.

The men of Díen were hard and the place was hard and so the women and the children became equally hard. Living on the edge of the sea the men knew it for what it was; an implacable opponent. They were neighbours to the waves, they sailed across its surface, and they knew that whether it stole their land and their homes, their ships, their lives, by the sudden, savage assault of a single ferocious storm, or the relentless attrition of a thousand tides and a million breaking waves, the hunger of the sea could never be assuaged. There was not a one among the sailors of the port who did not have a woman and bairns in the village or in one of the surrounding hamlets, but their lives and their hearts and their souls did not belong to their sometimes acquired families, but to the sea. They were hard men, careless of their own lives and uncaring of others. The families that they left behind when the season was high and good and they were out abroad on the water did not look to them for succour.

In the season the whole village, entire families, decamped inland for the fruit picking, pea and bean harvests, sometimes helping the ‘Boggies’, leaving the port deserted. There was also winkling, eeling, turnip-pulling and a score of other seasonal tasks. It was such a poor mean place that instead of using their hard earned coin to buy peat the farmers they worked for would let them, once the harvest was gathered in, collect spent stalks, to be dried and used as winter kindling.

Waves lapped at the pebbly shore and shifted a mass of salty smelling rubbish back and forth in the oily water and small boats bobbed up and down in the swell. The spirits of the two hobbits sank because the only vessel of any size or note was a long narrow galley type ship

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with overlaid planks running above and below a bank of a dozen oars. There was a single tall mast and on it a stringy sail was three-quarters furled and flapping in the breeze. Even with the ship tied up against a wooden jetty it still rolled in a way that did not inspire confidence.

They were standing beside the pebbles and stones and rocks at the shore when a cough from behind caused them to turn. They were confronted by the sight of a sinister looking man dressed in a frayed brown leather tunic, red trousers tucked into knee length boots, and a short velvet cloak that had seen better days. He had only one arm and his face, which had little scars here and there like small rivers on a map, was a mask of barely disguised cunning. With his one hand he fingered the earring that dangled from an unnaturally enlarged earlobe. He noticed Cuspin staring at the big heavy chunk of gold and he explained, with a big false smile on his face. ‘Gold, little master, gold. But not merely an ornament for the dandy sailor. It has a practical purpose also. If a sailor boy is shipwrecked in a foreign place he will have a bit o’something with which to buy passage home or at least a bit o’food, and sometimes it will buy him his life. That is why you will see most sailors with gold in ear, nose, mouth, or nipple.’

‘I see, thank you,’ Cuspin said politely.

‘Shire folk be blowed,’ the man said, an oily smile on his face, ‘and looking for a ship if I have it right.’

‘And you are, sir?’ Sam asked him.

The man delivered a small bow and replied, ‘Bhakshi is my name, and I am proud to inform you that I am the Master of the Leaping Porpoise. Best ship to ever sail the northern seas.’

Cuspin was suitably impressed and he grinned hugely and said, ‘My name is Cuspin-’ ‘Underhill,’ Sam interrupted him brusquely. ‘My name is Sam Underhill, and this is my son, Cuspin. And, yes, we are looking for a passage.’

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The man Bhakshi raised his eyebrows and, if it were possible, his grin widened. He was not very tall for a man but he towered over Sam and when he spoke it was with a voice smooth as silk on soft satin. Then let us go to my office.’ He chuckled and pointed. ‘The Silver Salmon Inn. There.’ It was the white walled house to which he indicated. ‘Come, we will drink a beer or two and discuss the nature of your journey and the terms for your passage.’

Sam at once thought the man a rogue, a liar and a scoundrel, but he said anyway, ‘Lead on.’

The pompously titled Silver Salmon Inn was a grubby windowless malodorous drinking hole filled with a dozen or more ragged scruffy surly looking sailors and a single buxom serving maid who was hurrying back and forth with trays laden with food and mugs of scummy looking ale. The fire that burned in the hearth was cheery enough but it seemed that most of the smoke was blowing back into the room and the place was cloying with clouds from it and from the numerous pipes that were being puffed.

They ordered and ate a meal of greasy chicken and lukewarm potatoes and carrots, which they shared with Bhakshi, and which Sam then paid for, then they settled down to business. The beer was weak and flat and their only real comfort lay in their pipes, though Cuspin found that if he wished to escape the stinging smoke he was periodically forced to retreat outside.

‘Well now, little master,’ Bhakshi said and slammed his mug down on the table.

‘Sam,’ Sam told him icily.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘My name is Sam.’ ‘Just so.’ Bhakshi smiled. His eyes clearly noticed Sting, which Sam deliberately allowed to peep out from beneath his jacket, just to let the man understand that he was not

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someone who could easily be bullied or cheated. ‘My apologies - Sam -, what passage is it that you seek?’

Sam noticed at this point that whereas his and Cuspin’s presence in this rat hovel had hitherto provoked a deal of curiosity and polite smiles and nods of the head, now, at the sound of that question issuing from Bhakshi, all eyes in the room were averted from them and folk suddenly seemed conveniently to be doing something else, anything else, or were looking in another direction.

‘We wish a passage to the Western-Lands,’ Sam stated simply and without formality or preamble.

Bhakshi whistled and said, his voice filled with incredulity, ‘the Western-Lands,’ and he rubbed at his shoulder with his good hand, where the stump was, and he whistled again, and still the other men pointedly ignored them.

‘Is it a problem?’ Sam asked him.

‘Pah! Is flying to the moon a problem?’ Bhakshi countered.

Sam made to rise, muttering all the while ‘I am in the business of buying a passage. If you cannot help me,’ but Bhakshi stopped him by quickly reaching out his hand and placing it on the hobbit’s shoulder and said, ‘No, let us not be too hasty in this, Mister Underhill. I did not say that I could not help, only it will be a difficult journey you understand. No, indeed the Porpoise can make that journey and take you there. Landfall at the Port of Perit in the South Riding of Arning. Yes, if we catch the tide tomorrow morning. Three weeks, maybe a month at the absolute outside.

‘A month!’ Sam spluttered. ‘That long? Is the sea so wide?’

Bhakshi grinned and said: ‘Mister Underhill, clearly you have no knowledge of the sea.

That is a two thousand mile journey you propose, crossing the widest wildest sea in all the world without a sight of land before the Môrellís Ice Islands. This ain’t a boating trip up the

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Nenuial you are talking of here, my friend. An’ besides there is many a skipper wouldn’t even consider it at this time of year an’ no questions asked I ‘aspect. Am I right or am I right?’

At that moment Cuspin burst back into the room and sat down heavily beside Sam. He chuckled as he caught his breath and said, ‘Dad, you just gotta see that thing they have parked out yonder.’

At the sound of this the men in the room looked up almost as one and they glared at Cuspin for the most part, though one or two smirked. Bhakshi said, easily, lightly, ‘That is the Porpoise that you will be referring to lad.’

‘I had a feeling that might be the case,’ Sam groaned.

‘You would do well not to take things at face value, little lords. Why,’ Bhakshi said, his face a mask of hurt and reproach, ‘I have heard much of the deeds and the doings of you Periannath folk in the War, yet I would not presume to look and say, “why, these are of little account” without first I knew something of you and what it is that you have the capacity to.’

Sam and Cuspin looked suitably chastised and Bhakshi glanced around at the other men. ‘The Leaping Porpoise may look a little the worse for wear right now, but that is because she has been hard used these past weeks, and, yes, I daresay she could do with an overhaul, but for all that she is swift and sound and her design is Mithlondish. She was built under the very eye of Cirdan Lord of the Falathrim himself.’

‘It did not look like a White ship to me,’ Sam said doubtfully upon hearing Cirdan’s name spoken. ‘I noticed it as we walked the shore.’

‘I did not say that it was,’ Bhakshi retorted; ‘but she was made in the shipyards at the Havens and under the direction of Cirdan and anybody who knows aught of Elf-lore knows that he was the greatest shipwright ever to live. When all the Elf folk abandoned Mithlond and sailed away they left some of their ordinary ships, if they can be called that, and the Porpoise is one such. Sixty-footer. Solid.’

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‘So, you are sure that it will get us to this Perit place?’

‘Dad!’ Cuspin exclaimed.

‘Shush!’ Sam told him sharply. ‘If you cannot hold your tongue then you can go off running back to your brothers and sisters.’

Cuspin fell silent at that rebuke, not a little shocked, for he had never before experienced his dad to be quite so harsh and stern in his manner Bhakshi grinned and replied, ‘The Porpoise will get you there good and safe and she will surprise you as you cross the Great Sea in her.

That is, if the price is right.’

‘And that would be?’

‘Dependent upon how deep is your desire, Mister Underhill,’ Bhakshi replied with a shrewd and lascivious grin creasing his chops. ‘Twenty-four rowers. Navigator. Ship will need a complete refit over the other side an’ we won’t be setting out to come back much afore next spring, for I do not kid you in this, Mister Underhill, she will take a battering in the crossing. That will mean lodgings for, now let me see -’ ‘How much?’ Sam asked him bluntly and impatiently.

‘Fifty-five gold.’

All eyes in the room were now turned on the two and there was an aroma of quiet expectancy in the air, as though this single moment was the most important in all of their lives.

‘Thirty, Gondor pieces,’ Sam said, saying it in such a way that let Bhakshi understand that there would not be anything much in the way of haggling, and though thirty pieces of Gondor gold was a fortune, the equivalent to three thousand Bree crowns, Bhakshi tried anyway: ‘Forty.’

‘Thirty,’ Sam countered firmly, ‘and that is a take it or leave it. I desire a passage sir but I could also do with my warm fire at home, a good pipe and a mug o’my daughter Rosie’s cocoa. So, what’s it to be? Thirty or nothing.’

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Bhakshi shook his head and looked suitably pained, as though he had just suffered physical hurt, and he gazed around the room at the faces of the other men. After a moment he shrugged and tutted and thrust out his one good hand and said quickly, ‘I am being a fool, as these lads well know, but I am a bit soft when it comes to folk in need. Thirty it is Mister Underhill.’

‘Done,’ Sam said and shook the outstretched hand.

‘Right lads,’ Bhakshi called out at once, at which every man in the room stopped what he was doing and stood up. ‘Korula, find Lurbitz and let him know that we have a morning passage,’ he ordered, and immediately a small dark haired man with rings in his ears and his nose and his eyebrows said, ‘at once Bhakshi,’ and left the room.

‘Narnom,’ a tall blond man now said, who though young looking seemed to have some authority with these men, ‘torches lad. Quickly, there is much to be done if the Porpoise is to be sailing with the morning tide.’

‘Right you are Greg,’ the man Narnom said as he too left, and just as quickly as the first man.

Sam was suitably impressed by this flurry of sudden activity from the men and Cuspin too was reluctantly able to put aside his sulk and his earlier doubt as to whether the Leaping Porpoise was a vessel that could successfully navigate the Water let alone the Great Sea. Quickly now all of the men left, without touching any more of their drink, all hustle and bustle and infectious excitement, going out into the night to prepare their ship for a long sea journey and a dawn tide. Only Bhakshi remained with the now much reassured Sam and Cuspin. The barmaid brought them more beer and Bhakshi raised his hand and said magnanimously, ‘No, no, let me pay for these,’ as Sam puffed contentedly on his pipe.

‘Well,’ Bhakshi coughed nervously, as he took a drink, ‘it only remains to, ah,’ and he licked his lips like a wolf before a helpless lamb, ‘well, thing is, the lads like to get their money

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up front. Lets em leave enough to provender their folks through the winter an’ in case anything happens to em. If you get my drift.’

Sam nodded and reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out a red leather pouch that bulged wide as Bhakshi’s eyes. He opened it and counted out thirty gold coins onto the table between them, then placed the pouch back into his pocket.

‘Lummee dad!’ Cuspin whistled. ‘The Hill is full of gold and jools after all.’

Sam chuckled and ignored him and produced another pouch, from his inside pocket this time, while Bhakshi scooped the coins up in batches and put them into his own pocket. From the second pouch, which was blue, Sam counted five Bree pennies, which he set down also on the table before the man. He said, ‘I would be very obliged to you Master Bhakshi if you can find someone to look out for the pony. Cuspin will unpack our gear.’

But Bhakshi replied with a big smile on his face, ‘Don’t you be worrying about that Mister Underhill. The lads will see your gear safe stowed an’ I know just the lass to care for your beast.’ He said this as he weighed the coins in his hand before depositing them safely away out of sight. When all the coins were gone Bhakshi rose and tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Lots and lots to do,’ he said.

‘You are coming back for your drink, captain?’ Cuspin asked him. ‘I would like to hear a bit about what it’s like to be out there on the wild sea. Before I have to see it for myself.’

‘Alas, young master,’ Bhakshi replied, pausing at the door and addressing them in a very serious and businesslike manner. ‘Your Captain needs to get some sleep an’ I would advise you both to do the same. By this time tomorrow night we will be far over the horizon, out of sight of all land, and that can be a very scary experience first time round. Now you just settle back an’ enjoy a beer an’ a smoke, cos’ I know that you little folk likes your pipe, an’ when you are ready for shut eye let Clair over here know an’ she will show you to your beds.

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An’ as for getting up, well now, I shall be sure to let Greg know what time you are to be wakened, and that will be before the dawn light.’

When he was gone an excited Cuspin sipped at his beer and forgot all about the thick cloying smoke that rose up from the fire and hung in mucky clouds in the air above them. The rigours of their trek from Pincill were forgotten momentarily and the buxom barmaid smiled at him and winked and he blushed and thought this the most exciting time of his life, which till that moment it was. He knew he would not be able to sleep for a while and so, remembering what Sam had promised him earlier, he said, ‘Come on then, dad.’

‘Come on then dad what?’ Sam replied, frowning, his feet now propped up hobbit fashion on the chair before him.

‘That tale o’the sea, dad,’ Cuspin elaborated; ‘after all, we are going to be out on it tomorrow, and in an Elf ship, or as near an Elf ship as can be got.’

That was true, Sam thought, and at least if he told Cuspin about the Teleri it might help to calm him down, for he was certain that the reality the morrow brought would prove to be much less glamorous than the young hobbit evidently now believed it was going to be. He closed his eyes for a second, before saying: ‘Very well, Cuspin, but give me a moment for it has been a very long time since I heard the story myself, and though it is said that an Elf-friend cannot forget a tale once it is told, I am old and my memory is not what it was. I am not Bilbo, or even Frodo for that matter, both of whom had the power to recall long after the stories they heard and the incidents that happened in their lives in the smallest detail.’

And though this is not exactly how Sam told it to Cuspin, for his memory did fail him a little, this is the story of the Teleri as Erestor told it:

‘There were three kindred of Elves who in the years of Stars undertook the Great Journey from the East of Middle-earth to the Undying Lands. The first two were named the

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Vanyar and the Noldor, and they were the first of the Elvenhost to reach the Undying Lands beyond the Great Sea and the Western-Land and the Straits of Eldamar. The people of the Third Kindred were the Teleri; their destiny differed from the first two Kindred, for they were the largest in number of the Elven people and so their passage was slowest across the lands of Middle-earth. In the course of the Great Journey the Teleri became a scattered and divided people.

At the Marchlands of the West of Middle-earth the Teleri tarried and stood back in fear of crossing the Great River Anduin and the Misty Mountains. Some Elves broke away and went South into the Vales of Anduin, where they lived for many centuries. These people were named the Nandor, and they took one called Lenwë as their lord.

But the main host of the Teleri continued westwards, over the Misty Mountains and the Blue Mountains, to the land that was later named Beleriand. It was then that the greatest division of the Teleri occurred. They were all encamped in a great forest beyond the River Gelion, when they lost their king, Elwë Singollo, who alone among them had seen the trees of the Valar in the Undying Lands. Elwë walked into the forest of Nan Elmoth and there, enchanted, fell under a spell of love for Melian the Maia. In that spell he was held, though years passed and his people searched for him. A part who called themselves the Eglath, the ‘foresaken’, would go no further without him. They remained faithful to him until, at last, he returned with Melian his bride. The Eglath were renamed the Sindar, the ‘Gray-elves’, and under this union of Elf and Maia they built the most powerful kingdom of Elves on Middleearth in the Years of Starlight.

But long before King Elwë returned, the larger part of the Teleri had taken his brother Olwë as king and had gone west again to the Great Sea. There they awaited some sign from the Valar that would bring them to the Undying Lands. The Teleri waited a long time on the shores of Middle-earth and grew to love the sea under the Stars. While on the shores they sang

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songs sad and brave. Of all the Elves they were the loveliest of singers, and loved the sea the most. Hearing the Elven-songs, Ossë, the Maia of the waves, came to them and sang to the Teleri of the waves and the sea. They learned much from the Ossë of the ways of the sea and their love for the sight and sounds of those turbulent shores of Middle-earth increased.

So it was that, when Ulmo the Ocean Lord came to the Teleri with that rootless island that was his ship, once again some of the Kindred forsook the Journey. These were named Falathrim, the ‘elves of the Falas’, who, for the love of the shores of Middle-earth, remained.

They chose Círdan as their lord, and they settled in the havens of Brithombar and Eglarest. In later years they were the first shipbuilders of Middle-earth.

The greatest part of the Teleri went West with Ulmo, though Ossë pursued them and sang to them and would not let them forget the blessings of the seas. Ulmo, seeing how they so loved the waves, was loath to take them beyond the reach of the sea. So when he came within sight of the Undying Lands he did not take them ashore but anchored the island to the Bay of Eldamar, within sight of the light and the land of their kindred, though it was beyond their reach in the west of the Western-land. Once again the Journey of the Teleri was stayed, and for an Age they again lived apart from their kindred. Their language changed with their stay on Toll Eressëa, the ‘lonely isle’; the sounds of the sea were always on their tongue, and their language was no longer that of the Vanyar and the Noldor.

The Valar were, however, displeased with their brother, Ulmo, for they wished to bring the Third Kindred to the actual shore of their realm. At their bidding Ulmo relented and he sent Ossë to them once more. Reluctantly Ossë taught them the art of building ships and, when the ships were built, Ulmo sent to them vast winged Swans, which drew the Teleri finally to Eldamar.

The Teleri were grateful to reach their Journey’s end at last and great indeed was the welcome they were given. The Noldor and the Vanyar came from the city Tirion upon Túna

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with many gifts of gemstones and gold. And in time the Teleri came to know the Light of the Trees and the Wisdom of the Valarian people.

Under their King Olwë, they built beautiful mansions of pearl, and ships like the Swans of Ulmo, with eyes and beaks of jet and gold. They named their city Alqualondë which is the ‘haven of Swans’. Remaining close to the waves they had learned to love, they walked the shore or sailed on the Bay of Eldamar. The Teleri were a happy people and so they remain; their ships constantly sail out through the arching sea-carved stone gate of their haven and city. They know little of war and strife; their concerns are with the sea, with ships and with singing. These are their chief joys.

War came to them twice, and each time it was unlooked for and unexpected. The first time, according to the Aldudénie*, Fëanor, lord of the Noldor, came to the Teleri of Alqualondë, desiring their ships to go to Middle-earth so that he could avenge his father’s death and regain the Silmarils from Morgoth. King Olwë denied him his wish, however, and so the fierce Noldor slew many of the Teleri and took their ships. This was the first slaying of Elf by Elf that had ever been known. It has always been counted a great evil and has been held against the sons of Fëanor ever since.

Only once more did the Teleri of Alqualondë in any way test themselves in war. This was the War of Wrath when the Valar, the Maiar and the Eldar went to the Great Battle at the end of the First Age of the Sun and defeated the rebel Vala Melkor, whom the Elves named Morgoth. But even then Teleri did not fight but only used their ships to carry the Vanyar and Noldor warriors from the Undying Lands across the Western Sea to the passage of Iamâlornë and thence to Middle-earth. Though they would help the Noldor, they would not die on their behalf on the battlefield for they well remembered the first Kinslaying on the soil of Eldamar.

*

The Tale of the Darkening of Valinor: ELEMMÍRË – ‘Lament for the Two Trees’.

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The Akallabêth+ tells that, when Númenor tore open the belly of the World with its Downfall, the Spheres of mortal and immortal lands fell apart. Thereafter only the ships of the Teleri could ever cross the gap between the Spheres. The fair, White Swan ships of the Teleri are a wonder and a miracle and the Mortal World has never since seen their like, though they still sail in the Bay of Eldamar and will do so until the Unmaking of Eä.’

‘That story real dad?’ Cuspin said, wonder alive in his eyes and on his face, so that the sight of the light in those round deep set eyes made Sam chuckle as he replied. ‘Cuspin lad, you are a constant surprise to me. You really are. Though you are no less my boy for my saying this, bless me but you are as full of curiosity for Elves and for far off places as I was when I was your age. And unafraid too to pick up and go off, while my own natural born sons and daughters ain’t got an adventuring bone in their bodies between the lot o’them. Lad, I don’t know if all the bones of that story is true but I daresay that the essence is there. What I can tell you is this: Erestor who told me the tale was there and he saw with his own eyes, and Elves don’t lie.’

Cuspin clapped his hands together in delight and cried, ‘So we are sailing away on an Elf ship in the morning.’

Clair the serving maid sneered and thought to herself, ‘More fool you you silly wooly headed fur eared loon.’

‘Aren’t you excited dad?’

Sam sighed deeply. Cuspin had entirely overlooked the reality, the state of ill-repair of the ship, the Leaping Porpoise, or the fact that they would be sailing with a one armed captain and a crew who until just a few minutes earlier had been in their cups in this very bar, and the fact also that they were proposing to embark upon a journey across the vast dangerous ocean

+

The Downfallen: Aûnaic (Númenor)

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at the tail-end of the season. The fire had burned low in the hearth and the barmaid was looking bored and tired. He drained his beer and looked fondly at the younger hobbit for a moment and then he told him: ‘Yes, Cuspin, I am excited. But I am also old and I am very tired.’

And as they went upstairs to bed they could hear the sounds of hammering outside and the voices of men singing above the sighing of the wind and the lapping of the waves on the pebbly shore.

Sam lay in a dark and troubled sleep, though thankfully it was not a sleep that was filled with the dreams and visions that had led him to Anadriel the Oracle; it seemed in his dream that he could hear his own small voice echoing in black tunnels, calling” Frodo! Frodo!” But instead of Frodo hundreds of hideous Orc-faces grinned at him out of the shadows, hundreds of hideous arms grasped at him from every side.

He woke. A man’s face loomed above him. A hand was shaking him by the shoulder.

‘Time to get up. We must go little master,’ the man was saying. ‘We must be clear to the Lhûn afore the sun gets up or we shall have some hard rowing.’

Cuspin was already up and washed and dressed but Sam was finding that his old age was suddenly a tangible dragging thing, a weight that made rising from the hard bunk an agony of aching limbs and wooly-headed lightness. He groaned as he splashed ice cold water on his face and he found himself muttering to himself. ‘Sam you old fool. Look at you. Hardly a foot forward on the journey and already you are knackered just from sleeping.’

Outside, the crew were already aboard the ship seated at their oars ready for the off.

The man Korula waited by the tall mast and there was another man stood there too, farther back beside the high-carved Swans head prow. It was a crude effigy of a swan that he held on to and it did not have the eyes or beaks of jet and gold that Cuspin had heard Sam speak of in the

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Tale of the Teleri. Sam did not really notice or pay any attention and he did not notice either that the man Bhakshi was nowhere to be seen on the ship.

The long slopes dwarfing the Lhûn were dark and hard-edged against the sky and in that still cool hour before dawn the moon had long gone down and only the stars glittered above them; the first light of day had not yet come over the dark hills that rose on either side of the Harlond. Mist lay out on the black oily water, brooding and chill looking.

Behind, the village lay in inky black silence and Sam noticed that the pony was gone from the post where it had been tethered. Stabled somewhere now he hoped. The beast had reminded him fondly of old Bill.

Cuspin was already in the belly of the ship seated on a plank between two stern eyed rowers, close to their rucksacks and the stowed bags of possessions and little luxuries they had brought along with them from Bag End; Longbottom tobacco and a bit of Southern Star for emergency, smoked ham, Scary cheese, thick warm woolen socks in case the nights froze over, thick undershirts, a good bit of rope, which Sam swore by when adventuring, and a host of other bits and pieces and quite a lot that Sam had not told Cuspin he could pack. But mainly it was all things that Sam deemed absolutely necessary in his experience to sound adventuring.

A man extended his hand and helped Sam to step aboard the rocking swaying ship and at once he was guided to sit down beside Cuspin. The man at the prow, a powerfully built black bearded fellow with faded tattoos on his hairy arms and a weather seamed face, a skull cap covering his head to the ears, grunted: ‘Be obliged if ye land-whallers stays sat down while we gets out o’the Lhûn.’

Then the ropes were cast off, the rowers took up their oars, and a voice called out ‘row!’ and the Leaping Porpoise slipped out into the silent harbour heading for the Firth some eight miles ahead of them.

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Sam huddled into his Elven cloak and marveled at the way it reflected the body’s heat to provide warmth to the wearer, and as a distant seabird wheeled and cawed and the gentle rhythmic sounds of the oars breaking the water with a splish splosh washed over him he closed his eyes and slipped into sleep.

The King wore his crown lightly as a rule, and that was due in large part to the fact that he had been a wanderer in wild places for most of the earlier part of his life, and he would always remain by nature a Ranger. He supposed that deep within his heart he would not ever want to be anything else.

He had always been a man who willingly accepted his

responsibilities, indeed he welcomed them, but now more than ever before he felt as though the weight of the entire world was piled on his shoulders. He stared out of the open window of the Tower of Denethor, beyond the great round pillars which flanked a marbled many columned and bright coloured royal residence in the partly rebuilt city of Minas Anor. It was the ‘Tower of the Sun’ and it was dedicated to the memory of the old Steward of Gondor, and it faced the craggy peaks and dark jagged slopes of the Mountains of Mordor, which loomed large before the eyes. For many years since the fall of the Dark Lord those mountains and the name of Mordor were no longer in a position to offer threat to the Reunited Kingdom or the folk of Middle-earth. But now Aragorn was less sure. Less sure, as reports were brought to him from all over Middle-Earth.

Arwen came to him and stood by his side and he shivered slightly, as he always did when she was close to him. He inhaled her perfume and felt the closeness of her, which was a close-ness in more ways than merely the physical, and briefly the feelings of disquiet left him.

They did not touch, for that would not be seemly while others were present in the hall with them, but even when they did not touch or were not together, which was seldom, always they were close.

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‘Undómiel, my sweet,’ he whispered, ‘can you feel the wind in the East? We will have a storm I think.’

‘I feel only the cool mountain breeze scented by the sweet garden flowers planted by Ilodïahorr. They are strong and hardy for they were birthed in Eldamar when the world was yet young,’ she replied lightly.

‘Caniega has found no trace of the Dwarves and no word of them has come from Dale.

Their halls are empty and the mines unworked.’

‘My kin are largely all gone away to the West,’ she told him; ‘why not the dwarf folk also?’

‘Perhaps,’ Aragorn said softly. ‘That may be right. But what of these visions that trouble the sleep of good folk? The reports are disturbing and the mention of Gandalf,’ he paused and shivered lightly as he added, ‘and Him. So many reports from so many quarters. I am unsure.’

‘Visions they are called by the wise and by those we employ to offer advice. Dreams of Gandalf and Sauron, they say, my darling. But that is foolish I say, and I have had the dream, remember.’ She blew a cool breath lightly at his ear and he shivered again and she smiled and chided him; ‘why, I can almost see Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf sitting in some library of the Blessed Lands arguing a point of historical importance, or some philosophical principle, before running off to my father for adjudication. How can this be Gandalf’s doing? And if it was why would he not simply send a message more easily and clearly understood?’

He sighed and smiled, though a deep frown remained furrowed on his brow. ‘You are probably quite right.

And I am probably being foolish and worrying overmuch and

unnecessarily. But so many things are changing. Merry and Pippin are retired and Faramir is in the ground at his beloved Henneth Annûn. Now Éowynn wants to go off to Dol Amroth to

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live out her days with her sister-in-law Lothíriel, and Elfwine has vacated the throne of the Rohirrim.’

‘Time moves on my love, as it must, as it will for us one day. Oh yes, even for us.’

‘Aye, he replied, his gaze never leaving the dark lines of the mountains, ‘I suppose you are right, but still. I have heard even Legolas has been enquiring about a ship at Pelargir.’

‘Come now, you have never been one for such introspection my sweet Aragorn. I tell you most frankly it is wrong to dwell in the past. You have won an honourable rest. Why should you have any cause for worry? Eldarion looks to the watch on our borders and he has many a sturdy captain at his side.’

He turned and grinned at her and said. ‘Still, I think that anyway I shall summon Uâidrr and take his counsel on this. Your words soothe me but they do not comfort me. And, my bewitching Elf princess, when next our daughter and her friend Dagomir come to you seeking our consent for them to sail away into the West I order you, so far as you will permit yourself to be so ordered, you tell them no.’

‘Eavesdropping again, my Ranger love?’ she reproached him mildly. ‘Tut, tut, I had thought that was a doubtful skill left behind when you became King.’

‘Nevertheless my darling, you will say no, if you please,’ Aragorn told her, more firmly.

Then he added, almost by way of an apology, and as an explanation: ‘I held Boromir’s hand at Parth Galen when he died all pierced with Orc arrows, and I was at Emyn Arnen when we burned the poor mutilated body of Dagomir’s father. I will not lose him too. It is more than sadness and ill-fortune that touches that family, Faramir excepted. The house of the Stewards seems a cursed line. Then there is Cerowynn to consider. I do not know how deep our daughter’s affection for Dagomir runs, but to them both, whichever is the instigator, I tell you the answer will be no.’

Arwen smiled sweetly and indicated with her hand and said, ‘Our guests wait patiently,

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my lord King,’ and Aragorn, as so often, deftly deflected by her, despite himself, laughed.

The Leaping Porpoise did not leap. The rowers sat leaning idly on their oars watching with careful eyes as the hobbit Sam positioned himself between the captain Lurbitz and the younger hobbit Cuspin, who himself was busy nocking an arrow to his small Shire bow. In Sam’s hand nestled a bright blade that reflected the rays of the new days sun, and despite his stature and the narrow confines of the boat for fighting purposes, he looked as though he knew how to use the sword and he seemed as though he would prove a formidable adversary in a fight.

‘We paid Bhakshi,’ Sam said, ‘and we only pay once for one trip.’

‘He’s bin working this dodge up an’ down this coast for years!’ a sailor called out.

‘An’ good at it he is,’ another added.

The dawn light was pale, diffused and shadowless, and a white fog swathed the water so that neither shore could be seen, though they knew that they sat in the middle of the ‘Teeth of Lindon’, which was the channel between Forlindon and Harlindon, right at the edge of the ocean itself.

Sam listened to the creak of the ropes and the timbers of the ship and the waves that lapped the two shores and the wind out on the vast empty seas that lay before them. It would seem that he and Cuspin had been very neatly tricked by the wily Bhakshi. The villain had probably split his ill-gotten gains with Lurbitz but the truth would equally probably never see the light of day and so it seemed that either they would have to fight, in which case they would be bound to lose, or else he would have to come to some compromise with these men, or else they would simply have to return to Díen. There was also the prospect that Lurbitz and his crew might just seek to relieve them of the remainder of their coin and throw their bodies

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overboard, but Sam detected a bit of decency in some of the sailors and he did not think that the captain would be able to do that without some objections being raised among the men.

The blond man from the previous night, the one called Greg, who in the morning light looked even younger than he had on the previous evening, informed them, quite reasonably: ‘We could not know that you had paid him the coin, for he loitered behind with you while we went to ready the ship. What went on after that is none of our concern surely.’

‘And I paid him a commission of three silver,’ the captain Lurbitz added.

‘So, we must pay you a further thirty Gondor gold?’ Sam said bitterly, and closed his eyes and huffed. ‘That almost cleans us out.’

‘It is either that or we will go back to Díen and you can go off and chase that scoundrel Bhakshi,’ Lurbitz snorted, ‘though you will not have far to look for him if you want him. The White Swan at Pincill will do unless he has changed the habits of a lifetime.’

‘You mean he doesn’t even come from Díen?’ Cuspin exclaimed.

The men laughed and Lurbitz replied, ‘Díen? No, of course he don’t. He ain’t never gone out on the sea unless he has been pressed an’ even then he jumped over the side o’the old Turtleclaw an’ swum ashore. Normally he plies his tricks from Pincill, posing as a ship agent, but folks chase him out every now and again, an’ then there is always the folk who go looking for him. You was just unlucky that you met up with him at Díen while I was indisposed.’

‘He said he knew somebody would look out for the pony.’

Lurbitz laughed again, but not unkindly, and this time he was joined by his crew, some of whom slapped their thighs and fair roared. Sam shoved Sting back into its scabbard and reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his money pouch. ‘Put that bow and arra’ down!’ he snapped at Cuspin.

‘Looks like old Bhakshi has got himself a ride as well as some pocket money,’ one of the sailors called out.

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‘Ah, come on,’ Lurbitz said, noticing the sharp look that Sam flung at the man, ‘you have been had. Get over it, or do we turn back? Makes no odds to me.’

I bet it doesn’t, Sam thought to himself sourly, and then he replied, firmly, ‘We do not,’ as he counted out the coins and placed them into the captain’s outstretched hand.

‘You don’t seriously think that a one armed man could skipper a beauty like the Porpoise do you?’

Sam ignored that and said morosely, ‘thirty.’

‘Right lads! Pull!’ Lurbitz ordered with a bellow. ‘Korula drop the sail as soon as you smell the salt.’

And with that Lurbitz pocketed the coin and pushed the tiller over while the banks of rowers pulled on their oars. Sam was surprised by how quickly the boat shot forward once they were clear of the land and moving out into the wide open sea. The sail quickly filled with air and was as taut as a bowstring and the wind whipped the peaks of the waves into white foamed caps. Salt spray stung their faces.

‘Hey dad!’ Cuspin shouted. ‘You think that the Teleri sailed like this? What a feeling, eh?

Korula, standing by the mast, busy tying a rope, called back, ‘This is like a millpond laddie. You wait till you get out yonder then you’ll really see something.’

The sky seemed to touch the tip of the mast in a welter of big puffy gray clouds and when Sam looked up at the fluttering blue pennant marked with a red and white striped Porpoise he felt his stomach lurch.

‘Don’t look at the sky or the sea,’ Korula advised with a chuckle. ‘Leastways not till we is a ways out.’

Sam nodded and looked back over his shoulder, hoping for a last glimpse of the shores of Middle-Earth, but away across the heavy chill choppy water a bank of thick vaporous fog

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hid the land from view and, despite the heaving in his stomach and the dizzy feeling that was muddling his mind, he thought to himself that this was now it. The adventure was truly begun, and though he did not want to admit it he was filled with foreboding for he did not think that he would ever see the shores of Middle-Earth again.

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Chapter 4

THE LEAPING PORPOISE

Sam slept, on and off and fitfully, for the better part of a week and a half, fighting, when he did waken, to keep down what food he managed to eat, which was very little and was for the most part spooned into his mouth by an insistent and well-meaning Cuspin, while the ship lurched up and down in tandem with his violently protesting stomach.

Great waves swept along the sides of the Porpoise. Occasionally they would splash up into the belly of the ship between the feet of the men, soaking everything before running away and out through the bilges. When there was too much of it sloshing around it was bailed out by men armed with great ladles and scoops. Fortunately the hobbits luggage was wrapped in oilskin sheets, but everything and everyone else was drenched. Sam hated it Cuspin on the other hand did not mind the weather or the tossing and pitching of the ship and he enthusiastically took his turn rowing when it was asked of him, shouting to Sam above the roaring of the sea and the howling of the winds and laughing manically at the bawdy jokes the sailors would call out. He joined in with the cooking, helping the man Goiter, who was responsible for the preparation of meals, and his ‘fry ups’ and his stews were considered the best ever by the men. The effect they had on Sam was to encourage him to throw up even more, which he did, often, much to the amusement of the sailors.

The crew easily took to Cuspin and he was considered something of a lucky mascot for them, growing particularly close to the blond man Greg as the days passed, for in Man terms they were very much of an age. When they could and the weather allowed they would play

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games and sing songs, while Sam lay miserable and shivering in the guts of the ship and the taciturn Lurbitz leaned on the tiller and scowled at the world.

One day, high above their heads a drama played itself out as a collision of icy cold air from the North with warm air from the Bay of Hador unleashed an unusually heavy snowfall from Andrast to Môrellïs, along with strong, bitter winds and icy temperatures. The Leaping Porpoise was blanketed in a thick sheet of snow and the men rowed to keep warm, going forward into a blinding wall of white from out of which came the ‘Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!’ of a large sea creature of some sort, the sound of which made Sam and Cuspin sit up and take fright, for it echoed in the air all about the ship.

‘Odomâ,’ Korula said by way of explanation. ‘She is large, a cow, maybe as long as ten or twelve men. Probably has a bairn with her.’

The ethereal ‘aooh, aooh’ continued for a long time, echoing across the waves from out of the milky white that was flaking and falling upon the black water. It was a baleful song but in the midst of that vast lonely nothingness it was a welcome sound for all that. It was beautiful to the ears, if terribly mournful, and Sam as he listened had the overwhelming feeling that the creature’s song was a song of suffering and loss long in the memory of the species.

‘That is a sad song,’ Sam commented, raising his voice to be heard above the background noises of the sea and the wind and the creaking of timbers to which they had grown accustomed now.

‘The death they get from the men of Forochel is not kind,’ Lurbitz yelled back at him.

The rowers stopped rowing and listened to the mournful song and the sounds of tail splashes as the gentle giant creatures passed behind them.

Sam and Cuspin rushed to either side of Lurbitz as he stood at his place at the tiller and there they espied a glimpse of a great broad back and an air spout that hissed steam. Then they caught snatches of a second, a third, a fourth.

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‘Why do the northmen kill them, Mister Lurbitz?’ Cuspin asked.

‘Profit lad, and living. Like everything that man does.’

‘Blubber, rich fat meat,’ the man Nornom added, twisting round to squint into the gathering gloom through the flurry of white that was falling across the world.

‘Aye,’ Greg sighed sadly, ‘and oil boiled out of ‘em in big pots, and their bones and skin. Even the blood is used.’

‘And teeth,’ another man said. ‘Baleen. Nowt goes to waste.’

‘That’s evil,’ Sam said, shivering in revulsion at the thought, and just as swiftly another thought came to him: Men did that and the world was destined to belong to Men, or so it was according to Gandalf and Elrond.

Lurbitz laughed harshly from above them. He was wearing a fur jacket and it was covered with ice that was beginning to sheet and harden. ‘Men are indeed born wicked!’ he called out. ‘Did you not know that Mister Underhill?’ Wicked indeed, and mad with it. You do not have to go far to find the dark soul of a man, Mister and young Master Underhill. Just ‘ave a look in his eyes!’

‘Not all men are evil,’ Sam retorted He was thinking of Aragorn and Caniega and Faramir and such as those when he said this.

‘Yes. Yes, indeed they are,’ Lurbitz contradicted him. ‘All, and each and every one.

It is instinct you see. Instinct! The need to survive when you are not counted amongst the strongest of the races. That’s what does it. And as for good men, Mister Underhill, why, they are amongst the saddest of all living creatures, and the meanest, for they hide their true natures away and try to deny their dark desires. But even they find it hard. Yes.’ ‘And are you evil?’ Sam asked him.

‘Evil?’ and at that Lurbitz laughed manically and the crew averted their eyes from looking at him as the snow fell all about him and the waves began to rise and the wind picked

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up. He stood at his tiller, standing high in the ship silhouetted against the white sheet that filled the air behind them. He shouted. ‘Yes! Oh yes! Indeed I am Mister Underhill. I am the most evil cutthroat to ever take ship. Slit yer throat for a Perit penny. Ha! Ha!’ Then he raised his voice and sang a terrible mad song of blood and war, and shuddering with fear the hobbits crept back to their place in the guts of the ship. Sam pulled the hood of his cloak over his head while Cuspin rolled himself into his blankets.

And silently now the ship sliced a path through the black water and the flurry of white crisp snowflakes and high above a big pale moon cast a long silver reflection across the rising waves. The wind was growing in its fierce intensity even as they raised their heads and watched and the white sheet of snow was blown before them, and seeing it the superstitious sailors set up a loud wailing chant that Greg called out to the hobbits was ‘a prayer to Ulmo the lord of the sea’.

‘Bank yer oars!’ Korula barked out the order as the sail billowed full with a loud crack and the Porpoise suddenly sprang forward and the waves deepened in their troughs.

Now the night grew even more fearsome for the storm that descended upon them was truly terrible. After some hours it stopped snowing abruptly, but that was not a blessing for the snow was replaced by a sleety rain that fell in stinging sheets and torrents while thunder rumbled and lightening strikes pierced the black sky.

There was nothing that they could do but run before the fury of the storm, and as they did so the fear filled crew clung to their oar brackets and the slippery wet side-rail of the ship and the gunnels, and the two hobbits cowered down in the bottom of the belly of the ship beneath the prow. This meant that as the ship slid down on the forward slopes of giant waves they were compelled to cling on for dear lives and were presented with a view straight up and

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down and from side to side of their vision of a wall of water that was the next wave the ship would have to climb.

It seemed to go on for uncounted long hours but eventually the heart of the storm rolled over the ship and passed away into the North-East. It was dark as darkness could ever get, even in the depths of a madman’s fantastical imagination; and torrents of rain cascaded from the gleaming square sail, and lightening counter pointed each peal of thunder which came upon them so hard and fast that it sounded like one long, booming concussion.

Lurbitz stood his place still at the tiller and his strong arms, muscles straining, fought the violent kick of the rudder as the ship continued to crest each wave, which though lesser than they had been were still big enough to destroy them if ill-chance allowed. Sam noticed the skippers gaze raking the mast top, the rigging and the straining sail, then it returned to the gray and dirty green march of the waves ahead of the bow. Then, unaccountably, he laughed loudly, for the storm seemed at last to have reached and passed its peak. He turned his face up to the sky and drank in the rainwater as it fell and allowed it to slosh around in his mouth and then he bellowed, ‘aah!,’ before spitting a fountain of water over the side. Then he shouted, ‘Korula! Get that sail stretched! Look at it man!’

You heard that skipper!’ Korula in his turn yelled at the men, and much too quickly, instinctively, two of them stood straight up, and at that moment a large wave which even in that sea was something of a freak, struck the side of the ship square on and knocked them sideways as though they were nothing more than a childs toy. The two men were thrown to the side and one of them pitched over and went straight into the heaving sea headfirst with a loud scream and a splash. An anguished cry echoed in the night and Greg turned to the captain and yelled, ‘Skipper! Quick, if we turn back now we can reach him.’

Another man called out: ‘For pities sake skip, throw on the till!’

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But Lurbitz only leaned the harder into the tiller and kept his gaze and his ship fixed firmly ahead. He gritted his teeth as the Porpoise plunged down and then climbed up another wave. The wind screamed. The thunder cracked. Lightning forked the skies. The drowning helpless lost man cried out for help and for his god and for any god that might offer salvation.

A sailor shouted: ‘Captain it is Barvin! He is strong! Please!

‘Go back!’ another cried out.

Lurbitz snarled at them. ‘We ain’t turning back into this wind. Now stretch that sail!’

Korula added his voice in support of Lurbitz. ‘Barvin is dead. He is dead an’ we is alive. Now, grab them there bracing ropes!’

Four of the crewmen grabbed the dangling ropes, more by instinct than from out of any desire to obey, and moments later the wind filled the wide sail with a loud crack and the Porpoise shot forward again, this time at what seemed an impossible speed. She jumped across a wave and landed with a juddering splash that fountained up both sides of the ship white and black and turquoise green.

Sam turned and looked into Cuspin’s fear filled eyes but neither of them said anything of the terror that was gripping them during this worst part of the hellish voyage. Sam smiled at Cuspin and he knew instinctively that the younger hobbit understood that even allowing that the man Barvin was obviously a popular fellow Lurbitz was probably right in his decision not to turn the ship back for him. An attempt at rescue might have killed them all. Instead Sam smiled encouragement at Cuspin and was satisfied when he received a smile in return.

The edge of the wind was blunted now and the swell lessened and the two hobbits raised their heads and gazed into the north and east to where the storm was striding away across the surface of the climbing seas to a place where a gray, opaque curtain of rain bound the black clouds to the surface of the water. The thunder was a distant rumble and the banked clouds were lit from within by stabs of lighting.

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Korula pointed and laughed and said: ‘Look. Alcarinquë.’

Sam and Cuspin looked up together and espied a single star glinting between the clouds and Greg said, ‘The Glorious. That’s what sailors call that star.’

The acrid smell of salt and vomit filled their nostrils and Sam, with water running between his toes, looked down nervously at the garboard strakes where the sea leaked in through bent and twisted planking. But Korula, who noticed where their passengers gaze had strayed, grinned and reassured them. ‘Don’t worry about that. We shall have that sorted in no time.’

Now peace suddenly descended and there was just the steady roll of the ship beneath them as it quickly left the storm behind and the waves became manageable. The crew sat morose and sullen and silent and, since it was now the middle part of the night, Sam pulled his cloak about his shoulders and despite the inches of water beneath him he tried to go to sleep.

Cuspin was confused and not a little disgusted. He did not understand these feelings; all that he knew was that a life had been lost in the wink of an eye, the snap of a finger, snuffed out by the unforgiving sea. What thoughts did that poor doomed man have? Did he have a wife? Or children? And Cuspin felt ashamed, for he could not now even recall the man’s face to his mind’s eye. So he sat there like the rest, silent and lost in his own thoughts, as the ship sailed relentlessly on and Lurbitz stood by his tiller and the night hours and the miles passed.

The morning dawned gray and cold. Off to their right, on the horizon, dark lines were etched against the sky and Greg pointed and said to Cuspin, ‘Look, Cusp, the Ice islands.’

‘Aye,’ Korula agreed, sniffing the air as though he could seek out land with his nose, ‘We will be in Perit in five days.’

Sam woke from a fitful sleep and with a grunt he sat up. He felt sick again, his head ached and his limbs were groaning and protesting against their very existence, and at that

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moment he truly did not believe that he was going to survive the journey. Being sea-sick for two weeks was one thing, the storm quite something else, and to come through the maelstrom unscathed but sick again, well that was just about the last straw so far as he was concerned.

Lurbitz did not seem to need any sleep. He looked down at the two hobbits and he grinned and said cheerfully, ‘Man short. One o’you boys will need to fill in.’

Sam groaned again, but Cuspin turned to him and whispered, ‘S’okay dad, you stay there and I will do it. Besides, I enjoy being a sailor.’ Then he looked up at Lurbitz and told him, ‘I will. Right then, skipper, what’s first?

‘First is grub.’

Sam felt his stomach heave at the very mention but the thought of it was worse and he fell back miserably into his cloak and pulled Cuspin’s blanket over himself. But his display did not deter Cuspin, who set up the stove and quickly had the fire going. By the time that a weak sun had rimmed the horizon he had cooked up a mass of sausages, thick greasy bacon and dripping fried bread, and the smells at once raised the spirits of the men so that as they ate the drowned man seemed to be forgotten and became a part of ships lore only or a subject for tall tales, a victim of a Kraaken maychance.

Lurbitz allowed Korula to take over the helm for the first time in what seemed days, while he lay down and snatched some sleep. As his snores rose the carpenter Nornom seized the opportunity to get to work with his carpenter’s tools and his oakum and pitch to repair the leaks.

After that the days passed quickly, ruled by the same steady routine aboard ship.

Occasionally through the day Cuspin would try Sam with a little food and just as regularly Sam would follow up his meal by heaving it up over the side. The monotony of the days was also broken when the ship was accompanied by the creatures of the sea, the frolics of dolphins and porpoises as they swam and leapt in the air alongside them, sometimes cutting back and forth

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in front of the prow as they sliced the water, the graceful intelligent animals seeming to revel in the games that they were playing. Once a great white and blue fleshed monster of a shark, twenty foot of trembling muscle and raw power, glided past them and Cuspin leaned far out over the side and caught a glimpse of a dead black eye staring back at him out of a void of malevolence and rows of gleaming razor sharp teeth. A hand reached out and wrenched him back, jerking him by the collar roughly, and Greg sounded a warning cheerfully: ‘Don’t lean out too far when old Sawney is in the water. He is as tricky as they come an’ will ave you faster than spit an’ afore you know it you is eaten up an’ in his belly.’ Cuspin grinned back at Greg and watched in awe as the great fish lazily flicked its tail and powered its way through the water away from them at incredible speed, and then he reached down and nudged a miserable looking Sam and said excitedly, ‘Here, you see that, Mister Mayor?’

Sam sat up suddenly at that and Cuspin looked just as suddenly abashed, but Sam did not say anything for he felt so miserable. He only glared at the younger hobbit for a moment then shook his head and hoped that nobody had noticed. Cuspin mouthed a ‘sorry’ and then turned back to his close examination of the ocean.

So they went on into the South-West across a calm deep sea. The men were never idle.

When they were not working on the rigging or baling the leaky belly of the ship or increasing or reducing the sail, they laboriously unpicked tangled, knotted masses of old rope, bought for pennies in Mithlond, then rolled them into balls of roper yarn which, like farmers twine, had a multitude of uses. Rope too worn to be treated in that way was picked into oakum, the soft fibers of the rope which was used in caulking the seams, painting and cleaning.

They sang songs and tried to match their tunes to the rhythmic thud thud thud of the waves against the bow, the liquid, musical sound of the water rushing under the stern of the ship and the creak of the timbers and the flapping of the canvas.

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After six days more they were gliding ghost-like past the coast of Arabor, the high cliffs of Torsrim and the Bay of Ness on their right alive with wheeling and dipping and calling birds, and warmer breezes blew into their faces.

‘Perit tomorrow,’ Lurbitz said, more by way of comment than anything else. ‘How ‘bout that then, Mister Underhill?’

Sam could not readily find a reply and neither did he want to. He did not feel quite so bad now that the end of the crossing was in sight, but he did not feel in any mood to engage in conversation all the same. Cuspin answered for him with a cheery, ‘You really do have the best ship in the world, Captain Lurbitz.’

Lurbitz laughed. ‘You want to sell this lad anytime Mister Underhill an’ I’ll buy him offa ya. Wouldn’t take nothing to make him a fair hand.’ Cuspin beamed a huge grin and then Lurbitz added reflectively, while grinning back at him, ‘Ain’t never known a halfling that could sail.’ Then he sniffed the air and added thoughtfully, ‘Winds seizing. Pick up your oars lads, an’ you there, Zarko Kilnmrin, give us one o’them songs you was taught by the old folk.’

They took up the oars then and as they swept closer into shore they were able to see quite clearly small woods and little white walled gray roofed houses nestling along the shoreline of the long gentle coast of Arning. There were numerous small coastal villages and watchtowers and here and there a tall lighthouse. Fishing boats dragged their nets close inshore and farther out on the eastern horizon bigger ships, festooned with sails, were sailing, leaning over into the wind.

The men pulled on their oars, enjoying the slightly moist warm air that fanned their faces, and Zarko sang:

‘He chanted a song of wizardry, Of piercing, opening, of treachery,

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Revealing, uncovering, betraying.

Then sudden Felagund there swaying Sang in answer a song of staying, Resisting, battling against power, Of secrets kept, strength like a tower, And trust unbroken, freedom, escape; Of changing and of shifting shape, Of snares eluded, broken traps.

The prison opening, the chain that snaps.

Backwards and forwards swayed their song.

Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong The chanting swelled, Felagund fought, And all the magic and might he brought Of Elvenesse into his words.

Softly in the gloom they heard the birds Singing afar in Nargothrond, The sighing of the Sea beyond, Beyond the western world, on sand, On sand of pearls in Elvenland.

Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing In Valinor, the red blood flowing Beside the sea, where the Noldor slew Their White Ships with their white sails From lamp lit havens, the winds wails, The wolf howls, the ravens flee.

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The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea, The captives sad in Angband mourn; Thunder rumbles, the fires burn – And Finrod fell before the throne.’*

Sam sat up. ‘Where did you learn that?’ he asked the sailor abruptly.

Zarko turned and regarded him curiously before answering. ‘An old lady taught me it when I did some work in the refitting yards at Mithlond after all the Elf folk went away. Don’t really mean nothing I reckon’s but it’s a good tune.’

Sam did not say anything more concerning that, but Cuspin glanced back at him and Sam perceived in his son’s glance that he recognized also what that song signified. It related in part the slaughter of the Teleri at the hands of the Noldor when they would not agree to give them passage to Middle-earth in their White Ships. Fëanor was the lord of the Noldor then and he it was who introduced beauty into the world, and Sam thought it so sad when Men sang the old songs without knowing what the words meant, and worse, when they did not care, and had even less interest in the lore; then truly was the world a world of Man. A world of ignorance and terror, Sam thought to himself: oh, he had little doubt they meant well enough; but he reflected, meaning well and doing well were two different things altogether.

The next morning they swung into the Port of Perit, just ten miles or so north of the headland that led into the wide Bay of Hador. The harbour lay some way up the River Arn, and so they furled the sail and tied it tight against the mast and then set to rowing as a cold north wind blew off the sea over a wasteland of creeks, marshes and mudflats. Between the

*

From: The Lay of Leithian (trans. Release from Bondage).

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banks of reeds and coarse sea-grass, thin streams, shining silver in the light from the cloud streaked sky, wriggled sinuous as eels across the brown, glistening mud.

Raised wooden walkways on timber piles threaded through the marshes, linking the berths and small jetties that lined the creeks. The carcasses of a few mouldering hulks lay on the mud banks, where they slowly suffocated under a relentless, choking tide of silt. Great fat haughty Albatross’ perched on them, airing their wings, as herons stalked across the mud probing with dagger beaks for frogs, eels, and fish.

The landing piers were two miles farther up the river in the heart of Perit, and as they rowed in Sam watched fascinated the fishing smacks making their way downstream on the swirling water of the rising tide, past a lighthouse on its rock and out into the main channel.

The cries of birds filled the air and the wind carried the sour, earthy smell of the saltings to his nostrils; he could almost taste the salt tang at the back of his throat.

Perit was the largest port of Arning, and in its commanding place at the mouth of the Bay of Hador, and by dint of its situation sitting mid-continent, it had grown to become a busy and prosperous city. The south bank of the Arn was lined with tall three storied warehouses and offices; there were docks and cargo ships, and wharves that were constantly busy with loading and unloading; it was a bustle of people and carts and all the noises of a lively trading center. On the side of the river where the Porpoise tied up were shops and inns and eating houses and market stalls and the perennial cries of hawkers.

The buildings were mostly brick, a gray sandy brick, with thick opaque glass windows and heavy leading and, much to the hobbits dismay, there was not a garden to be seen anywhere, though some folk kept window boxes.

There were no displays of sentimental farewells when they left the ship. The men said goodbye and one or two smiled, but only Greg offered to help them with their luggage, loading himself up with bags and parcels.

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Lurbitz said stiffly: ‘I daresay we’ll not meet again, Mister Underhill,’ and he emphasized the ‘Mister Underhill’ in a way that Sam did not like, then he added tartly, ‘common sailing folk like us ain’t allowed in the same hostelries as folk as has enough to pay the price of a sea passage. Still, all in all I suppose that you and the lad ain’t been bad cargo.

Look out for yourselves.’

Sam nodded seriously and Cuspin waved and then Greg led them away through the crowded streets, where their diminutive size and strange bright clothes provoked quite a bit of interest and comment, to a hotel that the local harbour-master recommended for them.

It was a clean place, two-storied and situated in a good street, homely despite its size, with waiting staff uniformed in white shirts. They were men and women who were distinguishable from those men and women that the hobbits were familiar with seeing only in the fact that their ears were somewhat pointed, almost in the fashion of the Elves. The staff at this place proved helpful and friendly and they were clean and polite, and they spoke a form of the common tongue that, though it was rough sounding to the ears of the hobbits, was easily comprehended.

Sam tried to pay Greg but he would not accept any payment. He hugged Cuspin for a moment and then went away down the street without another word, except for calling out over his shoulder, ‘I’ll look out for you at the White Swan at Pincill.’

Thus they booked themselves into the Starrs Hotel, which was a smallish but very respectable place that had the feel of a house rather than a place of business. Sam very skillfully batted away a flurry of questions that issued forth from the fat, squat, pointy eared, jolly faced and chubby cheeked Baril Starr, the proprietor. After a few minutes of gentle interrogation Baril Starr chuckled. ‘Well, suffice it to be saying, Mister Underhill sir, that business is always welcome at Perit and in Arning, for we are a trading folk. Though whatever you may hope to trade at a profit across the width of that ocean, bless me but I cannot begin to imagine. Still,

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what with the hotel just re-opened after cleaning and decorating you are our only guests. And if you intend going on up West, well really, as I say, I cannot for the life of me see what business you can be hoping to do in them wild places.’

‘An’ full of queer folk,’ a piping voice, a squeak really, echoed from the long staircase that led up from the entrance hall and a moment later there came into sight the proprietor’s wife. Mistress Starr was fat and jolly faced and but for her height she could easily pass for a hobbit matron. ‘We see all manner o’queer folk passing through Perit, what with being a port an’ all.’ She came up to them directly and stood and carefully regarded them, nodding her head, eyes squinting as she appraised them. After a minute she was apparently satisfied.

‘Hobbits, eh, that’s what you call y’self?’

‘From across the Sea,’ Sam explained.

‘Well, you seem decent folk an’ I don’t doubt you are. An’ just got in you say?’ Sam nodded his head. Mistress Starr gathered up her skirts and flashed her husband a withering glance and turned sharply on her heels, barking out over her shoulder, ‘Get you lively then Starr, wi’ them lazy loons of yours. The gentlemen need to be roomed.’ Then she stopped and returned to Sam and Cuspin, while her hapless husband came around from behind his counter.

‘You’re here for business you say?’ she asked them.

‘Just a spot of business,’ Sam answered, a little warily.

‘Well, as I say, you seem decent folk an’ it is no concern o’ ours what you are about. I pride myself I can spot decent folk when I see ‘em. Oh yes, indeed, we aren’t the sort to pry.’

An image of Mistress Millner and Maggot’s wife and a dozen more jolly fat matrons stole unbidden into Sam’s mind.

He flashed a warm smile at Mistress Starr and she

immediately took that as a cue and set to interrogating him and Cuspin vigorously, following close behind them up the stairs while Baril Starr and two of his people went ahead with the luggage. On the landing at the bedroom Sam very gently hustled the Starr’s and their assistants

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out of the door and when they were finally gone the two hobbits leaned their backs against it and listened until they were certain that they were finally gone away down the stairs. Then they laughed loudly when they heard Mistress Starr say to her husband, ‘Queer folk, Starr.

Coming sailing across the water like that an’ them being only half-people.’

‘I never thought that they really existed,’ Baril Starr replied, and upon hearing that the hobbits could hardly stand upright for laughing.

‘Well dad, at least we don’t have a problem with the language, and that looks a nice soft warm pair o’beds,’ Cuspin said.

Sam sighed and looked fondly at the younger hobbit as he replied. ‘Cuspin, I do think that you are destined to develop into a peerless adventurer. It takes but very little to cheer you up. But you know we cannot tarry long and soon we must be off again, probably into some danger or other and who knows what else beside.’

‘Right, so, when are we off dad? And where do we go?’

‘I have no idea,’ Sam replied with a chuckle, as he shucked out of his jacket and lay down on his bed with a satisfied, ‘aah.’

‘Dad,’ Cuspin said with a look of shock on his face, ‘what are you doing?’

Sam placed his hands behind his head and crossed his feet and wiggled his toes and closed his eyes. ‘I have been tossed and turned in that boat for nigh on a month and a half. My stomach is lying back there, probably on its way back home to Middle-earth, and not for one second did I think that we were actually going to survive to get here. Now I am here I am going to have me a kip. Wake me at teatime, theres a good lad, and if you do go out close the door quietly.’

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Just as he had done while at Bree Cuspin explored every inch of the Port of Perit on their side of the river. He went up and down the streets and the avenues and up and down lanes and alleyways, some of which were smart and chic and others dens and filthy squalorous illkept ghettos. In and out of shops he went, into libraries and museums, markets and inns, and everywhere he went he attracted attention, for the citizens of Perit had never clapped eyes on a hobbit before. Yet, for all that he was an object of curiosity, they were friendly enough. What did irritate him was how they constantly wanted to put their children next to him to compare sizes, and there were oh so many children.

In the afternoon he found himself standing outside a large grassed area where there was a tall building flanked by many columns and colored porticoes and with pillars painted with hieroglyphs and runes. Steps led steeply up to marble doors that he thought an impossible and thoroughly impractical size, even for a man. They were thirty feet high and ten feet wide. The structure they led into was the most impressive and awe inspiring building that he had ever seen and he was, which is only to be expected in a hobbit who had never hitherto left the Shire, suitably impressed.

As he stood there before it, the late autumn sun shining above the portico and the roof, crinkled red leaves flowing around his feet, he whistled in wonder and whispered to himself, ‘Well now dad, there ain’t no story or tale or any description o’far away places can match seeing this I reckon.’ Of course there were plenty of buildings on Middle-Earth just as grand as this, or even grander, but he had never seen them, and that was the point. If you do not see a thing it might just as well not exist, that at least was his big brother Frodo’s phlegmatic view of the world.

Almost in a trance he began to ascend the steps until near the top, when he was almost upon the marble landing that supported the tall pillars and led to the door, a man stepped forward and barred his way. The man was tall and dark skinned, with long hair that was jet

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black, braided and ringleted, and he wore a white and orange sarong. On his feet were brown leather boots and in his hand was a stout staff.

‘You may not enter Iógas temple, little man,’ the man told him firmly. ‘You are clearly not of the brethren and you have no leave.’

Cuspin placed his feet apart and stood his ground and retorted, ‘I ain’t a man.’

‘Oh.’ The man looked down to Cuspin’s hairy feet and then up to his eyes and he enquired, his tone a deal more polite. ‘If you are not a man, then, what are you?’

‘I am a Hobbit,’ Cuspin replied wearily. ‘From across the sea, in the Shire.’

The man considered that for a moment, then nodded his head, and said, much to Cuspin’s annoyance, ‘I have heard of your people, but you are the only such one that I have met with. I am named Ashur. I am a priest, a guardian of this temple. I did not mean to be harsh with you, or to have it appear so, but you see the penalty for entering the temple without permission is death. I forgive you for I see you are a stranger to our land. But there are some who would not be so forgiving.

Cuspin looked around him and said: ‘My name is Cuspin-Cuspin Underhill. I did not mean to break any law, even being a foreigner, as you say.’

Ashur beckoned him to come forward and when he did so the man knelt down and pointed to a pillar where the hobbit looked at a line of hieroglyphs that he was indicating, ‘It says: Here within lies Ióga, who was the first of the Kings of the released flame of Nowota on the ancient and blessed Isle of Andor tu Atalante.’

‘Interesting.’ Cuspin said thoughtfully, then added eagerly, ‘I am betting there is a tale to that. Something of your folk. I would hear it – if you would be willing to tell it.’

The priest laughed and answered. ‘A story, yes, I suppose, though we would describe it as more that just a story. It is a history of what brought the Arning came to this land many generations ago.’

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‘Me an’ my old dad need to learn as much as we can about these lands as we go on.’

‘Then I shall be pleased to tell it to you. But it is a long tale and we shall do better for sitting down while I relate it. We can have a drink and talk for in exchange I will want to hear something of this Shire of yours.’

‘I can tell you all about the Shire as we walk if you like, for my dad will be waiting for me and he will want to hear as well and I have walked far.’

‘How far?’

‘A place called the Starr Hotel.’

‘Mercy me!’ the priest exclaimed. ‘You have walked far. That is a walk and a half. It will take an hour at least.’ Then hitching up his sarong he said, ‘Well lead on then, and you can educate me on this Shire as we go.’

Sam joined Cuspin and the priest in the hotel dining room and they enjoyed a hearty meal together while the sun sank red beneath the rooftops and cats began to squeal and dogs to bark and the port seemed to shut up for the night. Sam was not entirely pleased that Cuspin had brought a complete stranger back on their first night in this strange foreign land, particularly since he was astonished at the obsequious manner the Starrs adopted whenever they approached their table to serve them. Obviously the priest was a man of some substance in the local area and when Sam raised it with him he chucked lightly and informed him airily, ‘Trouble is, the folk of Arning are pious and superstitious to a fault. They are not at all as you have so colourfully described the Hobbits of the Shire Cuspin. So I daresay our ways will seem strange to you at first.’

But Sam suspected there was more to it than that, much more, and as he puffed on his pipe and sipped a glass of very drinkable sweet apple wine, he decided he would not allow Ashur to become too cosy in with them.

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‘Hobbits cannot be described as pious, no,’ Sam laughed. He puffed merrily away on his pipe, fully agreeing with the priest. Then, thinking better of it and not wanting it to appear being over frivolous he added, ‘The men of Poros in South Gondor go in for writing using symbols and pictures and as I recall they have a legend of the fall of Numenor and the Diaspeiren. Much I know of the lore of the Elder races and I would be very much interested to hear something of the history of your people.’

Ashur laughed. ‘This is impious of me, I know, but the truth is I would not exactly describe it as history, if pushed to it.’ And he winked conspiratorially.

‘Well, never mind, let us drink and smoke and listen to this tale of yours anyway.’

Again Ashur laughed. ‘I am a priest. I do not drink and I do not smoke. But I do tell a good tale or two.’

Sam and Cuspin raised their glasses together and Sam said, ‘Well, we do.’

Ashur looked around the room, but most of the other guests, such as had been there, had retreated into the bar or were otherwise maintaining a respectable distance from the priest and the hobbits.

‘Very well,’ said the priest, ‘then I will tell you of a time not “once upon a time”, but in a time that is long past, at the turn of what I know the men of the East call the First Age, but which we call the ‘Rising’. There was a great island raised up in the center of the Midrin Ocean, what you hobbits have referred to as the Great Sea. It was given as a reward by the god Basmorda, whose domain is Vilenna, in the spaces between the Heavens and the Earth. Four Kings at that time together ruled an empire in this realm; and the first king dwelt in Mittalmar; the second ruled in Foroster; the third ruled in Nabonna; the fourth ruled in Hyarrostar; but the richest of the four was the King, or Nab, of Nabonna, whose capital city was glorious Matelmarma.

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‘Now the Nab of Nabonna was the possessor of all the gold and silver and copper of the region. His treasures were carried to the other lands to be sent to the great Lords of the West, whom the people revered. Also, envoys arrived in his court from eastward, from over the sea, by ship. And in his part of the island he held domain over many peoples and all of them believed the Nabonnians to commune with the Gods: these subject peoples forged for the Nab iron weapons and furnished slaves by the many thousands for his court.

‘But now, although this king was the richest man on Andor, his life was the saddest and the shortest of all men; for each Nab of Nabonna could rule but a brief span of years.

Throughout his reign the priests every night observed the stars, made offerings, kindled sacred fires; and they were not to miss a night of the prayers and offerings, lest they should lose track of the stars and not know when, according to practice, the King was to be killed.

‘And so, once again, as so many times before, that day arrived. The hind legs of sacrificial bulls were slashed; the fires of the land were extinguished; women were not allowed outside; and the priests kindled the new fire. They summoned the new King. He was the son of the sister of the one just killed, and his name, this time, was Ióga: but Ióga was the king in whose period the ancient customs of the land were changed and people say that this change was the cause of the destruction of Nabonna.

‘Now the first official act of every Nab of Nabonna was that of deciding what persons should accompany him on the path of death. They were to be chosen from amongst those dearest to him, and the first named would be the one to lead the rest. A slave named Oer-ilnaras, celebrated for his story-telling art, had arrived in the court some years before from over the sea, sent as a gift from the King of Estoled in Beleriand. And the new Nab of Nabonna said: ‘This man shall be my first companion. He will entertain me until the time for my death; and make me happy when I am in the shadow land.’

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‘When Oer-il-naras heard, he was not afraid. He only said to himself: ‘“It is the will of Basmorda.”

‘And it was, moreover, the custom at that time in Nabonna that a flame should be kept burning perpetually, just as it is today in certain sacred temples in Arning; and for its maintenance the priests were to designate a young boy and a girl. These should watch the fire, be absolutely chaste throughout their lives, and be killed, not together with the king, but immediately after, at the moment of the kindling of the new flame. And so, now, when the new fire had been established for Ióga, the priests chose as vestal for the coming term the youngest sister of the new king. Her name was Corál. But she was afraid of death and, when she heard how the choice had fallen she was appalled.

‘The king lived, for a while, happily, in great delight, enjoying the wealth and majesty of his domain. He spent each evening with his friends and with whatever visitors may have come as envoys to the court. But one fateful night Basmorda allowed him to realize that with each of these joyous days he was moving one step closer to certain death; and he was filled with fear. He was unable to turn the dreadful thought away and became depressed. Whereupon Basmorda sent him a second thought: that of letting Oer-il-naras tell a story.

‘Oer-il-naras, therefore, was summoned. He appeared, and the king said: ‘“Oer-ilnaras, today the day has arrived when you must cheer me. Tell me a story”. “The performance is quicker than the command,” said Oer-il-naras, and began. The king listened; the guests also listened. The king and his guests forgot to drink, they forgot to breathe. The slaves forgot to serve.

They, too, forgot to breathe. For the true art of Oer-il-naras, which he had hitherto

maintained secret, was like concentrated Lissua, and, when he had ended, all were as though enveloped in a delighted swoon. The king had forgotten his thoughts of death. Nor had any realized that they were being held from twilight till dawn; but when the guests departed they found the sun in the sky.

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‘Ióga and his company, that day, could hardly wait for evening; and thereafter, every day, Oer-il-naras was summoned to perform. The report of his tales spread throughout the court, the city, the land, and the king presented him, each day, with the gift of a beautiful garment. The guests and envoys gave him gold and jewels. He became rich. And when he now went through the streets he was followed by a troop of slaves. The people loved him.

They began to bare their breasts in his honour.

Corál, hearing of the wonder, sent a message to her brother. ‘“Let me,” she pleaded, “just once hear Oer-il-naras tell a story!” ‘“The fulfillment goes before the wish,” the king replied.

‘And Corál came.

‘Oer-il-naras saw Corál and for a moment he lost his senses. All that he saw was Corál.

‘All that Corál saw was Oer-il-naras.

‘The king said: ‘“But why do you not begin your story? Do you not know any more?”

‘Removing his eyes from Corál, the story-teller began. And his tale was first like the Lissua that induces a gentle stupefaction, but then like the Lissua that carries men through unconsciousness to sleep. After a time the guests were sleeping; the king was sleeping. They were hearing the story only in dream, until they were carried entirely away, and only Corál remained awake. Her eyes were fixed on Oer-il-naras. She was filled completely with Oer-ilnaras. And when he had finished the tale and arose, she, too, arose.

‘Oer-il-naras moved towards Corál: Corál towards Oer-il-naras. He embraced her: she embraced him, and she said: ‘“We do not want to die.” He laughed into her eyes. “It is not yours to command,” he said. “Show me the way.” And she answered: “Leave me now. I shall think of a way, and when the way has been found, I shall call you.” They parted then. And the king and his guests lay there asleep.

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‘That day, Corál went to the high priest. ‘“Who is it determines the time when the old fire is put out,” she asked, “and the new one kindled?” ‘“That is decided by Basmorda,” answered the priest.

‘Corál asked: ‘“But how does the god communicate his will to you?” ‘“Every night we keep watch on the stars,” the priest said. “We do not let them out of our sight. Every night we observe the moon and we know, from night to night, which stars are approaching the moon and which moving away. It is by this that we know.”

‘Corál said: ‘“And you must do that every night? What happens of a night when nothing can be seen?”

‘The priest said: ‘“On such a night we make many offerings. If a number of nights should pass when nothing could be seen, we should not be able to find our stars again.”

‘Corál said: ‘“Would you then not know when the fire should be extinguished?” ‘“No,” said the priest, “we should not be in a position, then, to fulfill our office.”

‘Whereupon Corál said to him: ‘“Basmorda’s works are great. The greatest, however, is not his writing in the sky. His greatest work is our life on earth. This I learned last night.” ‘“What do you mean?” said the priest.

‘And Corál answered: ‘“Basmorda gave Oer-il-naras the gift of telling tales in a way that has never been equaled. It is greater than his writing in the sky.”

‘The priest retorted: ‘“You are wrong.”

‘But Corál said to him, ‘“the moon and stars, these you know. But have you heard the tales of Oer-il-naras?” ‘“No,” said the priest, “I have not heard them.”

‘She asked: ‘“How, then, can you pronounce a judgement? I assure you that even you priests, when listening, will forget to keep watch on the stars.” ‘“Sister of the king,” the priest asked, “are you quite sure?”

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‘She answered: ‘“Only prove to me that I am wrong and that the writing in the sky is greater and stronger than this life on earth.” ‘“That is just what I shall prove,” said the priest.

‘And the priest then sent word to the young king. ‘“Allow the priests to come to your palace tonight and listen to the tales of Oer-il-naras from the setting to the rising of the sun.”

‘The king consented, and Corál sent word to Oer-il-naras: ‘“tonight you do as you did before. This will be the way.”

‘And so, when the sun was approaching the hour of its setting and the king, his guests, and the envoys were assembling, they were joined by all the priests, who bared the upper parts of their bodies and prostrated themselves on the ground. The high priest said: ‘“It has been declared that the tales of Oer-il-naras are the greatest of the God’s works.”

‘The King said to him: ‘“You may decide for yourselves.” ‘“You will pardon us, O’king,” prayed the high priest, “if we depart from your palace at the rising of the moon, to fulfill the duties of our office.” And the King replied: “Act according to the will of Basmorda.”

‘Whereupon the priests took their places. The guests and the envoys took their places.

The hall was filled with people and Oer-il-naras made a way between them. ‘“Begin,” said the King. “Begin my dear companion in death.” Oer-il-naras looked at Corál, Corál at Oer-ilnaras; and the King said: “but why do you not begin your story? Do you not know any more?”

‘Removing his eyes from Corál, the story-teller began.

‘And his tale commenced as the sun was going down. It was like the Lissua that beclouds and transports. It was like the Lissua that sends one into a dead faint. So that when the moon rose, the King, his guests, and the envoys lay asleep, and the priests too lay in a sound sleep. Only Corál was awake, drawing in with her eyes sweet words from the lips of Oer-ilnaras.

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‘The tale was ended, Oer-il-naras rose and moved towards Corál; she towards him, and she said: ‘“Let me kiss these lips, from which come words that are so sweet.” She pressed close to his lips, and Oer-il-naras said to her: “Let me embrace this form that has given me the power.” They embraced, entwining arms and legs, and lay awake among those that slumbered, knowing such happiness as breaks the heart. Rejoicing Corál asked: “Do you see the way?”

“Yes,” the other replied, “I do.” And they left the hall. So that in the palace there remained only those that slept.

‘Corál came to the high priest the next morning. ‘“So now tell me,” she said, “whether you were right in your condemnation of my judgement.”

‘He answered: ‘“I shall not give my reply today. We must listen once more to Oer-ilnaras; for yesterday we were not prepared.”

‘And so, the priests attended to their prayers and offerings. The fetlocks of many bullocks were slashed, and throughout the day, without pause, prayers were recited in the temple. When evening came they arrived once more unto the temple.

‘Corál sat again by the King, her brother, and Oer-il-naras commenced his tale. So that once again, as it had been on the previous evening, before the dawn had come, all slept, the King, his guests, the envoys, and the priests, enrapt in rapture. But Corál and Oer-il-naras were awake among them and sucked joy from each others lips. And they embraced again, entwining arms and legs. And thus it continued, from day to day, for many days.

‘But if there had gone out among the people, at first, the news of the Oer-il-naras tales, now there went out among them the rumour that the priests were neglecting their offerings and prayers. Uneasiness began to spread abroad, until, one day, a distinguished gentleman of the city paid a visit to the high priest. ‘“When do we celebrate the next festival of the season?” he asked. “I am planning a voyage and wish to return for the feast. How long have I got?”

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‘The priest was embarrassed; for it had in truth been many nights since he had seen the moon last or gazed at the stars. He replied: ‘“Wait only one day; then I shall tell you.” ‘“Many thanks,” said the man. “I shall return tomorrow.”

‘The priests were summoned and their chief enquired: ‘“Which of you, recently, has observed the course of the stars?”

‘They were silent. Not a single voice replied; for all had been listening to Oer-il-naras. ‘“Is there not a one among you that has observed the course of the stars and position of the moon?” the high priest asked them.

‘They sat perfectly still, until one, who was very old, arose and spoke. ‘“We were enchanted,” he says, “by Oer-il-naras. Not one of us can tell you when the feasts are to be celebrated, when the fire is to be quenched, and when the new fire is to be kindled.”

‘The high priest was terrified. ‘“How can this be?” he cried. “What shall I tell the people?”

‘The very old priest replied: ‘“It is the will of Basmorda, let Oer-il-naras be killed; for as long as he lives and speaks, everything will listen.” ‘“What, however, shall I tell the man?” the high priest demanded.

‘Whereat all were silent. And the company, then, silently dispersed.

‘The high priest went to Corál. ‘“What was it,” he asked her, “that you asked me on that first day?”

‘She answered. ‘“I said, ‘Basmorda’s works are great. The greatest, however, is not his writing in the sky, but the life on earth. You rejected my words as untrue. But now, today, tell me whether I lied.”

‘The priest said to her. ‘“Oer-il-naras is against Basmorda. He must die.”

‘But Corál answered: ‘“Oer-il-naras is the Companion in Death of the King.”

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‘And Corál added when the priest was silenced by her words: ‘“Basmorda dwells in my brother. Ask him what he thinks.”

‘Later, after prayers, the high priest proceeded to the palace and addressed himself to the King, whose sister, Corál, was sat beside him. The high priest bared his chest before the King, and, throwing himself to the ground, prayed. ‘“Pardon, Ióga, O my King!” ‘“Tell me,” said the King, “what is your heart.” ‘“Speak to me,” the high priest said, “of Oer-il-naras your Companion in Death.”

‘The King said to him: ‘“The God sent me, first, the thought of the approaching day of my death, and I was afraid. He sent me, next, the recollection of Oer-il-naras, who was sent to me as a gift from the land eastward, beyond the sea. He confused my understanding with the first thought. With the second he enlivened my spirits and made me, and all others, happy. So I gave beautiful garments to Oer-il-naras. My friends gave him gold and jewels. He distributed much of this among the people. He is rich, as he deserves to be; and the people love him, as I do.” ‘“Oer-il-naras,” the high priest said, “must die. Oer-il-naras is disrupting the revealed order.”

‘Said the King, ‘“I die before him.”

‘But the priest said: ‘“The will of Basmorda will give the decision in this matter.” ‘“So be it! And to this,” the King replied, “the whole people shall bear witness.”

‘The priest departed, and Corál spoke to Ióga. ‘“O my King! O my brother! The end of the road is near. The companion of your death shall be the awakener of your life. However, I require him for myself, as the fulfillment of my destiny.” ‘“My sister Corál,” said Ióga “then you may take him.”

‘Heralds went out through the city and cried in every quarter that Oer-il-naras, that evening, would speak in the great square before all. A veiled throne for the King was erected

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in the large plaza between the royal palace and the buildings of the priests, and when evening came, the people streamed from all sides and settled everywhere, round about. Thousands upon thousands assembled. The priest’s arrived and took their places. The guests and the envoys arrived and were seated. Corál sat beside her brother, Ióga, the veiled King: and Oeril-naras was then called.

‘He arrived. His entire retinue came behind him, all clothed in dazzling garments, and they placed themselves opposite the priests. Oer-il-naras, himself, bowed before the veiled King, and assumed his seat.

‘The high priest arose. ‘“Oer-il-naras has destroyed our established order,” he said.

“Tonight will show if this was by the will of Basmorda.” And he resumed his place.

‘Oer-il-naras removed his eyes from Corál, gazed about over the multitude, glanced at the priests, and arose. ‘“I am a servant of Basmorda,” he said, “and I believe that all evil in the mortal heart is repugnant to him. Tonight, He will decide.” And he commenced his tale.

‘His words were at first as sweet as honey, his voice penetrating the multitude as the first rain of summer on the parched earth. From his tongue there went forth a perfume more exquisite than musk or incense: his head shone like a light, the only luminary in a black night.

And his tale in the beginning was like the Lissua that makes people happy when awake; then it became like the Lissua of a dreamer. Toward morning he raised his voice, however, and his words swelled like the rising Sirion in the hearts of the people: they were for some as pacifying as the entrance into the Timeless halls, but as frightening for others as the onset of Death. Joy filled the spirits of some, horror the hearts of others. And the closer the moment of dawn, the more powerful became his voice, the louder the reverberations within the people, until the hearts of the multitude roared against each other as in a battle; stormed against each other like the clouds in the heavens of a tempestuous night. Lightning bolts of anger and thunderclaps of wrath collided.

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‘But when the sun rose and the tale of Oer-il-naras closed, unspeakable astonishment filled the confused minds of all; for when those who remained alive looked about them their glances fell upon the priests, and the priests lay dead upon the ground.

‘Corál got up and prostrated herself before the veiled King. ‘“O my King!” she said, “O my brother! Ióga! Throw from yourself the veil; show yourself to your people and offer up the offering, now, for yourself! For these lying dead are the wicked in the eyes of Basmorda and they have been mown down by the spirit of Death through Basmorda’s command.”

‘The servants at a command removed the veil from around the royal throne and Ióga stood up. He was the first of their line of kings whom the people of Nabonna had ever seen.

He was young, and as beautiful to look upon as the rising sun.

‘The multitude was jubilant. A white steed was brought, which the King mounted. At his left there walked his sister, at his right, the teller of tales, and he rode to the Temple. The young King took up the mattock in the Temple and hoed three holes in the holy ground. Oeril-naras tossed three seeds into these. The King then hoed two further holes in the holy ground and Corál tossed two seeds into these. Immediately and simultaneously the five seeds sprouted, growing before the eyes of the people, and by noon the heads of grain of all five were ripe.

Proof indeed, if more were needed, that Basmorda was well pleased and that what happened now must be the right way. In all the courts of the city the fathers of families slashed the fetlocks of great bulls. The King extinguished the fire in the temple, and all the fathers of the city extinguished the fires in their hearths. Corál kindled the new fire, and all the young virgins in the city came and took fire from this flame. And from that day there were no more life sacrifices of the King and his people in Nabonna and in their place slaves were put to death.

‘Thus Ióga was the first Nab of Nabonna to remain alive a natural span until it pleased Basmorda to take him in his old age, and when he died Oer-il-naras succeeded to his throne and Ióga was raised up and made into a God. With that, however, Nabonna had achieved its

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purpose and reached the culmination of its fortune and its end. For Ióga’s renown as a wise and well-advised prince had spread abroad, through every land, and every King had sent to him men of intelligence, with gifts to receive the benefit of his advice. Great merchants had settled in his capital and he had many great ships that he sent, against the will of and the restriction imposed by the Lords of Valinor, upon the seas eastward and westward, transporting the products of Nabonna throughout the entire world. But despite the great wealth the mines were soon exhausted and unable to yield gold and copper and tin enough for the demand. And when he was succeeded by Oer-il-naras, though the truly wise would have foreseen what was bound to happen and taken precautions, the fortunes of the realm continued to rise even higher, to its climax. The fame of Oer-il-naras filled every land from the edges of the seas in the east to those in the west; and with such fame there came so much envy into men’s hearts that, when Oer-il-naras at last died, the last remnant of the old fire brethren died with him and the neighbouring countries broke their treaties, opening war on the kingdom of Nabonna, and she succumbed. Nabonna was destroyed and this was readily accepted, amid the grief, as the will of Basmorda. The gold and copper mines were forgotten and the cities disappeared; and nothing remained of those days but the stories of Oer-il-naras, which he had brought with him from his own land eastward, beyond the sea.

‘This, then, is the story of the destruction of the land of Nabonna, the last remnant of whose children dwell now in Arning. In what you would term our lore Oer-il-naras is named the Deceiver and Ióga the Redeemer, and thus it is that while we accept Oer-il-naras, aye and revere his stories as teachings, it is Ióga who is the God.’ ‘What then do you have to say about beautiful Corál?’ Cuspin eagerly enquired. ‘Does she have a title too, in your creed?’

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‘She does indeed,’ Ashur replied; ‘she does indeed. She is the Enchantress, the one who saved Nabonna by leading her into physical downfall, and she is the reason why no priest of the Temple will consort with a female. The female possesses that which no man can resist.’

‘And you are a priest of the Redeemer?’

‘I am,’ Ashur replied somberly, ‘and proud of it. It is a hard cult and spiritually and physically demanding, for Basmorda does not like weakness in his people. But yet all three have a part to play. Ióga would never have broken with tradition without the Deceiver, and the Deceiver would not have been able to work his upadhi without the guile of the Enchantress.

Thus the Three are forever One; and even if the way is often difficult it is the Way of the Three who are One that must be followed by the true believer if salvation is to be achieved and the life of the flame preserved. That is the Appâmahonith.’

Sam blew a cloud of smoke out and frowned deeply. ‘What you speak of is something more than lore, I think,’ he said uneasily. ‘More like fanaticism than anything else.’

Ashur frowned also: ‘Howso, Master Gamgee? We merely preserve the ancient and much revered lore of our people. I would not call that fanaticism. It is our belief.’

‘I am afraid that I do not share that view. I do not see any real meaning in it beyond a garbled explanation of how it is that you have reached these western shores and dominate a local population. Is that not what you mean when you say that only the believer achieves salvation? Who then are the believers? Those who claim descent from the Blessed Isle or those who lived here before you came?’

Ashur stiffened and sat up straight and his eyes blinked rapidly, disbelief written on his features; then after a moment he composed himself and he turned his head and gazed out of the window into the twilight and the gathering gloom. ‘I am surprised at you sir. You cannot see the meaning? Really? We accept any who will embrace it into the “belief”, but it is only when

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a baby of the blood comes into the world, here, in the home we have made in these lands, that our chosen folk find the way to Basmorda.’

‘Ah, I think now I understand a little of what lies behind the veil. You are the chosen ones. How do you do that, Ashur?’

The priest looked very angry, his cheeks flushed red, but he maintained his composure and even managed a smile that was indulgent: ‘Before the child of the faithful has reached seven days of life,’ he said stiffly, as though explaining such a basic concept was beneath his station, ‘it is brought to the house of Ióga. There it is examined, and if appropriate the fire is lit.’

Sam cast a swift glance in Cuspin’s direction, and he saw that the young hobbit had grasped also the meaning behind those words. He said, very slowly: ‘you mean a fire is lit that must be kept lit? A life-fire.’

‘Only among the faithful,’ Ashur replied defensively. His smile seemed a little weak now and hardly showed. ‘The faithful is comprised of the three hundred and thirty families that are the descendents of the Nab. But, yes, I will admit it, a life-fire is kindled and kept alive, and then, at the appointed time, when the fire is extinguished, the faithful one is brought to the altar and there Basmorda is honoured. The people gather all together and sacrifices are made and offerings sent up. It is a time for great rejoicing and many honours and tributes are bestowed upon the family of the honoured one.’

‘You sacrifice a child,’ Sam said grimly, and then he shivered and added, ‘ugh!’

There was a long pause between them and after a moment Ashur, his smile no longer held in place upon his face, said: ‘Sam, I did not think that you were a dullard in such matters.

We are an ancient people and we have embraced all those that dwelt here before we came and we have guided them and made them prosperous.’

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‘If it were their land to start with it is them has embraced you,’ Sam told him sourly.

‘You are usurpers. Tyrants.’

‘They are happy and are well content to let Basmorda’s chosen rule.

It is a

responsibility and a duty that not all would welcome.’ Ashur countered. Then he heaved a great sigh, of regret and anger, before explaining further. ‘Ióga redeemed the life of the people, that is true; it is also true that the pinnacle was Oer-il-naras’ reign; you may also suggest, for you would not be the first, that the Enchantress suborned the old faith, and that is perhaps true also, for the old faith has changed; but our prosperity and our very survival depends upon the sacrifice. This is what we believe, and it is a thing that ancient as the hills beyond this city or the sea beyond the bay. We prefer to think of it as a purging of sin, and after all is said and done the one who goes up to Basmorda dwells forever in paradise. That is no loss.’

Sam stood up abruptly. ‘I have a wide knowledge of the old tales of Númenor and I see nothing of the glory of the Blessed Isle reflected in your so called lore. Númenor was ever a blessed land and cherished by the Eldar, and it may be that it did go bad in the way the history books tell us, but I do not think it did so in the way you have described. Even if what you say concerning the old ways are true and the life-flame was a practice of the Númenóreans it can’t be right to continue it today, after so many thousand years when now you should know better.’

‘Hah! What is a thousand years? You, I and everyone will be forgotten in a thousand years but our Appâmahonith will not!’ Ashur countered firmly; ‘you think that you can come here from that little place across the sea and pick fault with beliefs old as time itself! I tell you little hobbit that you would do better to think again.’

Sam was taken somewhat aback and considered this for a moment. The priest was right of course, but that didn’t make the practices of this strange cult right: indeed, even if the remnant of the Númenóreans living in these lands did believe that was how their ancestors had behaved, or that it was the reason that the Nabonnans survived the fall of Númenor and came

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to settle in the West, it still was no justification for the continued practice; but for all that he was forced to admit to himself there were parallels to be drawn between what the priest believed, as set out in this book he referred to – the Appâmahonith – and the Akallabêth that he was himself familiar with from Middle-Earth, which spoke of how it was that because of the ban on travel to the West imposed by the Valar upon Númenor the voyages of the Dúnedain in those days went ever Eastward. But that was perhaps only to ease the conscience of those who had come from the Isle to Beleriand, and who now could say where the truth lay? Both treatises, if he read it right, seemed to claim that the islanders went either east or west, from the darkness of the North to the heats of the South, and beyond the South to the Nether darkness, for reasons associated with disaster but unattached to blame. He did not have the time nor the inclination to ponder why one should be any more or less truthful than the other, and all that he could be bothered about right then was the fact that the religious, or quasi-religious, customs that Ashur freely admitted to and which were practiced there in Arning, and possibly in other places in the Western-lands beside, were abhorrent to him and would be so abhorred by every hobbit that he could think of.

What it did reveal, however, was something of the nature of Man, so far as he was concerned, and once again he found himself lamenting that this world was now a world that belonged to Men. He felt briefly that perhaps he ought to be a little more tolerant but he found that it was not within him in this instance; there was something about this priest that he found quite unnerving and distasteful; and though he would have liked to have stayed longer and talked and learned more of the lands of this continent, so far as Ashur knew of them, he also had a sudden and burning desire to get away from him.

He smiled to himself to think that all he knew of the Western-Lands to date, since their arrival at Perit, stemmed from the very brief descriptions that an earnest but blissfully ignorant Baril Starr had provided for him. Though he was quite certain that the fat hotel proprietor had

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no real idea if what he was saying was in fact accurate, since he had admitted to Sam his knowledge of the world beyond the Gulf of Polnum was sketchy and derived mainly from his customer’s chit-chat and gossip. All things considered, however, since he intended they should move on at once on the morrow from Perit, Sam felt it better that he get an early night. His limbs ached anyway and he was still tired after the long sea journey and he really did not want to argue semantics with a senior representative and advocate for a folk that practiced the sacrificing of children as a custom. So he smiled and said: ‘Forgive me if I have been rude in expressing my opinion, Ashur, I am still very tired after a long journey by sea. I will bid you goodnight.’ And with that he turned abruptly and strode away and left Cuspin and Ashur alone in the dining room.

Cuspin looked abashed. He grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, clearly embarrassed, even if he did think that Sam was quite right in expressing his views about the practice of sacrificing children. ‘Dad is a bit fixed in his ways, but he has a heart of gold.’

‘I’m sure.’ Ashur smiled, but it was a cold grimace that counter-pointed the deep frown that was etched upon his brow: ‘I understand him,’ he said. ‘His ways are not our ways, Cuspin.

As a matter of fact our ways are not your ways, but the difference between you my young friend and your father is that where his time is ending yours is just beginning; your mind is open still.

That is a very good thing in the young and the obverse a curse in the old. Yet, I must confess that I am unaccustomed to such disapproval, even from those who dwell here in the West, and are not, as I would best put it, native. We are tolerant though for we are an ancient people and long and ancient is our lore. But I know a little of the “others”; those very folk who are said to have come across the sea from out of the east; Elves you call them I believe. They are Masparta in our language; so I can understand how he feels about what he considers strange customs.’

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‘Elves!’ Cuspin exclaimed excitedly. ‘You have elves here?’

‘Not in Arning, no. In the deeper parts of the dense forest of the Langeslora they are said to dwell, where the trees are all gray and menacing. I went there once as a child, for a prank, with some of my friends. When I was a boy my family lived north of Hagersley, near Arness in the North Riding.’ The memory of the event that he was close to describing seemed to consume him for a moment and he shivered before continuing, almost as though someone had run cold fingers up his spine: ‘The forest was wild where we went, all a terrible tangle of thorns and brambles and dark shadows that horse and man would not willingly pass through where another path could be found. Mist filled the few open spaces and branches reached down long claw-like fingers towards me and I got a little lost and as I stumbled about I fancied the whole place filled up with monsters. In reality I wasn’t too far in near the north edge of the wood, on the margins really, but the feelings I had of wretchedness and hopelessness were indescribable and I was very grateful at first when I glimpsed the Elf. It was tall, ten feet tall I thought, but I was only a child then and my imagination was fired by the experience: its hair was like spun gold and it wore a tunic of a shiny fabric fastened at the waist with a jeweled belt, and I remember it said: “Go!” Just that – Go! -, and I tell you, how I ran and ran. Lord above, I thought that I would never stop.’

Cuspin laughed. ‘That was an Elf all right, if everything that I have heard about them is true.’

‘That is what I said.’

Cuspin puffed on his pipe and clucked and said: ‘Gosh! I wish I had seen an Elf. You was lucky Ashur. Maybe you don’t think that you are, but that is only because you don’t know the lore. But you are, very lucky.’

Ashur smiled at him a little indulgently. He liked the enthusiastic young hobbit and enjoyed his infectious good humour, and it was good to learn something about the folk of the

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East. He reflected on the situation in his world briefly, of the fear that was descending upon his country like a shroud. At that time people in Arning were growing very concerned about events going on in the wider world, and that was not their normal practice – to take any notice about what was going on beyond their borders, unless it affected trade, for they were born merchants and they prided themselves in being a trading people. Still, who could not be affected by the rumours and the reports that were coming up of the happenings in the southlands? Strange people and stranger creatures had been seen round Darsmaad and Polnum, Arning’s two immediate neighbours, and in fact it was rumoured that Polnum was a conquered land, having been overrun by fierce warriors from the South. It was rumoured that King Uváns head was cut off and spiked and his body cast into the Bay of Earn like so much offal; and folk were especially concerned by gossip that spoke of events even farther south in Hador and Caffirod, the lands below Polnum, where it was said that the Western-lands were being invaded by terrible warriors from the East and that they were allied with the wild-folk from the dark unknown lands beyond Orongalld in the South.

It would have been useful to stay and pick Cuspin’s brains further, for he sensed that what was going on all about them beyond Arnings borders was more than just the usual irruption’s associated with power broking among the royal houses, or one of the perrenial barbarian invasions from West or South. The sudden arrival of two such as these hobbits was not an everyday occurrence. But he was tired and he had his duties to attend to. ‘You are a pleasant lad and a credit to your father, your people, and the Shire. I would like to speak longer with you but it is late and I have night prayers to attend to,’ he told Cuspin truthfully.

‘That is a shame,’ Cuspin replied honestly, ‘for there is much more I would have liked to have learned from you about this place my dad and I have fetched up on.’

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‘Perhaps tomorrow then,’ Ashur said. He turned about to leave, but then thought better of it and turned back and said, eyebrows raised a little, ‘I have heard a story or two concerning this city that you seek. The one you spoke of earlier.’

‘Calabród?’

‘That is it. It is said to lie very far to the West beyond the far distant Thurak Hills.’ He smiled and sighed. ‘Ah, but it is a mythical place, lad. You and your dad would be better off staying here in Perit with good decent folk. Out there in the West the world is a dangerous place and I have heard the stories that this city uses magic to protect itself from a Thurak host that hunts it day and night. It is said to disappear and shift away a few miles at dusk before reappearing somewhere else in the morning and thereby confounding its enemies.’ He snorted.

‘I ask you! What rot! A disappearing city! Do not waste your time searching in wild lonely places for a myth.’

‘But supposing that you were to go there,’ Cuspin persisted doggedly.

Ashur shrugged his shoulders: ‘That is a perilous journey, little friend, but, well,’ he said a little warily, ‘if I believed the place existed, and that would be a very big if, I would travel the Great North Road to Densdyke and then go on to the last bridge. I would leave the road there and cross Merland to the South-West, near where the great plains begin. That is, if I believed it existed.’

‘Of course.’

Ashur placed a hand upon Cuspin’s head, but restrained himself from ruffling the young hobbit’s tousled hair, and he said gently: I’ll look for you tomorrow at the temple.’ Then he left without another word and passed quickly out of the dining room and then out of the hotel.

No sooner had the priest departed than Cuspin was ushered through to the bar by the Starrs, who fussed at him and informed him that he would do better to avoid the “death-

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merchants”, like Ashur, and advised him how honest god-fearing folk preferred to see the likes of him from a distance while standing unnoticed at the back of the temple during festivals and compulsory offering days.

In the bar were a number of good-natured jolly folk drinking and smoking. The beer was not quite up to the standard of what was to be found in the Perch and certainly it could not be compared with a good “fourteen twenty” but it was passable, and the pipe-weed, though it had the flavour of a very harsh Longbottom, was also passable.

The folk he found himself in the midst of in the bar were locals, townspeople, traders or fishermen, and they pressed Cuspin for news and stories of the Shire and the lands east across the sea, of which they had only the vaguest notions gleaned from old third and fourth hand accounts; there were lurid rumours that concerned monstrous creatures and diabolical goings on and mainly they wanted to know if what they had heard was true. Their naivety amused Cuspin but then he supposed that his ignorance concerning the Western-Lands must be equally amusing for them too.

What he did recount for them was the major events of the Ring War and the parts played by the Hobbit heroe’s. They all seemed delighted to listen and were absorbed in the tale until he started to tell them about the slaying of Shelob the giant spider, by none other than his very own dad, who at that precise moment was asleep upstairs, whereupon a deathly and ominous hush fell over the room and the men stared morosely into their cups.

Cuspin was oblivious to the change of mood in the room at first and continued: ‘A reg’lir, genuine, hobbit-hero, my dad,’ he concluded very slowly, awareness dawning upon him, his gaze flickering nervously from man to man.

After an uncomfortable moment a man said, in a very low voice: ‘Now that would be very queer indeed, would you not say, Master Cuspin? I am referring to you telling us all about a giant spider at just such a time when down south in Darsmaad, what for your better educating

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young fella is neighbours o’us, there is a monstrous great spider beast terrorising the folk from out o’a cave network knowed as the Caves of Daar.’

‘What!’ Cuspin spluttered.

‘The cave beast is nowt to do wi’ master Cuspin,’ said Baril Starr firmly.

‘Oho! You say, Baril!’ the first man went on, confident now that he saw he had rattled Cuspin and the other men were taking an interest. ‘They lie right close to the coast, almost on the Gulf, and I say’s it is easy like for some folk who might want to work harm to go there and do just that afore coming here into our port. Them there caves used to be a lovely attraction for folk and now only a mad loon would venture anywhere nears, what with the reports o’that monster coming out from the dark and seizing up folk an’ carrying them off to its lair to be et up. He tells us about how his dad supposedly kill’t a giant spider and we have a giant spider right on our doorstep.’

‘My dad did kill a giant spider!’ Cuspin protested loudly; ‘and we ain’t got nothing to do with your spider, if that is what it is! How could we?’

Another man set his pipe down on the table before him with an audible ‘clunk!’ and he spoke in a thick gravelly voice, his command of the common speech rough and accented: ‘Now then! Now then! Tain’t nobody be accusing ye, young un. Just saying it is a mite queer you an’ your da fetching up at a time when happens there is a monster on’t loose. Queer? Yes? No? What with folk o’all sorts coming and going sudden like from out t’east? This ‘ere spider monster in the caves sure seems an apt description of your spider, master Cuspin. Dead ringer be all accounts, ‘cording to what you have said.’

‘Ain’t my spider,’ Cuspin protested weakly now.

‘Funny but how it appears all sudden like down at Darsmaad though,’ another man said.

‘I mean, where ‘as it come from?’

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‘Come on now, Chas,’ yet another man butted in. ‘Them there caves is so deep and runs so far they ain’t not never been explored. Well, not proper like at any rate. I don’t doubt that thing is real enough; I knows a feller from down Polnum and he I knows for certain is a solid dependable lad. Well now, he told me as how his brother was got by it an’ they know it kill’t him ‘cos they found his head at the foot of Taris Ta, but that ain’t got nothing to do with young Cuspin here surely or his dad. Or in fact any of his folk.’

‘Maybe it ain’t Ferdy Jowns,’ the man called Chas retorted, ‘but all I’m saying is that a lot of strange things has been going on involving folk from across the water an’ the nearest thing what affects us is the giant spider and here comes master Cuspin from across the sea with a tale o’a giant spider. Funny coincidence.’

‘An’ you gotta admit yourself, Ferdy,’ another man added, ‘there has been a awful lot o’real strange things happening in the south. Why, I met a man from Nolburr what reckons as how all o’Hador is overrun by invaders from over t’sea an’ all over Ithirnillia there is comings and goings of folk from the Wildlands.’

‘Stuff and rot!’ the man Ferdy spluttered, spilling his beer. ‘The wild folk don’t ever come up unless it is to chop decent folk up and steal property and take slaves.’

‘I tell you they has been up as far as Ithirnillia,’ the man insisted, slurping at his beer.

‘I know a feller that can understand one or two o’their foul languages an’ I tell you it is true.’

‘And what about them sailor boys that was in here from Mirabor only last week,’ another man piped up. ‘What about them?’

‘That’s right,’ the man Chas said quickly; ‘they was saying as how they had seen ships from the East heading across the Helcaraxë and aiming for the Passage of Iâmalornë, and there ain’t no ships passes there willingly for everybody knows them seas is cursed.’

‘If they is so cursed what were them there Mirabor boys doing up there? Hah?’ Ferdy rejoined, smug in his logic.

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Chas shook his head, as though he had just heard something he could hardly believe he was hearing, and replied slowly, as if he was explaining to a child: ‘The fishing boats from Mirabor allus sails north and round the Ice Islands following the shoals. Everybody knows that Ferdy Jowns, everybody.’

‘Tell you summit else,’ said yet another man, puffing on his pipe, a thoughtful look on his face, ‘I had a look at that easterner ship this young fella came in on. Queerest thing that I see’d in many a long year. Looks just like a ship outa the history books.’

‘Well,’ Cuspin butted in quickly and nervously. He felt that he ought to be contributing something: ‘Maybe that isn’t really so strange, seeing as how we share nigh on the same common language and all we have to separate us is the sea.’

‘That ain’t nothing,’ the man retorted, ‘tain’t nothing at all! Our books tell us that we all came from the same place to start with - don’t mean that you folk ain’t barbarian. An’ it don’t mean that there ain’t them over there as means harm to us over here.’

Old Mistress Starr felt that they were beginning to unfairly gang up on a bewildered looking and clearly worried Cuspin, and she came out from behind her bar huffing and puffing, dragging her great weight to her husband’s side. ‘Now you just look ere you lot,’ she said sternly and with a deal of menace in her tone of voice, ‘that is quite enough of that. Master Cuspin and his dad are clear as clear respectable law abiding folk accustomed to paying their way in life, which is a lot more than can be said for some who are in here tonight. And that neat as neat reminds me, you have a tab to be settling Chas Anson.’ And with that she nudged her husband in the ribs and said: ‘Tis late and I has a lot of clearing up to be doing. Come husband let’s be having this lot out and home to their wives.’

‘Ow!’ Baril Starr exclaimed in protest, and then he jumped up and said in his best landlordly tone, ‘right then, let’s be having you. The missus is right, it is late and beds are waiting.’

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The men protested, but they were a good natured lot at heart, simple folk who enjoyed nothing better than a pint of beer, a pipe, and a good gossip, much like folk everywhere. They were most certainly not at all habits unfamiliar to hobbits. They left quite quickly, apologising to Cuspin if they had appeared rude and bidding him goodnight and good fortune.

The young hobbit was suddenly all too aware of just how weary he was himself but as he prepared to go upstairs to bed Mister and Mistress Starr caught him up at the foot of the stairs, in the hallway. The woman, irritatingly for Cuspin, though he knew that she meant well enough, placed her hand directly on the top of his head and ruffled his hair as though he was a small boy. ‘Don’t you go paying a mind to them daft beggars an’ their foolish talk,’ she told him.

‘There ain’t a bit o’harm in any of ‘em,’ Baril Starr added. ‘’Cepting maybe that Chas Anson,’ Mistress Starr said with a knowing look on her face; ‘I have never been too fond of that one. Summit about him.’

‘Anyway we are perfectly safe here. I am certain that either Alderon or Malâdorn, or both most like, will be keeping an eye on our borders and things going on elsewhere that might affect Arning,’ Baril Starr said, a reassuring smile on his face. He added, as an afterthought when he perceived the puzzled look in Cuspin’s eyes, ‘They are brothers, Stewards o’the North and South Riding’s. Good lads.’

‘I see,’ Cuspin replied politely, though actually he didn’t. ‘Well, I am very tired. I think the journey has caught up with me. I’ll say goodnight.’

‘And in the morning,’ Mistress Starr said by way of a goodnight, ‘you and your father will see just what a proper Starr breakfast is all about.’

‘Bacon and eggs and kippers,’ Baril Starr said, licking his lips with anticipation.

‘Bread and honey and local made butter and sausages, his wife added.’

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And Cuspin chuckled to himself as he made his way upstairs to bed, and though he was well aware that he and Sam would have to soon be on their way into the West, he hoped also that Sam might want to linger for a while and learn a bit about what for them both was a strange and exotic new and unfamiliar land; never mind the many other lands that awaited just beyond the horizon; and then of course there was the promise of a Starr breakfast and for a hobbit a good feed such as had been threatened was an irresistible lure. ___________________________________________________________________________

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Chapter 5

ON THE GREAT NORTH ROAD

Sam was wide awake when Baril Starr rapped softly but urgently upon their door and hissed in a frantic whisper: ‘Master Cuspin! Master Cuspin! Come quickly, sir!’ And he was awake while Cuspin rose and dressed in the gloom, muttering and complaining to himself, but he kept his eyes tightly shut and feigned sleep, and as the door closed quietly at Cuspin’s back he allowed his mind free rein to wander.

He heard a voice echoing from out of the dim past. It seemed as real as it had been when first he heard the words it was uttering: “….it is sad, as are all the tales of Middle-Earth, and yet it may lift up your hearts.” And then he heard his own voice chanting a snatch of something from out of the mists of time that he had not thought about for a very long while, not since he had first heard it when they all sat together in fear on Weathertop, him and Frodo and Merry and Pippin, and Aragorn. It was his voice he heard and yet it was as though some other person was speaking.

‘Enchantment his weary feet That over hills were doomed to roam; And forth he hastened, strong and fleet.

And grasped at moonbeams glistening.

Through woven wods in Elvenhome She lightly fled on dancing feet

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And left him lonely still to roam In the silent forest listening.

He heard there oft the flying sound Of feet as light as hidden-leaves, Or music welling underground, In hidden hollows quavering.

Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves, And one by one with sighing sound Whispering fell the beechen leaves In the wintry woodland wavering.

He sought her ever, wandering far Where leaves of years were thickly strewn By light of moon and ray of star In frosty heavens shivering Her mantle glinted in the moon As on a hilltop high and far She danced, and at her feet was strewn A mist of silver quivering.’

And it was only then after oh so many decades had passed did he truly understand and appreciate the meaning of the rhyme. And at its close he came fully awake and alert. His cheeks were moist with tears and, far from home and in a strange land and surrounded by unfamiliar sounds and smells, he felt utterly wretched and foolish for being there.

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The rhyme brought memories of his dear Rose flooding into his mind. Rose Cotton had been the prettiest hobbit-maid a young hobbit-lad could ever hope to clap his eyes upon, and Sam Gamgee had loved her from the first minute that he saw her at the fair at Lithe. Her mother and father, old Bill and Lula Cotton, were Fallohide on the mother’s side of the family and Harfoot on the father’s side. That combination produced in Rose a tall willowy raven haired beauty with bright blue eyes and milky white skin and a sweet if sometimes stubborn nature.

But Sam had been very young then and awkward and shy of almost everything, never mind maidens, and he was not wrong in thinking himself a bit of a bumpkin when set against Rose Cotton and her family; for the Cottons at that time lived in busy prosperous Whitfurrows, where Bill Cotton and his three sons, Rose’s aggressive and protective elder brothers, owned and ran the Shire’s only candle-making factory at Bridge Ford on the Water. The Gamgee family, on the other hand found their employment by and large as domestics and gardeners and farm-workers; indeed, before Sam rose to fame, the only member of the clan to achieve any sort of notoriety or fame was great-great uncle Alousious Gamgee, who one summer’s evening left the Black Swan at Deephallow the worse for wear and managed to somehow drown himself in two feet of water in the Overbourn Marshes. Even then folk laughed and said that year there was a drought and the Overbourn was so dried up that in walking across it your ankles would not even get wet.

Bilbo Baggins’ one hundred and eleventy first birthday party was the first real opportunity he had to approach his future wife and life-partner, and egged on by Frodo he danced around with her and held her close in his arms and found himself transported into a heaven that he never could have imagined existed. He remembered how intoxicated he was by the fresh clean smell of her and the sight of her laughing eyes and her golden smile. It was one of the best days of his young life, even when later, after Bilbo had, as was his way, caused

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consternation amongst the party-goers by performing a disappearing trick, Rose’s eldest brother Jolly collared him and shook him roughly.

‘Now you just be listening here, Gamgee,’ Jolly had growled menacingly, while still shaking Sam by the collar as though he was a cat worrying at a helpless mouse, ‘keep your grubby eyes offa our Rosie else you will ‘ave us to look out for, an’ that would include Tom and Nibs if they wasn’t beer-boiled right now. Our Rosie is for a match with a good solid Took like that Peregrin or a lad from a good family like the Bracegirdles. Or a Chubb maybe. One thing is for certain it won’t be no poxy Gamgee, who never sees a decent garden unless it belongs to somebody else an’ only sees silver if’n they is polishing somebody else’s.’

Sam knew he would have suffered a punch on the nose had it not been for Frodo and Merry Brandybuck and Humphrey Chubb coming along and intervening on his side, and chasing the eldest Cotton boy away; but though Merry told Sam he should pay no attention because everybody knew that Jolly was a bully, in his heart of hearts Sam knew that Jolly was right and that a nobody like him could ever aspire to a union with the likes of Rose Cotton, not unless something quite extraordinary happened, and extraordinary things just didn’t tend to happen in the Shire, certainly not to a Gamgee.

Yet, the extraordinary did happen. But that is of course another story entirely. After the close of the Ring War Sam had the standing to seek the hand of Rose Cotton as his wife, and that is what she became for more than sixty gloriously happy years, until her death only a year earlier. And that was the memory that had brought such tears to his eyes and which haunted him hour by hour, even though he knew that he was just feeling a little sorry for himself; one thing that he couldn’t quite grasp was how he had been unable, through all the long pain filled days and months of the year since Rose had slipped quietly away in her sleep, accept that she was truly gone. For days afterwards he had wandered about Bag End in a kind of trance; there was a cup sitting on the bedside table that only day’s earlier she had taken her

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tea from. It still smelled of mint when he held it up to his nose. And there lying on the floor by the bureau her bed socks were exactly where she had left them, and on the dressing table were her little nik-naks – her hairbrush still with long black and silver strands of hair hanging from it; and it was all those little things that accumulated together to make it impossible for him to accept that she was really gone from him. His grief was boundless and he might easily have surrendered to despondency but for the attentions and the bullying of his big family, who refused to allow him to wallow in self-pity, and then later the distraction of the dreams which infected his nights. He had never recovered from the loss of his dear Rose and he did not suppose that he ever would, or that he would ever want to, but at times like this when he was alone and could not escape from his thoughts and his memories the pain seemed to grow and sometimes it was unbearable. He would never contemplate taking his own life in the belief that would bring him closer to her, that would cause too much pain to the children, but he did think, as he lay there in that big bed in this place that was a world away from home, that the reality of this adventure might be nothing more than his seeking a little compensation for the loss of his life with Rose. It was a poor compensation to be sure, he reflected, for not all the fine adventures and the companionship and the grand words and songs of the Elves and Dwarves could be anywhere near a match for her; and perhaps the truth of it was there was nothing to his dreaming but a longing born of the depth of his grief, and Gandalf was not really seeking him out to come away on any sort of adventure; that everything the Oracle had told him was nothing more than wishful thinking on his part; that the truth of it was the world did not need a Sam Gamgee anymore. Or, and this was perhaps worse, Rose leaving him was all the excuse that was needed for him to go away out into the world once more. Would he have come on this adventure if she were still alive and at home in Bag End? The answer, as he well knew, was of course not.

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‘Gandalf, oh Gandalf,’ he sighed sadly to himself, ‘look at me can’t you! Do I look like an adventuring hobbit still? I am old and worn out and no good to anybody.’

But Gandalf’s parting words to the four hobbit Ring Companions came creeping into his brain like a savage reproach: ‘I am not coming to the Shire. You must settle its affairs yourselves; that is what you have been trained for. Do you not yet understand? My time is over: it is no longer my task to set things to rights………………..’

Sam found himself chuckling despite the mood of deep depression that had settled upon him like an unwelcome blanket on a steamy summer night. He whispered, ‘Well, if it is no longer your task, old friend, you have missed the mark in thinking or believing that it is still mine.’ And then he promptly went off back to sleep.

The blonde young sailor Greg looked tired and the worse for wear, but then so too did Cuspin and Baril Starr.

‘Mister Starr is alright,’ Cuspin reassured the young sailor, who seemed indisposed to speak in front of the fat owner of the hotel: ‘You may say before him what you would say to me in private.’

‘Very well Cuspin, I shall,’ Greg said breathlessly; ‘I had to come right off I realized what was afoot you understand. For it won’t be long afore they have enough courage worked up.’

‘Courage for what boy?’ Baril Starr demanded.

‘It’s like this, if I can explain. The skipper said: “Right lads, we shall stay on the ship a few days and rest and then sail on round to Antross, where there is less priest-holes and more diversions that us sailors can more ready understand.”, and we all thought that was a good idea.

Then, in the afternoon, while we was all drinking at this watering hole down at the docks, Lev, you remember Lev don’t you Cusp?’

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Cuspin nodded his head. ‘I remember him.’

‘Well as bold as you like he up and demands his share out on the money we got for the passage o’you and your dad. The skippers face was like dark as thunder when he realized that old Lev didn’t trust him and he was fuming fit to boil, but then up pipes old Korula saying as how he wants paying too. So then the skipper laughs and makes out like there ain’t nothing amiss an he says as how its best that they all look after their own money right enough seeing as how, begging your pardon and not meaning no disrespect Mister Starr, ‘tis a well known fact the Western-Lands is full of thieves and brigands.’

‘So you got your money?’ Cuspin said, entirely failing to see any relevance in this tale of the greedy sailors demanding their wages, as was their due surely. He was more than a little annoyed that his sleep and that of their hosts had been disturbed; but he was also feeling a little nervous because of the honest young Greg’s obvious fear and his agitation.

‘One gold Gondor and two copper pennies,’ Greg agreed, ‘but that ain’t what is causing the problem. Bear in mind the lads has been drinking all day now without any pause, and gambling. Lev and Zarko and one or two o’the others has been losing a lot o’their money steady all day, and come midnight they no longer have a gold Gondor and scarce can count ten marks silver Arning. Most there was quite afeared as to how the next few days would go, when up speaks the skipper: “Course lads,” says he, “we have been well and truly cheated on the passage by this Underhill fella, and we only has his word that he gave Bhakshi any gold.” ‘“Cheated?” Nat demands to know, and he is fair angry cause he has lost just about everything he owned, including his dwarf made hatchet. “How?” Korula asks the skipper.

“They seemed nice enough folk.” ‘“Seemed?” says the skipper. “Seemed, you say! That is about the height o’it!

Seemed!” Then the skipper tells us as how he overheard you calling your dad by the title “Mister Mayor” and that he knows that makes him none other than the famous Sam Gamgee,

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an’ he tells us as how everybody knows that hobbit is one o’the most richest fellers alive in all the world. Richer than any ten kings he is, says the skipper. Then Lev started to get right angry with me and pointed his knife at me and said, ‘“an’ that daft sot there helped them carry all them parcels o’luggage up to their hotel and they was probably all filled up with jools and treasure an’ money!” ‘“An’ if they wasn’t why did they lie about their name? Just so that they could outdo poor hardworking sailors like us, that’s why!” the skipper says. Then they finds out that you are the only guests in this place and there’s only Mistress Starr and Mister Starr besides an’ now they is down at the Porpoise drinking even more an’ working up the courage to come up before morning and rob you of all that you has got.’

‘Mercy me!’ spluttered Baril Starr, hopping nervously from foot to foot. ‘Mercy me!’

Cuspin did not ask Greg the awkward question, how it was that Lurbitz discovered that they were alone in the hotel save for the Starrs, for he knew well enough how frightening and intimidating the skipper of the Leaping Porpoise could be. ‘Thank you for that, Greg,’ he said courteously instead.

‘I must go now,’ Greg said urgently. ‘If Lurbitz finds that I am here he will not think twice about seeing me off together with -‘his voice tailed away to a whisper. ‘Sorry.’

‘Us,’ Cuspin finished for the nervous young man. He sighed. ‘Do not fear Greg, you have our thanks for this warning. It is more than enough that you have done. But what about a Watch, or Police, Rangers, something like that? Surely there must be someone we can turn to to keep law and order around here?’

‘It is near sun-up and that means that the port guards will be heading back to their barracks for the change-over, if they are not already there,’ Baril Starr explained.

‘Lurbitz knows that too,’ Greg added morosely.

‘By the time the new guard gets down here we might all be dead and robbed,’ Baril Starr went on to add.

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Then Mistress Starr came huffing and puffing out of the shadows, where she had been eavesdropping on every word and had missed nothing. Her hair was tucked up in a thick bun on the top of her head, her fluffy woolen night robe was fastened by a thick belt beneath her ample bosom, and she looked formidable even new risen from slumber: ‘Right,’ she said firmly, at once taking charge of the situation, turning to and starting with a worried looking Greg; ‘you lad, well done, but now get you on your way for your own safety. We certainly don’t want anything bad happening to you. And if all is well that ends well you come back here instead of staying with that rascally crew that you have fallen in with. You will find a place waiting for you here. Starr and I have been saying for a while as how we could use a likely lad around the place, a lad that we could train up to management perhaps.’

‘That is kind lady,’ Greg said, as he thankfully made his way to the door, ‘but I have a mam and dad back home across the water and they depend’s on me sort of, so to speak.’ Then, quick as he could manage it, Greg was gone away out through the door with a final, ‘Good luck to you all! Watch out for that Lurbitz, he is a wicked one!’

Next Mistress Starr turned her attention upon her bewildered husband, who was no less terrified than had been Greg: ‘Now, husband, we must be swift about this if we are all to live.

We can’t rely on the morning guard, those lazy rascals are hard won’t rouse themselves from their barrack until after breakfast. You get dressed quick and get the horse and wagon ready out the back and we shall fetch Cuspin and his dad out of reach of these vile brigands.’

‘What!’ Baril Starr exclaimed. ‘Wife! Why must we get involved? Barricade the door, yes; fetcheth the guard, yes; but why must we go off up the North Road? Why, I would even lend,’ but then he thought about that and added hastily, ‘or rather hire, the horse and wagon to Cuspin and his dad than go off myself. We have a business here you know.’

Mistress Starr favoured her husband with a withering glance and he knew that he would do himself no good by arguing. His protest was but a token and both she and he knew it. ‘We

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will have no business to run in this life if these villains cut our throats,’ she told him pragmatically. ‘Besides, I would not be able to sleep easy in my bed knowing that we had simply turned Cuspin and his dad out into the street and left them to their fate. No, Starr, it wouldn’t do my indigestion no good at all to take that course. Now, get on with you!’ And she ushered him away, calling out over her shoulder: ‘Cuspin, you and your dad get dressed and ready and come down as quick as quick!’

Cuspin woke Sam and he rose, wearily and not readily willing to forego the warm bed for the cold pre-dawn. But when Cuspin explained what was afoot there was an instant urgency to his movements that belied his age and his mood of despondency.

They quickly carried the first part of their luggage down to the foot of the stairs, where Master and Mistress Starr helped them lug it out through the back to where the kitchen led to the rear yard of the hotel.

Sam and Cuspin were just making the last trip downstairs and Baril Starr and his wife were waiting for them in the hallway when the sound of a shoulder striking hard against the front door with a bang echoed loud and made them jump. The door shivered and buckled inwards and the glass panes above and to the sides rattled. Mistress Starr shrieked in alarm and Baril Starr cried out. ‘Oh my lor! Oh dear! Oh dear!’

‘Quiet!’ Sam commanded loudly as the noise of angry raised voices outside left them in no doubt that the next assault upon the door would be more determined and would have it in; the last thing in the world that the front door of Starr’s Hotel had ever been called upon to do was to keep people out, nor for that matter to keep them in, for the street beyond was usually one of the busiest in Arning and in the summer when the hotel was filled with guests the Starr’s employed a porter to attend to the reception hall.

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Sam understood this at once and realized also that it was very much up to him to see that they stayed alive through this night. He dropped his rucksack into Baril Starr’s hands and placed the wrapped package he was carrying onto the floor. He then relieved Cuspin of his rucksack and the two parcels that he had been carrying and placed them on the floor also. Very calmly he ordered: ‘Get your bow and an arrow ready lad.’ Then he removed the candle in its holder from Mistress Starr’s unresisting fingers and told her, very gently, ‘Let’s have you and Mister Starr outside in the back where it is safe. Go on now and wait for us with the wagon.’

‘But what about you?’ Mistress Starr protested.

Sam grinned without humour. ‘I have some experience with dealing with such as these,’ he told her grimly. ‘Now off with you, out the back.’

‘Open the door!’ Lurbitz yelled out suddenly from beyond in the street. ‘Open it else you will regret it!’

Sam walked forward to the side of the door and very calmly set the candle down on a shelf that ran the length of the wall, so that it cast its light in a wide arc across the threshold, and Cuspin, now with his bow in his hands and an arrow nocked and ready, said, ‘That’s good dad. Just right so that they will be in the light if they come through the door.’

Sam replied, ‘Oh, be in no doubt Cuspin that they will come through that door,’ and upon saying this he swept Sting out from its scabbard and held it up to the light. It was an instinctive response, uncannily familiar, frighteningly so when he considered it had not been held in anger for six decades or more. He eyed it for a moment, as though he was expecting something to happen; the famous blade, apart from its being very sharp always glowed with a blue light whenever Orcs were in the vicinity. Cuspin understood: ‘these are only men, dad.

Just men,’ he said.

‘You had your chance! Lurbitz was now yelling. The door crashed inwards as though upon a signal. Sam jumped back. Cuspin loosed his arrow. Korula the bosun screamed and

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fell, the arrow jutting out through his wrist: ‘Aah! I have been shot!’ he cried as he fell to his knees clutching at his bloody arm.

Lurbitz and a half a dozen of the Porpoise’s crew, Narnom, Lev and Zarko in their midst, familiar faces the hobbits had shared a perilous sea journey with, grim and resolutely angry men, pressed through the doorway behind their chief.

‘Well now, Mister Mayor Gamgee,’ Lurbitz muttered with a sneer, poised menacingly with a blade glinting in his hand, the candle flickering at his back, ‘you have something that we want.’

‘And what might that be?’ Sam asked him with a sneer.

‘Be a fair passage!’ A voice from the rear of the crowd called out.

‘You have had all the passage that you are getting. Now be gone from this place! All of you!’

Cuspin notched another arrow but before he could level his bow Lurbitz and two of his cronies leapt forward and he was knocked backwards and borne down onto the stairs. The ship’s cook Goiter followed them in and Sam thrust forward and stabbed him full in the stomach. The stabbed man fell shrieking and clutching with scrabbling hands at his gut. Then Sam turned swiftly in time to see Lurbitz raise a knife above Cuspin’s face and Sting lashed out again and the sea captain’s arm erupted in a spray of blood and the knife fell from his limp fingers with a clatter to the floor. Lurbitz staggered back towards the door as Sam reached out and dragged another man towards him by the collar and long-slashed him across the face with his sword. Within a short minute or two Lurbitz and his comrades were beaten and, trailing their blood and their wounded, they retreated back through the door and out into the street, bundling over their fellows as they did so, the whole lot falling in a heap.

Sam whooped with joy and triumphantly shouted: ‘The Shire’, and turned to an astonished Cuspin, who could never in his wildest imaginings have believed that his dad could

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fight as he had seen him in those few brief but frantic seconds of frenzied action, or indeed that any hobbit was capable of displaying such a cold and deadly ferocity. Cuspin was even more astonished when Sam dispassionately placed his foot against the chest of the man that he had slain and pushed the corpse over so that he could see the face. ‘A fool!’ he said coldly, then added, ‘right then, pick up your bow Cuspin and get out the back and tell the Starrs that I shall join you all presently.’

Cuspin stared down at the fallen Gottir, his blood staining the carpet. It was quite clear that he was dead, and while he doubtless deserved it for his participation in a murderous and cowardly attack, nevertheless the thought that the man who had told a constant stream of bad jokes on the journey over the sea in the Leaping Porpoise and been so friendly towards him was slain unnerved Cuspin somewhat; he looked up at Sam and whispered nervously: ‘Will they come back dad?’

‘No lad, they will have had enough, cowards that they are,’ Sam replied gently. ‘Now, go on with you. Go. I’ll be with you soon enough.’

Cuspin left Sam alone in the hallway and when he was certain that the younger hobbit was gone he stepped forward and stood in the open doorway, legs spread, poised in case of further attack, a blood-streaked Sting bright in his hand. He called to the men outside: ‘Lurbitz!

Send in two of your filth to draw out this carrion I have slain! And remember, don’t try anything on, my boy has an arrow strung and you have seen how useful he is with the bow!

Not to mention this!’ And he raised Sting up to the light.

‘Curse you!’ Lurbitz yelled back. ‘My arm is useless an’ Korula is pierced an’ Lev has been blinded! A fine way to treat shipmates!’

‘An’ he has murdered poor Goiter!’ another man shouted.

‘Aye, I have! And there will be more of you slain; all if need be, if you are stupid enough to come at us again! Ready there Cuspin lad!’ Then Sam laughed and the sound of it

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chilled the blood of those who heard it: Cuspin and the Starrs waiting in the wagon in the rear yard, the men in the street, folk hiding behind their windows and their doors. ‘Now send in a couple o’your dogs to fetch out their mate!’

A moment passed and then Zarko and another man cautiously entered and stood looking surly until Sam indicated the corpse and said, ‘Well? It ain’t likely to up and walk out of here of its own accord.’

The two men each grabbed a leg and muttering and complaining they unceremoniously dragged the slain man out onto the street. The sailors groaned aloud when they saw the corpse and Lurbitz fired his parting shot. ‘Don’t rest easy little hero! We is going to be right behind you every step o’yer way and when I next have you under my hand I will cut out your liver an’ eat it! That I promise you!’

But Sam just laughed at him and shut and bolted the doors and without saying another word went out through the hotel to the back, where the Starrs sat fretting on the driving board of their flat-bed wagon while Cuspin crouched behind them beside the luggage, his bow ready and aimed and with an arrow nocked. Sam climbed into the back of the wagon beside the young hobbit and smiled reassuringly and said. ‘I think that we can safely be on our way now.’

‘What about my hotel?’ Baril Starr wailed in a plaintive little voice.

Sam laughed: ‘I should think that it will be safe enough,’ he told him. They are a cowardly bunch at the best of times and I daresay they will think twice before they break that door down again, though I regret there will be a fair bit of cleaning that needs doing. Your neighbours were also stirring so I think it like as not that Lurbitz and his lads will scurry off back to the Porpoise to lick their wounds. But see now, it is not necessary that you carry us up the road. We can manage if we are pointed in the right direction.’

‘Tush! Tush! Tush!’ Mistress Starr exclaimed loudly, indignant at the very suggestion of it: ‘I’ll not hear of it master Sam! No, indeed I will not. I have said that we shall get you

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and Master Cuspin there up the road a safe way and that is exact what we shall do. It is no good you trying to back out now Starr, not now that this gentleman has seen off all of those ruffians.’

‘But -’ ‘No buts,’ the redoubtable mistress Starr told him; ‘Now do get on with you husband!’

And heaving a great deep sigh Baril Starr took up the reins and lightly flicked his whip across the shivering horses’ broad backs.

The morning was pale and clammy with a light but cold wind blowing in from the sea across the flat rolling East Riding of Arning. The Great North Road ran like a long straight spear shaft pointing into the North-West from Perit, stretching as far as the eye could see mile upon mile. It was well surfaced and lovingly maintained, which was a matter of some civic pride, and it seemed to be constructed upon a slight elevation; but that was really only an optical illusion caused by the effect of the humped camber that had been designed by the roads engineers and builders, the warrior priests of Ióga, more than a thousand years before the dawn of the Fourth Age. The land to either side was pleasant and not unlike the Shire, with many farms and well defined fields and gardens, and there were little villages and hamlets in plenty; winding zigzagging lanes and fast-flowing streams, thick hedgerows and small clumps of trees dotted here and there that melted away in the distance to a brown woodland haze; and in amongst all of this little utopia the road that wound away before them and was rising now under the light of the new day was like a piece of string laid down on a chequered tablecloth.

‘Eighty mile to the Daarsmad frontier,’ Baril Starr muttered gloomily, shivering against the cold and glowering at his wife.

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‘Well, there is nothing to be worrying about back there. The cleaners will look after the old place when they get in,’ she informed him with a chuckle; ‘an’ I daresay they will be in a right to do about the state of the place, and I imagine Marge and the rest of our neighbours will be on hand to tell a tale or two. But don’t you boys be fretting now, we shall take you to the frontier and we will hopefully be there by this evening if Starr keeps these old nags moving along. That right Starr?’

Baril Starr simply grunted morosely by way of reply, and then muttered: ‘Sixty-post is as far as we can go on account of we don’t have a travel permit. Besides, you don’t seem to have considered the prospect of Mister Sam’s friends getting themselves some mounts o’their own and following on behind us. Now there is a thought.’

‘Will they dad?’ Cuspin asked nervously.

‘I don’t know!’ Sam replied edgily, the fire and excitement of the mornings earlier events now extinguished. ‘They have one lad dead and three wounded and a lot of hurt pride.

Sometimes that is enough to make that kind of bully think on and sometimes it gets them even angrier.’

‘Angry enough to want revenge?’

‘Who can say? I don’t know this Lurbitz well enough to say what he will do or what he won’t do.’

‘We don’t have nothing to fear out here in the Ridings save your cut-throat friends coming up on us and they are foreigners and will stick out like sore thumbs, so I reckon we are safe enow,’ Baril Starr muttered again, but Mistress Starr elbowed him viciously in the ribs and called out cheerily, while the early morning birds swooped across the fields singing and dancing on therms of warm air: ‘We can stop at the Pegasus for a bite o’ lunch and provided old Starr here cheers up a bit the journey should be pretty pleasant. It is quite warm for the season.’

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Sam laughed and said: ‘and I will pay,’ but Baril Starr just muttered again and Sam and Cuspin and Mistress Starr roared with laughter.

Cuspin had a fine voice and as they went he sang Shire songs that he had known since he was a very small child, and these were all new and entertaining for the Starrs. There were even a few that Sam did not know and had never heard and the words to some made him raise his eyebrows and wonder where on earth the youngster could have gotten them from due to their bawdy lyrics. Baril Starr sang a couple of songs too and Sam told stories of his journey into Mordor with Frodo, though after what Cuspin whispered to him concerning his confrontation of the previous evening with the men in the hotel bar he refrained from mentioning anything about spiders, while the horses clip-clopped at a fast and steady pace on the long wide road and the wheels of the wagon creaked and squeaked. The wind sloughed gently. Cattle lowed in the fields. Birds sang in the trees. People waved to them and traffic on the road behind and before them and passing opposite them presented a parade of friendly faces and, for the most part, friendly greetings, although one or two of the people they came up with recognized the Starr’s as being of that strata of Perit society that made them aristocracy almost, at least in so far as the merchant classes were concerned, for it transpired that the hotel was not their only business interest.

The morning was running on and they had covered the better part of their journey when they clattered onto the driveway of the Pegasus coach-house. It was an imposing three-storey building with two recessed wings similar in style to the Prancing Pony. Where the difference lay was in the respective sizes of the two establishments; the Prancing Pony comprised ten guest bedrooms, staff quarters, a snug and a common room, a cellar and pump-room, and stabling for two coaches and a dozen horses; the Pegasus on the other hand was considerably

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larger all round and Barliman Butterbur’s pride and joy would probably have fitted into the stable-block and one wing of this magnificent stopping place on the long road.

Inside it was all of a bustle, with regular coaches in from North and South Uralis, Daarsmad, Arabor, and even one from distant Densdyke and one from Mithrimnon. Then there were folk in from the local towns of Nearth and Mickleton and all the villages round about, together with passing foot, horse, and wagon and cart trade.

They consumed a large and satisfying meal at a private cubicle in one of the five snugs.

Baril Starr was still concerned that they might be set upon at any moment by Lurbitz and his thugs and he would not settle or be reassured that the presence of four guards, who were permanently stationed at the coach-house, meant that it was unlikely that they were at that moment in any danger. He simply would not relax, regardless of the near constant heckling of the redoubtable Mistress Starr. Sam felt sorry for the poor man, despite standing always on the verge of laughter, for she did not give up for a moment in her efforts to soothe her husband’s fears so that in the end it was her persistent references to how safe they were that led Starr into the belief that they were anything but.

‘Alright,’ said Sam at length as he puffed contentedly on his pipe, feeling a great wave of pity for the hapless man, who sat wallowing in a state of utter dejection, ‘let us get on and then you can be free of this burden, Master Starr. We shan’t have the luxury of a ride after we say farewell to you both, Mistress Starr, and I have no words to express how grateful we are to you.’

‘Aye, well,’ Baril Starr replied grudgingly to that, ‘anything to help. I am just glad that no bad thing has happened to you and Cuspin.’

‘Here, what with you hobbits being full o’stories and songs it has been a pleasant diversion for us,’ said Mistress Starr brightly. ‘A bit of a day out, and one that Starr has been in need of for a long time, though the circumstances of how it come about isn’t all that we

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would have wanted. Yes indeed, stories and songs, stories and songs. I think that is why I like you little fellows so very much.’

‘And you make this land a pleasure to visit, Mistress Starr,’ Sam told her gallantly, and Cuspin added, ‘hear, hear.’

Baril Starr groaned, but he grinned also. He stood up and asked them, a little less morosely, ‘Can we go now? The road is long yet and there is no other decent stopping place.

Still, if you ask my wife nicely,’ he said sarcastically, ‘perhaps she will tell you one of her frightful Nabonnan tales. One o’them legends they has of how the female of the species is clearly the superior to the male, and why.’

‘Well, some males at any rate Starr,’ she said tartly, and winked at the hobbits as she did so.

And thus it was that as they left the warm friendly walls of the Pegasus behind receding into the distance beneath the curve of the road, with an escort of little children running after them for a while and staring in wonder and curiosity at the hobbits, and yelling at the top of their lungs in their own language, it struck Sam that most of the folk in the coach-house had paid them scant attention. He wondered idly if perhaps Bilbo and Frodo had passed along this way after they left Middle-Earth and possibly even stopped at this same place. The logical site for a landfall, if the White Ships had come to this Western-Land and not simply sailed straight across the north pole of the world, was farther north at Mirabor or one of the other northern ports that clustered around the delta of the Raban, but it was just conceivable that they might have made landfall at Perit.

Mistress Starr clambered into the back of the wagon beside the hobbits; her skirts hitched up to her knees, and prepared to tell her story: Sam lit his pipe. Cuspin stared dreamily out to the east where there were wisps of smoke rising against a rapidly graying sky. A flock of shaggy-haired sheep, chased by a frenetic black and white dog and a stick wielding shepherd,

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went tumbling across a field, and a hawk dipped and soared above a dark line of trees. Baril Starr gazed stonily straight ahead to where the road lanced into the north-west. The day was waning fast and there were now few travelers abroad. Sam had always been keen on storytelling and loved hearing the lore of people and places that were new and unfamiliar, but he hoped that Mistress Starr as she commenced her tale would not be recounting anything that was even close to the lore that had been espoused by the priest Ashur; he liked the Starrs and desperately did not want to find himself disliking them.

‘I think that you will find this interesting,’ she began.

And here set down is the tale called the Caleamis Lasto Beth Kamen Wen, which translated means “No one can know: Listen to the song of the Earth-maiden.” (It is not exactly a tale in the accepted form, but is more an insight for a man into what it means to be a woman, and, as it was explained to Cuspin much later, it was unquestionably penned by a woman and may even have been written by one of the famous legendary Númenorean Amazons)

‘A woman’s life is quite different from that of a man’s. Malluníni has ordered it to be so. A man is the same from the time of his coming of age to the time of his withering. He is the same before he has sought a woman for the first time, and afterwards. But the day when a woman enjoys her first love cuts her in two. She becomes another woman on that day. The man is the same after his first love as he was before. The woman is from the first day of her first love another. This continues so all through her life. The man spends a night by a woman and goes away. His life and body are always the same. The woman conceives. As a mother she is another person than the woman without child. She carries the print of the night nine



What is curious here is the mixing of ancient Numenorean, as in Caleamis (literally meaning “no-one can know”) and Elvish, as in Lasto Beth Kamen Wen, which itself is a mixture of Quenya and Sindarin forms. It almost persuaded Sam to turn aside for the College of the Priests Library at Mickleton. It is as well that he did not, as it transpired later.  Iluvatar (Father of All): equiv. Mal-lun-ini [Mal – Quenya: meaning gold; lun – Sindar: meaning blue; ini – meaning to sing, or make a musical sound] The Creator.

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months long in her body. Something grows. Something grows into her life that never again departs from it. She is a mother. She is and remains a mother even though her child die, though all her children die. For at one time she carried the child under her heart. And it does not go out of her heart ever again. Not even when it is dead.

And this man does not know; he knows nothing. He does not know the difference before love and after love, before motherhood and after motherhood. He can know nothing. Only a woman can know that and speak of that. That is why we won’t be told what to do by our husbands. A woman can only do one thing. She can respect herself. She can keep herself strong. She can keep herself strong and decent. She must always be as her nature is. She must always be maiden and always be mother. Before every love she is a maiden, after every love she is a mother. In this you can see whether she is a good woman or not..

Sam thought hard about this for a moment, then he clapped his hands and whistled and said: ‘mercy me, Mistress Starr, is that what all the womenfolk’ o’Arning believe? Lord a mighty! Why, Baril, sir you aren’t ever going to win agin her if that is the lore that you live by.’ He laughed loudly. ‘I am very glad that my Rose never heard anything like that.’

Mistress Starr chuckled and said, ‘Ah, but Starr and I have always had eyes only for each other, isn’t that right my sweet?’

Baril Starr sighed and replied dully, ‘And never wanted any other my pet.’

Then they fell silent until after another three hours during which Sam and Cuspin dozed fitfully, abruptly, Baril pulled the wagon off to the side of the road and turned to them: ‘Well,

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this is as far as we can go,’ he said. ‘No farther without a signed and stamped travel permit and that is one thing that we don’t have.’

‘Oh what a shame,’ Mistress Starr said, heaving a great sigh.

Sam jumped down at once from the wagon and sniffed the air. Dusk was falling all about them and the round pale sun was sinking slowly beneath the rim of the world. Late season flowers scented the air and somewhere not far off some farmer had been burning the top grass off his fields. Mistress Starr was whistling and Cuspin was rummaging and sorting out their baggage.

‘We shan’t be able to carry all of this,’ Cuspin said, tutting and scratching his chin.

‘Well then laddie, you know what is important. A rucksack each and a shoulder bag that is all we will take.’

‘Heavens above!’ Mistress Starr exclaimed as she gazed down in open mouthed wonder at all the luggage. It was the first time it had dawned upon them that they would have to somehow carry all of the stuff they had brought. Mistress Starr picked up a small but thick and well knitted woollen jumper. ‘When on earth did you boys think you would have time to wear all them clothes? Or eat all that grub?’

Sam laughed as he lit his pipe. He explained: ‘Cuspin packed it on the other side when he had a pony to lug it all for him. Still, it won’t go to waste I’m sure. We would be very pleased Mistress Starr if you and Mister Starr would accept what we can’t carry, in return for your kindness.’

She giggled and said: ‘No, no, no, we wouldn’t hear of it. Starr and I will keep your stuff safe for you, for I am sure I speak for both of us when I say that I hope you will come back to Perit if you find this place that you are seeking and pass this way again on your way home.’

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Cuspin heaved up the rucksacks and the bags that he had settled on and packed and lowered them down on to the road and jumped down to join Sam. Mistress Starr climbed up to join her husband on the buckboard and he flicked his whip over the horse’s backs and turned the wagon so that it faced back in the direction that they had come. ‘Just up that way is the border. A few miles yet,’ he said. ‘It is marked by a green flag and about two miles farther on is the village of Hagersley. There are plenty of inns there where you will find a bed for the night.’

‘You might have to keep a weather eye out for Lurbitz and his lot on the way back,’ Cuspin warned. ‘Go carefully.’

‘Don’t you be worrying on our account? Them fellers are just so much gimcrack an’ we will be informing the guard on them the minute we gets back, so it will be in their interest to avoid us, ‘ Baril Starr replied, then he clucked the horses into life and the wagon trundled forward, the wheels squeaking.

‘You boys hurry back to us, do you hear?’ Mistress Starr called out. ‘You will find a gigot of lamb and a barrel of beer and me and Mister Starr waiting. You hear?’

Sam and Cuspin laughed and promised they would and then they stood and watched till the wagon and the Starrs faded into the gloom.

‘Well, it is late Cuspin,’ said Sam, a little deflated now that they were once more on the road and alone, ‘and I am sorry to be saying it but I am not for staying at any inn or venturing anywhere near to this village that Baril Starr told us about.’

‘But dad, why ever not?’ Cuspin asked, puzzled.

Sam hefted his rucksack on to his back and gathered up his shoulder bag, puffing at the sudden weight. He pointed to the east and said: ‘I didn’t want to go upsetting the Starrs, they have done enough for us, more than was ever asked and for that I am very grateful, but I have seen riders out there.’

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Cuspin hefted his bags also and stared out in the direction in which Sam had pointed.

‘I don’t see nothing. Just so many trees and fields and houses.’

‘Well, and my eyes ain’t half or near half as good as yours.’ Sam chuckled; ‘and I might be wrong, for I admit that I was on the lookout for just such a thing and might be I am exaggerating what is nothing at all, but I have seen riders and they looked to me to be in a right hurry. Unless I have missed my guess I think that they will be at this Hagersley place by now, and if they are not they certainly will be before we can ever reach it. I don’t want to be walking into any strange place not knowing what is what.’

‘So what is the plan then Dad?’ Sam puffed on his pipe and replied, ‘Night is maybe less than an hour away. We should try to get up beyond the village and then lie up for the night. Over there, those fields will take us off the road for a few mile and though we may have to toil through a bit o’bog and briar it will be better than running into any trouble unnecessary. Sting has seen all the action that I want for one day.’

And so saying Sam led the way off the road and down into the fields that swept away to the silver waters of the Gulf of Polnum.

That night they crept into a deep shaded ditch at the side of a wood about four miles south of the road and the settlement of Hagersley, overlooking the dark mass of the waters of the Gulf. The smell of gilly and hickory and sweet scented philadelphus delighted the hobbits and reminded them of their far away home, but the smells that delighted them more than anything else were the smells conjured up by Cuspin’s cooking skills: frying bacon, black pudding, juicy sausages, beans and sliced tomatoes.

After they had eaten their fill and drunk a skin of sweet Withey wine they lit up their pipes and snucked their feet in beside the glowing fire they had made in the bottom of the ditch,

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and sighed with contentment as they listened to the sounds of the seabirds and the whirring and chatter of the insects.

‘I can’t make head nor tail o’Men dad,’ Cuspin said after a while; ‘I mean, when you think about how bad some like Lurbitz can be and how good folk like the Starrs can be. It’s a puzzle to me.’

‘They are little better or worse than any other folk you will find living in the world I suppose. I used to be like you Cuspin, all goggle-eyed at the thought of meeting an Elf or a Dwarf and wondering what they are like as folk, but I tell you, truth is that they all have their good sides and their bad sides and sometimes the two never meets in the same creature. It always seemed to me that Men had more bad about them than good, but that was only ever because there was more of them, I reckon.’

‘Aye dad, maybe so, but look what they are like:’ and in saying that Cuspin was thinking of Lurbitz and the crew of the Leaping Porpoise: ‘Killing each other all the time, and lying and cheating. But it is such a dilemma, for then you run into folk like the Starrs and Greg and it is hard to think anything bad o’the likes o’them.’

‘Yes, it is. And it is strange I know, strange indeed to reconcile the two,’ Sam mused.

He blew smoke up into the air and gazed up at the stars, then sighed and went on: ‘You remember that lass in Bree, took quite a shine to you?’

‘Jessie?’ Cuspin blurted out, a little too quickly perhaps, which made Sam chortle with laughter. He said: ‘She was sweet on you Cuspin. No, no, now don’t go all shy on me. I am only using her to make a point: and the point is that maiden, just like all the common folk to be found anywhere in the world, by and large know and care very little for the wider world that exists beyond their own little space. She thinks of the same things that we all do, and the values and small nice stuff of life. It’s natural. Men are not hobgoblins Cuspin, they are not Orcs or Trolls, who think evil thoughts just for the sake of ‘em, nor yet are they free from blame for

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the evil that stalks the world. Sauron was a Maia, and a great power, but though he went bad it doesn’t mean that we should condemn all Gods. Fact is that whatever we do now the world is a world of Men, just like I taught you in the tales; best we can hope for is that for every Lurbitz there is an Aragorn or a Boromir.’

‘Or a Greg,’ Cuspin said softly.

Sam bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘Yes, Cuspin, even a Greg. I suppose so. But look here, if you will take your old dad’s advice, do as I do; concentrate first on finding Calabród and worry about what happens after that at the appropriate time.’

‘I will try, but it is hard to stay focussed on that one thing when we don’t even know if the place is real. Tell you what would help, if you know it dad, and that is if I knew a bit more about the history of Men. I mean do they have an ancient lore like the Elves? I have heard your stories and read the Red Book, but what about a history.’

Sam grinned and thought about that for a moment. After a minute he spoke: ‘There is a history I can recount for you. Well it is a bit of a history. But it is not a scholarly thing for it was actually set down by Elias Sandyman, and you know from our own past that he had more reason than a lot to hate them on account of his horrid uncle Ted who sided with Saruman and Wormtongue when they seized the Shire.’ ‘’Tis something that I ain’t read dad and you know that I like my education to be complete. You said before we left that we might use the opportunity.’

‘I know I did Cuspin,’ Sam said, ‘and I know too that you have read as much as you can and certainly more than most hobbits I have known, including Bilbo and Frodo, and they were formidable scholars. I am proud of you. But what I will recount for you now must not be allowed to sway you one way or another for or agin Men, for they are a contrary breed and nobody knows why Elias added his work to the library records at Undertowers. Still, if you

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want to hear it, here it is, so far as I can remember it. At the least it will make a good fireside tale for a chilly night.’

And so it did that night, for it was the beginning of an education that was to stand Cuspin Gamgee in good stead and last him through all the long years of his life.

[Here is set down an extract from the original, which is fuller than what Sam Gamgee related to Cuspin when they were camped together on the Darsmaad frontier.]

FROM: “Commentary on the Nature of Man”

By Elias Sandyman of Bywater

As the Elves had come forth with the rekindling of the Stars, so Men came with the Rising of the Sun. In the land the Elves called Hildórien, “land of the followers”, which was in the far east of Middle-earth, in what we call the Western-lands, Men first opened their eyes to the new light. Unlike the Elves, Men were mortal and, even by Dwarf measure, short-lived.

In strength of body and nobility of spirit Men compared poorly with Elven-folk. They were a weak race that succumbed readily to pestilence and the rough elements of the World. For this reason the Elves called them the Engwar, the “sickly”. But Men were stubborn as a race, and they bred more quickly than any other people except the Orcs, and though great numbers perished they multiplied again and finally thrived in the eastern lands, and so by some were called the Usurpers.` Morgoth made his way to those lands and in Men, for the most part, he found a people he could easily bend to his will.

Some fled from this evil and scattered to the West and to the North. Eventually they reached Beleriand, and the Kingdoms of the Noldorin Elves. The Noldor accepted the

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allegiance of these Men and called them the Attani, the “second-born”, but later, as the greater part of the people of Beleriand spoke the Gray Elven tongue, they were more commonly named the Edain, the “second ones”.

The Edain were divided into three hosts: the First the House of Bëor, the second the House of Haladin, and the Third the House of Hador. The deeds of the Three Houses of Elffriends were renowned. Of the tales of Men in the First Age is the “Narn I Hîn Húrin”, which tells of Húrin the Troll-slayer; of Túrin who slew Glaurung, the Father of Dragons; of Beren, who cut a Silmaril from Morgoth’s Iron Crown; and of Eärendil the Mariner who sailed “Vingilot” and carried the Morning Star into the Heavens.

In the First Age still more of the race of Men came out of the East. They were a different people whom the Elves called the “Swarthy Men” or “Easterlings”. In times of war, most of these men proved unfaithful and though feigning friendship with the Elves, they betrayed them to Morgoth, the Dark Enemy.

When the First Age of the Sun was ended and Morgoth was cast into the Void, the land of Beleriand went down beneath the Western Sea. All the enemies who inhabited Beleriand were slain, as well as most of the Elves and the Edain. Even the Edain who survived that Age became divided. Some fled the sinking of Beleriand and went into the East. They lived in the Vales of Anduin with others of their kin who never entered into Beleriand; they were known as the Northmen of Rhovannion. Others of the Edain went to the South with the Elves. These men were granted a land that lay in the Western Sea. They were named the Dúnedain, the Men of Westernesse, for their land was called Westernesse, which in the Elvish tongue was Númenor.

In the Second Age the Dúnedain were more often called the Númenoreans and they became a mighty sea-power. Then, too, the span of the Númenoreans lives was increased and their wisdom and strength also grew. Their history in the Second Age was glorious but, corrupted

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by Sauron, they went to war against the Valar and were destroyed. Númenor was cast into a great abyss, the Western Sea came over it and it was no more.

Most of the Nûmenóreans perished, yet there were some who were saved from that disaster, including the priestly Nab who, after wandering the oceans as a lost people for three hundred years, were granted lands on the Western-continent at ancient Mánlhûg, which in the Elvish means the “good bend” or “fertile place”; and there were others who descended from the Nab and they were known as the Black Nûmenóreans and these people dwelt in the land of Umbar in the South of Middle-earth.

However, the noblest of the Nûmenóreans returned to Middle-earth in nine ships; their lord was Elendil the Tall and with him were his two sons, Isildur and Anárion. These Elendili, the “faithful”, who were of the true line of the Dûnedain, made two mighty kingdoms in Middleearth: the North Kingdom was Arnor, and the South Kingdom, Gondor.

However, the power of Sauron grew again, and so they made the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, which combined all the armies of the Dûnedain and the Elves. The men were led by Elendil and the Elves by Gil-Galad, the last High King. Many Men called Haradrim, from the South Lands, fought against them, as did others from Rhûn, who were Easterlings, and some who came from the Kingdom of Umbar – the Black Nûmenóreans.

But the Alliance prevailed and defeated Sauron’s legions. However, Gil-Galad, Elendil and Anárion were killed in the war and among the rulers of the Dúnedain only Isildur remained. It was he who cut the Ring from the hand of Sauron and so banished his spirit to wander without form in the waste places of the World. Thus began the Third Age. After taking the One Ring from Sauron’s hand Isildur did not destroy it and in the first years of the Age tragedy befell him. The Orcs cut him down with black arrows at the Gladden Fields and for a very long time the Ring was lost.

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Of the Dúnedain who survived there were the sons of Isildur, who ruled the North Kingdom of Arnor, and the sons of Anárion, who ruled the South Kingdom of Gondor. There were also other races of Men who had risen in the East and South and many now appeared.

The Balchoth, Wainriders and other Easterlings came out from Rhûn against the Dúnedain of Gondor, whilst from the South, the Haradrim and the Variags advanced with the Black Nûmenóreans. However, the Men of Gondor were strong and defeated all enemies.

But in the North another power grew in the land of Angmar. A Witch-king ruled in that land, and he summoned an army of Orcs and evil creatures, as well as Hillmen of the Ettenmoors and Easterlings, to make war on the North Kingdom of Arnor, which they laid waste. Although Angmar was finally destroyed by the Dúnedain of Gondor, the North Kingdom of Arnor was also destroyed, and only a small number of that people survived to wander the empty lands and they were named the Rangers of the North.

In the South and from the East there came a constant flow of barbarian Men, corrupted long before by Sauron’s evil power. The Dunlendings advanced, prepared for war, as did the Haradrim and Easterlings. Yet in this time Gondor gained an ally, for the horsemen known as the Rhohirrim, who had their ancient origins in the far West across the Great Sea, came to their aid. These were the Northmen of Rhovanion and they were like the Woodmen and the Beornings of Mirkwood, or the Lake Men of Esgaroth and the Bardings of Dale, for they perpetually fought against the evils made by Sauron, the Dark Lord.

At the end of the Third Age, the War of the Ring was waged and all the peoples of Middle-earth allied themselves with either Sauron or the Dúnedain. Sauron’s army was overthrown. The One Ring was found and cast into Mount Doom, and the One King came to the Dúnedain. This was the Ranger Chieftain Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who was named King Elessar, the true heir of Isildur.

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Cuspin was asleep and Sam was glad about that, for, despite the valour of the Men of Gondor and Rohan and the likes of Aragorn and Faramir, the truth of it was that much of the history of Men was shoddy and comprised little more than a depressing litany of lies and betrayal and murder and deceit. He was too tired to be bothered to dwell upon the reasons behind why he and Cuspin were there, two hobbits on a quest to find a mythical city of Elves at the behest of an Istari, all for the benefit of the Men of the World.

He reflected

philosophically that the end result of this little jaunt into the West might be nothing more than that he and Cuspin would search for a while for a place that did not really exist and then just give up and go home to the Shire, where after a while a few more tales of the lurid adventures of Sam Gamgee would be recounted in front of hearth in kitchen, lounge, and bar. He chuckled inwardly at the thought of how many spiders and how many goblins he will have slaughtered this time.

Weary as he was he did not sleep for an hour or so more for he was uneasy with the thought that just across the shimmering Gulf the Enemy might lie in wait. It was much of a feeling that he’d had as he and Frodo set out from Bag End with the Ring, especially after they met up with the Elf Gildor Inglorion. Eventually though the fire burned low and he wrapped himself in his cloak and his blanket, and drowsiness stole over him. The night grew on and away out on the waters of the Gulf of Polnum two or three boat-lights of night fishermen winked and bobbed, and Sam fell at last into a fitful sleep.

He was not long asleep when the dream came once more upon him. This time though it seemed more real, as though where he lay was on the edge of that very place where the dream was set. The scenes that had played themselves out for him in his dreaming at home in Bag End now replayed themselves with a frightening intensity made all the more real by virtue of proximity.

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Now he crossed the Gulf of Polnum, flying disembodied through the cool starlit night air, dipping until he hovered just above the waves. It seemed he searched until suddenly he went racing forward and entered into the deep caves that wound and twisted their way through the earth beneath Darsmaad and the Bay of Earn and then under the land in what was Caffirod, leaving behind in his wake an angry chittering evil thing that scuttled about in its lair deep inside the Caves of Daar.

His body shuddered in sleep for now he was passing up through cobwebbed caverns in which awful things crawled and a deep and all consuming evil thing sat waiting patiently.

Every now and again, from above, a poor and helpless creature, a man or woman, sometimes a child, a hapless Orc or two even, were thrown down to the thing that sat in its cave lair, and then the shadow would strike and swiftly consume them. Sam knew, without understanding how he did, that this was the lair of the Galogaban that he had passed through. But still he was not permitted respite and was drawn on up to that place where He sat, throne-like, hissing and laughing. It was Sauron; he knew it, and he knew also that he was close to the source of the evil that had infested the Western-Lands, very close, but yet, though Samwise Hamfast’s son perceived this land of darkness in his dreaming eye, where time and those who enter upon it are forgotten, yet he was filled with strength and he pushed back with his mind and went flying away up through the tunnels to explode out of a spout on a mountainside in the tortured land of Hador.

Now he could look back upon a wide lake of darkness that was dotted with tiny fires, to where there was a great burning glow; and from it arose in huge columns a swirling smoke, dusty red at the roots, black above where it merged into the billowing canopy that roofed in all the accursed land.

And what he saw there, massive and towering, was Barad-nĂşl-Orgymm; from out of the vast furnaces beneath its ashen cone, with a mighty surging and throbbing, came pouring

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forth great rivers of molten rock out of chasms and fissures in its sides; down wide channels the bubbling rivers blazed and wound their way onto a petrified plain, where they cooled and lay like twisted dragon-shapes vomited from the tormented earth.

A red sun glowered against stark rock faces, so it seemed they were drenched with blood, and the great bastions of the mountain fortress climbed one upon the other in ever receding parapets until they became one tower upon the fire rimmed crater of the mountain.

Then, a voice summoned him with a sweet and gentle chant, and, though it seemed that it did not threaten him, it gnawed at his will until he feared he could no longer resist. But then his plain hobbit common sense rose to the surface and would not let him surrender to it: ‘Sa-am, come. We love you, tasty love. Co-me Sa-am. Come to Gorab-íb-Bálbor. Saam!’

The voice was oh so compelling and just as he thought that he might succumb, if for no other reason than that of curiosity, he heard a familiar warm and friendly voice cutting across the first, and even before it had ceased he was turning away from that hellish place: ‘Come away from here now Sam; this is no place for you. Go back to Cuspin, he waits for you. Go Sam, go on now.’

‘Gandalf,’ Sam whispered in his sleep as he passed away back to his slumbering self, moving like a swift shadow across the land, going over woods and rivers and towns and villages, fields and marshes, and villas and hills and mountains, where long marching columns of Orcs, some of them mounted on great shaggy maned wolves, and Trolls and other foul things were on the move. There were Men there too, battalions of them, many carrying torches in their hands, in the glare of which he could see their faces; they were dark haired and grimy, but not all particularly evil looking; but there were some others that were horrible things, not like Men at all, tall and with goblin-faces, sallow, leering, and squint-eyed. And then from out of the great open brazen iron gates of the tower of Minas-Malbor, under the watchful malevolent

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gaze of Khamúl the Nazgúl Lord of the Wraiths, tramping down a long road in their heavy hobnailed boots, crossing the bridge over the Earn into Nolburr, went long columns of marching Uruk-hai and Olog-hai, singing with loud voices a war-song of despair.

Then Sam woke with a great start, sweating and gasping for breath and staring up into Cuspin’s worried eyes. ‘Cuspin’ he whispered hoarsely, and gripped the young hobbit by the shoulders as though he could hardly believe that he was real. He licked his lips: ‘do not worry, Cusp,’ he reassured him. ‘I am fine. It was the dream again. Give me a drink.’

Cuspin held a water flask to Sam’s lips while he drank deeply. It was dawn now and down across a wide slope of grasslands that fell away before them the sparkling waters of the Gulf of Polnum basked under a weak lemon yellow sun. The day was not very bright for the sun was struggling to escape from behind ever more chunky gray louring clouds that were fetching in from the south-east. Sam shuddered when he stared down into the south across the waters for he knew now for certain what lay there. His feelings were the same feelings of foreboding that had assailed him when he stood on the threshold of Mordor all those years before. He listened for a moment to the sounds of the Petrels buzzing back and forth in the sky a short way from them and he inhaled deeply the scent of the abundant awbreesha, and, though he could not detect anything untoward or overtly out of place with the waking world, yet he knew now that the Enemy was indeed close and was aware of his presence. ‘Do we have biscuits and cold meats?’ he asked Cuspin abruptly.

Cuspin replied, puzzled, ‘Yes, dad. But why?’

Sam pushed himself to his feet with an effort and rubbed at his aching back. ‘Because we cannot tarry here,’ he answered brusquely. ‘I have slept too long. Pack everything quickly; we will eat breakfast on the move.’

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Their shoulder bags were trussed up and their rucksacks fastened tight at Sam’s insistence, and they moved as swiftly as his old age and protesting limbs would permit. They found a small track about a mile from the Great North Road, which was roughly cobbled and followed as near as made no difference a parallel course with the Road, though often as they travelled it they were forced to climb over walls or through hedges when the track looped away from them, but they stuck to it for hour after hour throughout that long day.

Sam would allow no halt for lunch but only a few minutes rest while they drank some water and ate a little cheese and bread and an apple from the little stock that Mistress Starr had provided for them. A light drizzle of rain fell upon their heads and Cuspin, who knew better than to complain too loudly, suggested: ‘Dad, look, maybe we should rest up for a while. I ain’t seen nothing of any riders on the road or noticed anything in all this dreary land that could be thought suspicious.’

Sam did not answer at once. He paused for a few moments and then he pointed ahead to where, looming against the dusky sky, a bleak, stark, and nearly unbroken line of tall spike crowned trees stretched across the horizon. ‘There is the Langeslora, Cusp,’ he remarked, ‘and though I do not for one second like the look of it, for I have a notion it is like the Old Forest as was and is full of gloomy sad old trees half strangled by ivy, and though it was Morannon itself we went to, still I would prefer to be under its eaves tonight than out in the open.’

‘But dad, wouldn’t it make more sense for us to lie up in some comfy inn tonight?’

‘No buts about it!’ Sam retorted brusquely as he started to stride on. But then after a moment he thought better of it and stopped and turned to face the younger hobbit: ‘Look, Cuspin,’ he explained urgently, ‘son, the dream is real. It is all real! And the Enemy is very real, and sits not so very many leagues from where we stand right now. His power is on the march and He will have his spies everywhere. I know. Trust me.

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Then he turned away and walked quickly down the track and Cuspin heaved a great sigh of pure frustration and tutted and followed on behind him. The last of the day’s sun escaped briefly from behind the clouds and before them there was opened up a vista of a wide land of well-tended fields and meadows; there were hedges and gates and dikes for drainage, and farms and barns with glittering rooftops. Everything was quiet and peaceful and quite unaware that there could possibly be any threat or danger lurking just a few short miles away.

They passed along the edge of a huge cabbage-field and came to a stout gate. Beyond it a rutted lane ran between low well laid hedges towards a distant single craggy hill that rose like an unwanted pimple on the otherwise flat farmland. Partway up that hill was a granite outcrop that sheltered a wooden planked barn from north and east winds, so that winter blizzards and cold late autumn gales mostly leapfrogged straight over the top. Near the base of the hill was a roughly gravelled stretch, then a long rutted and indistinct track which appeared to lead to nowhere. That was where they spent that night, and it was late when they got there. Sam would not let Cuspin light a fire and supper was eaten cold while they lay down in a heap of damp straw amidst protesting goats and a dour old cow that gazed at them with baleful time and careworn eyes.

Cuspin had to stand the first watch for Sam could barely keep his eyes open, but the night was black and there was nothing at all to be seen and nothing to be heard except the usual familiar sounds of the night; an owl hooting, insects buzzing and chirruping, mink and otter shrieking, and a dog barking at the moon every now and again.

The following morning was fine and dewy, if a little chilly, and Sam’s limbs were protesting at the damp; his back ached and he felt his age, the years lying heavy upon him like great rocks piled one upon another on a weak lintel. Neither Sam nor Cuspin had much to say to one another as they hacked their way down to the Road and the edge of the Forest, where all through that long morning the trees grew in their horizon until as the midday sun hung high

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overhead there was nothing to be seen but the long road stretching away into the middle of a void of darkness.

Sam was reluctant to enter into the Forest but he knew that they must. At either side of the Road for as far as the eye could see there was only the trees to be seen; great trunks of innumerable sizes and shapes; straight or bent, twisted, leaning, squat or slender, smooth or gnarled or branched; and all the stems were green or grey with moss and slimy shaggy growths.

The Forest floor was strewn with brittle mangled fallen branches and mulchy leaves and thin stands of knee-high yellow grasses, and in its deep dark interior a brooding silence screamed at them.

Sam found himself thinking, inexplicably, and unwillingly, of the darker parts of Mirkwood and the Old Forest, and of course in the light of those events when the Ring Companions had barely begun the journey to Rivendell and had to be rescued by Tom Bombadil it was not entirely a pleasant memory. But the Langeslora differed from both Mirkwood and the Old Forest; it was more piney and evergreen.

Sam sighed and shook his head dolorously and muttered. His voice was a low murmur:

‘O! Wanderer in the shadowed land Despair not! For though dark they stand, All woods there be must end at last, And see the open sun go past; The setting sun, the rising sun, The day’s end, or the day begun.’

Cuspin was deeply concerned. It occurred to him that Sam might be feeling the pace.

He was beginning to come over all queer, much more than he had when they were passing the

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Old Forest and the Barrow Downs on the road to Bree. He regarded his dad’s pale face and his lips moving in a low whisper of words that he could not make out and he said, a little nervously, ‘Dad, look here now, if you are feeling tired.’

‘I am not tired,’ Sam insisted, though without conviction: ‘Not tired. Well, a little perhaps. But we have to go on Cuspin. Day to get through that. Just one day. We keep going until we are through and come out the other side. That’s all.’

‘How do you know that dad?’

‘Starr,’ Sam replied simply, and set off stolidly, if somewhat reluctantly, along the road into the depths of the deep dappled shadows. Behind him he heard flocks of pigeons rising, their wings beating the air, and Cuspin whistling as he trudged along at his back, and despite his weariness and foreboding he found himself smiling.

They did not make it all the way through the Langeslora that day and Sam did not have the strength to go on all of the night as he wanted to. About three hours after midnight they left the road and went a little way north among the trees, to where the pine and firs were mingled with the ancient oaks and ashes. Everything was closed in and tangled and there were deep folds in the ground like wheel ruts and wearily they climbed down into a deep hollow filled with thick bushes and matted undergrowth and there they cast themselves down and ate and slept as best they could.

In the morning, with thin lines of sunlight pricking the forest floor and slicing across the trunks of the trees, they pushed their way back to the road and struck off into the West.

The road rose up steeply as it climbed the last three or four miles towards the margin where the tree-line ended, and as they went they found themselves instinctively moving faster in their desire to get out from the midst of the tall dark pressing trees. An instinct that they

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were not alone in this forest was alive within them and as they hastened on they looked anxiously to left and right.

‘Wait!’ Cuspin called out after a while, bringing Sam up short and making him stop and stand still. Cuspin turned slowly and stared back down the road into the dark, squinting.

Then, after a moment more they heard it; it was the unmistakeable sound of hoof beats.

They could not yet see the rider but they could clearly hear the clattering hooves of a big animal, not galloping, just coming on at a steady unhurried trot, which seemed somehow to be far more sinister than if the rider had been hastening towards them.

‘Some traveller?’ Cuspin ventured uncertainly; ‘Nothing to do with us.’

‘Don’t you believe it!’ Sam told him sternly. A sudden vision of a Black Rider, hooded, hissing, all wet leather and sharp sword, came into his mind’s eye. He jumped down into the ditch at the side of the Road and said urgently, ‘Come on now lad! Get down here!’

Cuspin never moved and would not budge. The noisy drumbeat of the approaching horse rose and rose, and now the jingle of harness could be clearly heard also.

‘Cuspin!’ Sam hissed at him again.

‘No dad,’ Cuspin replied firmly. ‘Not this time. You are old and tired and not up to a fight with some assassin. I will lead him, or it, away from you and into the trees and then I’ll come back for you.’

‘Cuspin!’ Sam called out desperately.

The rider hove into sight, seated astride a giant black horse, a tall dark rider, his black cloak flying in the wind at his back. Sam ducked down and Cuspin ran away into the trees. At once the rider turned the horse’s head and veered off the road in pursuit of the young hobbit.

Sam thrust his fist to his mouth and listened to the sounds of pursuer and pursued recede into the deeper wood and he felt hot tears roll down his cheeks. If it were not for him and his bad temper Cuspin would never have felt any compunction to prove anything. He cursed

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himself as he popped his head up from beneath the grassy verge of the road and looked urgently to right and left; but the road was deserted and there was nothing to be seen. Towards the interior of the wood, in the direction from which they had just come, the road was dark and shadowed, black and purple beneath deeper black and purple, while in the other direction, westward, it lay dappled under a bright sun, the end of a shining tunnel not very far distant.

Before him, on the opposite side of the road, the trees and the bushes and the tangles of broken branches which had swallowed up Cuspin and the rider fell away down a slight depression in the land. A bird called out from high in the sky where it soared on warm thermals of air and Sam clambered up out of the ditch and stood on the road. Far away a horse neighed. The rest was silence.

Cuspin could not at first believe that the rider would and did actually spur his animal on into the tangle of the deep forest, for the farther into it he went the denser it became, and darker too, so that the shadows and greens and browns and grays, all dappled here and there with spots and beams of light from high above played tricks with the eyes. It was riven with dips and folds and little streams running fast and tumbling down cuts and rocky overhangs and over all there was a deathly silence.

He tumbled down a grassy bank and fell into a thick drift of old leaves into which he burrowed like a mole. He heard a snorting and a slow crackling as a large animal moved slowly not far off. Old bogey stories about goblins and wolves came unbidden and unwelcome to him and though his rational mind told him not to be so foolish yet every terror in the world seemed to surround him at that place and he quivered with fear and imagined the dark horseman would hear his teeth chatter in his head and so detect him.

Then: Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! And when he popped his head up and peeked it was to see the horse and rider standing on the edge of the bank directly above his head. The horse

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was impossibly tall and powerful, its great flanks were trembling and the black legs and hooves restless and ever moving. Cuspin could clearly see its jet black eyes and the nostrils flaring and the ears twitching. The rider was draped in a black cloak that fell to his booted and stirruped feet and he wore a helmet on his head from beneath which his black hair tumbled.

He held a long sword in his right hand and his horse’s reins in his left hand and he gazed at the trees watchful and alert.

Cuspin pushed himself into the bank and squeezed his eyes tightly shut and in his head he sang a song to distract himself from his terror.

‘Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go To heal my heart and drown my woe, Rain may fall and wind may blow, And many miles be still to go, But under a tall tree I will lie, nd let the clouds go sailing by.’

‘Go away,’ he whispered to himself, praying fervently; ‘Oh, please go away.’

Then, a horn sounded far away to the east back in the direction of Darsmaad, from whence they had come. It was a long drawn out wail that echoed down the wind, like the cry of some evil and lonely creature. “Boo-oo! Boo-oo!” the horn cried. The notes rose and fell, and ended on a high piercing drawn out wail, and Cuspin felt as though his blood was frozen to ice in his veins and at once his courage fled from him. Another cry sounded, this time from farther away in the south: “Boo-oo! Boo-oo!”

Then with the echoes of the second horn and the last note dying away on the wind, the rider turned his horse’s head and went off crashing back through the trees and the tangled

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undergrowth. When he was quite certain that the danger had passed Cuspin raised his head and climbed out of the dip and scrambled up the bank and went stumbling back the way that he had come.

Sam watched the dark rider sheath his sword and then gallop his big horse away down the road into the east. He clambered out of the ditch and ran forward to the opposite side of the road and plunged down the dip and into the forest without thinking. He quickly located the flattened path that the rider had cut through the bracken and the thorns and followed it.

He was frantic. He knew the rider would be long gone but still he did not dare to call out. The foliage was flattened and broken branches lay scattered about in a long swathe that marked the path that both Cuspin and the rider had followed into the dank interior. He pushed on, removing his water flask from his shoulder bag as he went. He drank deeply. The water tasted good, and his spirits raised a little and in that moment when he was distracted he fancied that he caught a glimpse of a black form or shadow flitting among the trees away to his right.

He thought he saw more than one shape, with long spears and bows gripped in their hands, and long daggers that glinted now and then when they caught a shaft of sunlight. But it was an impression only and in that confused mass of dense undergrowth and trees and shadow it was hard to be certain.

‘Cuspin?’ he whispered. A shadow of fear stole over him and he pulled Sting from its scabbard and held it up before him. ‘Cuspin?’ he said again.

‘It is safe,’ a voice said very slowly and clearly from just behind him beside his head, so near that Sam turned quickly, but seeing nothing he shook his head to clear it and he was left wondering if he really had heard anything. His eyes searched the wall of greens and grays and brown.

‘Cuspin, now don’t mess about lad. Is that you?’

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‘Ssssafe.’

Then suddenly Cuspin burst through the trees and stood looking at him for a moment before Sam, relieved and delighted, ran up from the hollow he stood in and gathered the younger hobbit into his arms. All thought of the strange voice vanished from him as he wept and said over and over: ‘Cuspin, oh Cuspin.’

Cuspin laughed: ‘Careful with that pig-sticker o’yours dad.’

Sam stepped back and thrust Sting away into its scabbard and shook his head and heaved a great sigh of pure relief. ‘Oh Cuspin! I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you, or how I could have explained it to Elanor and Rosie and the rest.’

‘You wouldn’t have lost me dad. I admit I was fair scared out of my wits, but I just kept me head down and that fellow wouldn’t have found me. Anyway, who do you think he was? That rider.’

Sam looked warily about him at the forest. He said, absently, ‘Don’t know. Not Lurbitz or his lot. Too fancy for them.’

‘Gold can buy a murderer, dad, and we have given them enough to buy more than one.’

Sam placed a hand on Cuspin’s shoulder and said: ‘that is true, though it is perhaps more pertinent to ask if whether Lurbitz is the sort to spend his money in such a way. Best thing that we can do now is get along the road as quick as we can before that fellow, whoever he is, decides to come back this way again.’

And, although the forest seemed a lot less threatening to them now, as they retraced their footsteps to the road Sam was very glad that they did not have far to go until they came out from the gloomy forest for all of a sudden the sound of that spectral voice echoed again in his ears and he was certain they were not alone.

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Chapter 6

THE KINDERLORN

As they stood there on the long road and looked down across the wide expanse of wild country that confronted them to the south and stretched away to the distant Kinderlorn, which of course they could not see, they were sunk in the depths of their own private thoughts. They would not admit it to one another but they were both of them consumed by similar feelings of despondency and wishing they were back home at Bag End. And in Sam’s case he was wishing fervently he had never come away on this ill-starred journey to begin with.

It was easy to see how that could be so for the difference in the land that now stood to be crossed and that which they had left behind on the other side of the forest was stark: the Arning Riding and Darsmaad were lands washed by warm breezes from the sea and they were lands of ordered communities and farms and villages which reminded the hobbits of home, whereas the land to the west presented them with a desolate wild windswept vista of bare purple moorland. The heavily populated coastal plain of Arning seemed now to them a haven, despite Ashur and the sacrificial cult of Ióga, and even the Langeslora, with its tangle of gorse and bracken and the sinister giant pine trees and the ancient brooding oaks and chestnut and elm, seemed warm and inviting and somehow preferable to this.

The lush green and autumn reds and golds they were leaving beckoned them back into its protective bosom, ahead the flat windswept fog-blighted moor was sparse and uninviting, hostile even.

‘Well, there ahead lies Uralis dad,’ Cuspin muttered morosely.

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‘Yes,’ Sam sighed in agreement.

Away in the depths of the Langeslora, whose tall trees and dark depths stretched behind them in a long unbroken line, the sounds of that now familiar horn echoed loud and clear and ringing.

Sam placed his hand on Cuspin’s arm and smiled at him. He said: ‘I do not want to be the one to say it but I think that we will have to leave the road. I cannot see that we have any other choice. If we stay on the road we may reach Densdyke, though it is a very long way from here, and then we could turn and follow the banks of the River Raban. Perhaps take a boat.’

He chuckled. ‘We are experienced on the water now.’

Cuspin did not laugh. He failed to see the joke. It was inconceivable of course that they could remain on the road where they would be exposed, not with folk chasing them, and particularly folk like the rider that they had caught a glimpse of in the forest. He shivered as the wind bit at him and involuntarily his eyes fell upon the Elven cloak that Sam wore and he cast an envious glance, and immediately hated himself for doing so. Still, he reflected half seriously, were it not for his dad’s age and obvious infirmity he might have been tempted to suggest that they share it. The wind was piercing and he was chilled to the bone standing there on that road momentarily inactive and worried; but when he glanced at Sam he thought how old and weary he looked. The tip of his nose was bright red and wet and so Cuspin could not bring himself to ask or suggest anything that might increase his own comfort and lessen his.

The horn sounded again. Birds called out raucously and exploded into the sky above the tree-line. The wind sang a shrieking song. Cuspin said caustically, raising his voice above the gale, ‘If we were going to make for Densdyke we should do just as well for to cross the bridge at the river and go on into Merland, then turn south to cross over Ered Bardil. Leastways that is what Ashur advised.’

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The mention of that name annoyed Sam, though his aching limbs and the cold gray of the day did not help his mood either, and he retorted angrily: ‘Don’t go saying that feller’s name around me Cuspin! Mercy me! The day I shall want advice from a killer o’bairns is the day I join the Orcs!’

‘I thought you liked him.’

‘No, you are mistaken there Cuspin. You are confusing liking with politeness. I did not like him. And that story he told us, that he reckoned was a tale o’the blessed isle, why, that was nothing but a lie. I know my lore o’the Númenóreans and it ain’t got no tales like his that I have heard.’ He paused for a breath and then added, gently, ‘Now please lad, can we get on?

Before that blessed horseman rides right over us.’

‘Anyway,’ Cuspin said, now thoroughly disgruntled, ‘we can’t stay on the road for that is too much invitation to that rogue Lurbitz and his gang o’cutthroats.’

‘I don’t think it is Lurbitz who is after us,’ Sam replied pointedly. ‘But I agree we cannot stay on the open road now. We don’t want riders coming up on us when we least expect it and have nowhere to hide. It is the hard way for us, Cuspin my lad.’ And with that he scrambled off the road and down the bank and onto the moor, followed a moment later by Cuspin.

The day was cold and damp, windy and sleety, and Sam was anxious that they should get as far away as possible from the Langeslora before halting to rest. Hour after hour they struggled among soggy tussocks and slime covered pools, where frogs croaked and crickets chirruped, and Cuspin, who was feeling the cold terribly and was in a wretched mood, moaned and complained until Sam felt he had to say something to silence him.

‘Cuspin lad, we have a good fifty mile or so of this so give it a rest. There’s a good lad,’

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But Cuspin continued muttering to himself all the same and, almost in response, or in mockery, the wind got up even fiercer and a spattering of rain fell across their faces and their necks.

Sam smiled to himself and marvelled at his adopted son as he watched him out of the corner of his eye plodding stolidly along, still mumbling to himself; on the one hand he could be as tough and indomitable as any hobbit that he had ever known and as resolute and brave as any heroic knight; on the other hand he could quickly become as morose and sullen as any maid when the weather turned bad or if his mood did not fancy it. The truth of it was, Sam thought, Cuspin was a scholar; he was very much a lover before a fighter; and when it came to struggling through the sort of weather that confronted them now only dogged stubbornness forced him to put one leg before the other. On the sea-crossing and in the Langeslora his better side had risen to the surface at times and Sam was filled with nothing but admiration for him, but there were other times, especially out there on the wet moor when his worst side came flooding up to the surface, and that was the side that infuriated Sam and set his teeth on edge and irritated him to the point where he felt that he could scream.

And yet it was curious that Sam entirely failed to realise, because in that sort of a situation folk very rarely do, that Cuspin was more like the young Sam Gamgee than this old Sam Gamgee was, and if he had realised that perhaps he would have been grateful for it and he might have been a little more forgiving.

Down beyond and far from the long endless gray North Road it seemed to the hobbits that there were no other roads at all and no life of any sort and no villages or farms or hamlets out there on the red earth and the boggy ground. In fact there were a few hamlets and isolated farmhouses dotted about the moor, but none that Sam and Cuspin came in sight of as they trudged on into the wavering horizon. The day was long and though they stopped four times

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to eat and rest and puff on a pipe, still their mood was low for everywhere surrounding them were chill mists that no last gleam of sunset touched; and in the depths of the mist as darkness descended and strange shadows danced, like moorland mirages, they half-imagined they could descry far off, floating as it were on a shadowy sea, the high dim tops and broken pinnacles of old castle towers forlorn and dark.

Sam placed a hand on Cuspin’s shoulder. He was weary. He said: ‘We should camp for the night. I fancy it will rain hard a bit later and this gloom and these sharp high grassy bumps are fair getting me down. Besides, my old bones ain’t up to more o’this hard trekking, not for a while.’

Cuspin glanced at the older hobbit and noticed with alarm that he looked completely done in, exhausted like he hadn’t seen him before, all stoop shouldered and tired eyed. He bit his lip and then, filled with concern, he asked in a rush, without thinking, tentatively almost: ‘Are you okay Mister Mayor Sir? I mean, this is such a cold terrible place and if you were to be feeling that enough was enough like, and if you was to want to go back to a nice cosy fire at Bag End, well, mercy me but I wouldn’t think bad of it. I wouldn’t mind at all, not for one minute. We could be back at Starrs before you knew it.’

Sam listened to the sudden outpouring, his anger rising as the words tumbled out, and then, quite unexpectedly and uncharacteristically, he reached across and took a hold of Cuspin by the scruff of the neck and fair shook him. It was a shock to them both for a rough physical reproach was not something that any of the Gamgee children had experience of and administering such a reproach was utterly alien to Sam. They were both shaken to the core, and Sam was ashamed when he saw Cuspin’s shocked reaction, and for a moment they stood regarding one another warily, until Sam, although his anger had cooled, said sharply: ‘See what you have made me do!’

‘Me?’ Cuspin responded indignantly.

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Sam breathed deeply and fought back tears. ‘Look Cuspin, I know the way is hard, but you must have realised from the stories you heard and from what you read in the Red Book that it wasn’t always going to be easy when we set off. The best way is often the hardest and I make no apology for that. And perhaps you would do well to understand right now before we go on any farther just what is what. In the first place we are not going back, not under any circumstance, though you are free to come and go as you please, and there is nothing stopping you from turning about and going off home. In the second place, I have been where it is much colder and nastier than this and once I get my second wind, so to speak, this will be a dawdle.

Yes, I feel the pace a bit right now but I will get used to it. And in the third place, and more importantly, do stop calling me “Mayor”. Stop it, do you hear me! You have already nearly gotten our throats cut by calling me that.’

Cuspin stood for a moment in stunned silence with his mouth hanging agape, utterly taken aback by the sudden outburst, but then he pulled himself up to his full height and spluttered an indignant, ‘Well! Well! Well! Well! Fiddles dad! Fiddles! Mayor is what you have been for most o’my life and I am proud of you, even if you ain’t. Mayor is what you don’t want - fine - that is how it will be. I’m sorry if it has slipped out every now and again, truly I am, but I don’t do it deliberate. And as for this adventuring, well this is a thing that I have longed for since I was a little lad, as you know, but I never imagined it was standing freezing your ears off in the rain in a strange wild place and being shouted at all ends up and down. And grabbed.’ Cuspin said this with an indignant shake of the head. ‘Grabbed! I ask you. No, this ain’t what I imagined it to be at all.’

Sam smiled and heaved a great deep sigh and placed his arm about the younger hobbits shoulder: ‘I am so sorry Cuspin lad. Nothing like this will happen again. It’s just, you understand, I’m not a young hobbit anymore, and though it is a plain eyed fact right enough that I have no business being out here in this desolate place, and that is a conclusion that many

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sensible folk would arrive at, still, I am here and that is also a fact. I need my own warm fire, and Bag End, and my big old bed, and a pint o’beer from the golden Perch or the Ivy Bush, and a good pipe, and a lot more beside: And the truth of it is them’s exact what I longs for, but the hardest and simplest fact of em’ all is that kind o’peace and quiet is for other folk and not me.

I have a duty and that is summat that was born in me long ago in Rivendell, and under the mountains in Moria, and in Cirith Ungól, and in many other places besides. More than anything Cuspin, I know that Gandalf and Frodo for sure and certain need me and I can’t just give up, no matter how bad things get.’

Cuspin smiled and squeezed Sam back and whispered: ‘I understand Dad, and I am sorry too.’

And while they had been thus engaged in arguing the toss the darkness seized the opportunity to come down like an assassin and all about them now the night was thick and palpable, clinging like a living creature. Sam said quietly and gently: ‘It is dark and my back is aching. Let us make a camp here for the night.’

Cuspin grinned and whispered, ‘Not the Golden Perch dad. You hate the Golden Perch.’ Then they laughed and felt a lot better for having said things that were perhaps best said and out of the way, and said early on in their travels rather than later.

They made their camp in a small pebble strewn gully, against a moss covered rocky wall that was not very high but which was enough to afford them some shelter from the relentless wind. Cuspin stretched their canvas sheet above their heads, anchoring it on the lip of the dell with a line of heavy shiny black boulders. He made a fire and a supper for them and they ate and after, wrapped in their blankets, they had a smoke as they gazed out at the vast canopy of the stars gleaming on their rich velvety blanket. Sam felt a deal happier for being able to rest beside the fire with a full belly and a pipe of Longbottom, but he noticed that Cuspin

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was casting sorry glances all about him at the falling rain and the gloom and was probably worried that somewhere out there might be the rider that had almost caught them in the forest.

He thought the younger hobbit probably too scared now to open his mouth and say anything after their earlier altercation and so, despite his weariness and his desire for sleep, Sam took the lead: ‘Shall I sing us a song Cuspin?’ he ventured cheerily.

Cuspin grinned and he perked up at once, relieved to have his old familiar dad back with him, and his eyes shone bright in the glow from the fire. ‘I would rather hear more of the history of Men,’ he said; ‘Perhaps a tale of the island of Númenor, since it seems to have quite a lot of significance here in the Western-Lands. But the true story. Not lies like that Ashur tried telling us.’

‘Oh, I know the history well enough, and if I recounted it that would complement everything that I have told you thus far concerning Men. That is true.’ Sam said this with a thoughtful look on his face; ‘but that is a long tale, told in two parts, and it is not recorded by Elf or Hobbit or by any other creature but Man himself. He was an historian out of Dol Amroth.’

‘So are you saying it ain’t the truth either?’ Cuspin asked a little confused.

Sam chuckled and blew out a great cloud of smoke up into the air. ‘No, no, not at all,’ he replied quickly. ‘I will only say this on that matter and then you can make up your own mind as to whether it is true or otherwise: History is set down by all manner of folk. All manner. And some that write it down don’t even know that it is history. To them it might be just a diary, or personal notes, or a letter to a friend, anything in fact. The history which is set to tug at the heart and rouse the most sympathy is that which you get from the vanquished, them what is beaten. The dispossessed on the other hand write histories that try to justify their existence. The victor writes the most interesting history for you can never tell if it is true, and

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it is distinguished from all other forms of historical record in that the victor is never wrong.

Men have certainly not been vanquished, if all that we have learned is to be believed: they have not been dispossessed either because they have not yet taken possession of anything: similarly they have not yet won any prize. So, I cannot tell you if their history of Númenor is factual, for it was, as I said, set down by a man.’

‘Will you tell it to me anyway dad?’

Sam grinned and shook his head. He was constantly amazed by Cuspin’s unquenchable thirst for knowledge and his desire to learn. He craved it as the leaves of the plants craved the light of the sun. It was certainly not something that he had inherited from Hansi Longthorn, nor could it be said that curious and questioning nature that Sam himself possessed had been passed to him, for Cuspin had displayed the trait from when he had been still a suckling baby.

It was entirely natural and it was a feature of his personality that endeared him to most folk that he encountered and it was something that Sam loved in him, because like Frodo’s easy charm and gracious kindness it was a quality that was uncontrived. It was, Sam reflected, probably passed down to him by his mother, May Willowbane.

Sam puffed contentedly at his pipe and looked for a moment to where Ëarendil stood at Vingilots helm and he smiled and said: ‘I will tell you Cuspin, but not tonight, for it is too long and I daresay we shall both be asleep ere it is done. I will sing instead a song that was made famous by Bilbo Baggins. The tune is as old as the hills and the words as wise as the rising sun. He taught it to Frodo and then I picked it up, ‘cos he used to sing it all the time when we were in the wild lonely places, just to cheer us up and remind us of home.’

‘Upon the hearth the fire is red, Beneath the roof there is a bed; But not yet weary are our feet.

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Still round the corner we may meet A sudden tree or standing stone, That none have seen but we alone.

Tree and flower and leaf and grass, Let them pass! Let them pass!

Hill and water under sky, Pass them by! Pass them by!

Still round the corner there may wait A new road or a secret gate, And though we pass them by today, Tomorrow we may come this way And take the hidden paths that run Towards the Moon or to the Sun. Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe, Let them go! Let them go!

Sand and stone and pool and dell, Fare you well! Fare you well!

Home is behind, the world ahead, And there are many paths to tread, Through shadows to the edge of night, Until the stars are all alight.

The world behind and home ahead, We’ll wander back to home and bed.

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Mist and twilight, cloud and shade, Away shall fade! Away shall fade!

Fire and lamp, and meat and bread, And then to bed! And then to bed!’

And as his voice lowered and the last notes of the song died away Cuspin’s chin fell down to rest on his chest, he started to snore softly and his head nodded. Sam leaned over and gently removed the still smoking pipe from his unresisting fingers and pulled his blanket up so that it covered him to his chin. He smiled when the young hobbit snuggled down and murmured in his sleep: ‘Thanka da’.’

Sam’s heart was tugged as though it was on the end of a long rope and the whole Micheldever “tug-o-war team” pulling on the far end; Cuspin’s face was so very like his mother’s as he slept; it was unnerving; pretty in an entirely un-hobbit like way, but strong featured too, if a little vulnerable seeming at times. Yes, he had his mother’s looks all right, but Sam saw a fair bit of Hansi Longthorn in there as well, perhaps that mischievous bit, and he was glad about that, and as he gazed at him a warm glow filled his old hobbit heart and he whispered: ‘You are such a good lad Cuspin.’ Then a shooting star in the low southern horizon zipped white across the night sky and he added; ‘and I just pray that I have done the right thing in bringing you out here to this bleak and dangerous foreign place. I am your dad Cuspin and that is what I promised old Hansi I would be. Lor! Would a proper dad bring a son out here to this?’ But it was already too late for asking questions such as that, or for crises of conscience, and so Sam tamped his pipe, sighed deeply, and in true hobbit-fashion he solved his dilemma by quickly falling into a deep sleep, and for the first time in a long while, and curiously, and mercifully, he was not troubled by any dreams at all. Or at least none that he could remember in the morning.

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They rose quite late the next morning, or at least it was late so far as adventuring was concerned. They did not cover many miles during that day’s hike for a storm from out of the north drove icy winds and freezing rain stinging and slashing across the moor in blinding bonenumbing sheets.

They struggled on until the middle of the afternoon, their feet sinking to the ankles and sometimes to the knees with every step they took, and the longer they struggled forward the more it became clear to them that they would have to find shelter and call a halt, for nothing mortal could make a way through such a storm safely or without succumbing to the cold.

Cuspin’s keen eyes espied a cairn of boulders on an eyot of turf not too far from them in the south and they quickly made their way there; and when they stood together at the foot of the hillock Sam commented past shivering lips: ‘It looks like an ancient burial mound, and look, we can take shelter under that overhang yonder.’

The overhang prevented the rain from falling on their heads and Cuspin again stretched the canvas sheet round three-quarters of their little camp and anchored it with rock. It made for a cosy little windbreak. However, unlike on the previous night, when they still had some logs and bits of wood they carried with them from the Langeslora, and other wood lying about with which to build a fire, there was not a bit of anything to be found for kindling or main round about their little camp, and so they ate a cold meal and contented themselves with changing out of their wet clothing into dry warm things and having a smoke on their pipes, and after a while they found it wasn’t so bad.

‘So, dad,’ Cuspin began after a few minutes, a merry twinkle in his eyes, ‘the night is young and you did promise me that you would tell me more about the history of Man.’ Sam blew a lazy cloud of smoke into the air and listened to the relentless drumming of the rain on the canvas and watched the little rivulets running down the rocky sides of their

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shelter. He sighed. ‘I did promise, Cuspin, and I will tell it. But you must promise me something first.’

‘Anything dad, you know I will.’

‘Very well. Then you must promise that you will take this as found and not seek to drive me mad by probing and analysing it in the days to come. I know what you are like lad and my legs and back are worn out with hard use enough without my brain having to join in.’

‘I do. I promise Dad,’ Cuspin agreed eagerly.

And so Sam told him the story of Man so far as he could remember it, though here is set down the full text of the “History Númen Atani Dúnedain”: which of course is a history of the Dúnedain only and not a full history of Man, as set down and attributed to Azmatïs of Dol Amroth.

‘After the First Age of the Sun, there was a remnant of that race of Men called the Edain who allied themselves with the Elves in the War of the Jewels against Morgoth. As a reward for their bravery, the Valar raised a great island in the midst of the Western Sea, so these people, called the Dúnedain, might have a land of their own.

This was Númenor - “Westernesse” in the language of the Men of Middle-earth founded in the year 32 of the Second Age and the mightiest kingdom of Men in all of Arda it was. The Men of Númenor were given a life span many times that of other mortals, along with greater powers of mind and body that had previously only been granted to Elves. The island of Númenor, which was also called Andor, “land of gift” or Elenna, “land of star”, was roughly shaped like a five pointed star. It was approximately two hundred and fifty miles across at its narrowest and five hundred miles at its widest, and was divided up into six ruling regions.

At its centre was Mittalmar, the “inlands”, which contained Arandor, the

“kingsland”, Armenelos, the royal city; Meneltarma, the sacred mountain, and the port

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Rómenna. Each of the five peninsulas that radiated from Mittalmar was a separate and distinct region: Forastar, the “northlands”; Orostar, the “eastlands”; Hyarrostar, “the southeastlands”; Hyarrustar, the “south-westlands”; and Andustar, the “westlands”, with its major city and port of Andúnie, which means “sunset”.

Númenor was blessed with many beautiful forests of fragrant blossoming trees. It had many fair meadows and two major rivers: the Siril, which flowed south from the slopes of Meneltarma to the sea near the fishing town of Nindamos, and the Nanduinë which flowed west to Eldalondë the Green, the fairest port of Númenor.

Through the Second Age Númenor was so great that the kings grew vain beyond reason.

Corrupted by the evil promptings of Sauron the Ring Lord, who was known also as the Necromancer, in 3319, King Ar-Pharazôn dared to send a great navy against the Valar in the Undying Lands. The result, after much war, was the utter destruction of Númenor as the sea literally swallowed up the island kingdom. This was the time that was known as the Change of the World, for not only was Númenor obliterated, but the Undying Lands were taken out of the Spheres of the World into a dimension that is beyond the reach and the understanding of mortals.

Although a part of its people escaped the cataclysm and went to Middle-earth and the Western-lands, and joined those who had already settled there before the sinking, and in these places they built kingdoms and empires anew, Númenor never arose again. For many long years legends spoke of it as a magical downfallen land beneath the sea under the names of Akallabêth, Man-nu-Falmar, and Atalantë or Atlantis.

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II

When the First Age of the Sun was ended and the power of Morgoth was broken, there remained but a remnant of the race Men called the Edain, who were the allies of the Elves in the terrible wars of Beleriand.

After the Great Battle, the Valar took pity on the Edain who had suffered so grievously and whose lands had been lost, and the Valar created a great island for them in the Western Sea, between Middle-earth and the Western-lands beneath the Undying Lands. With this land they were given a gift of long life and greater powers of mind and body and many skills and much knowledge that had previously been granted only to the Elves. These people were changed and were called the Númenoreans, for their land was called Númenor or Westernesse.

But it was also named Andor, “land of gift”, and Elenna, “land of star”, and Man-nu-Falmar on Atalantë.

The deeds of the Númenoreans in the Second Age of the Sun were outstanding for the Númenoreans were greatly strengthened by the gifts of the Valar and the Eldar. First of the High Kings of Númenor was Elros Half-elven, the brother of Elrond who later ruled in Rivendell. Elros chose to become mortal, yet his rule lasted 400 years. In that land she was named Tar-Minyatur. All over the world the Númenoreans sailed, even as far as the Gates of Morning in the East. However, they were never able to sail westwards beyond the Westernlands and the Straits of Eldamar, for a ban had been made that could not be broken: no mortal might tread the blessed shore of the Undying Lands of Eldamar and Valinor.

In Númenor the fortunes of Man increased while darkness rose in Middle-earth again; and in the Western-lands the dark Elf King Cthulthu returned from out of the East of Middleearth and for a time before his fall he made of the west continent a settled place free from dark intrigue, for at that time the Undying Lands lay still close and watchful eyes looked over those

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young kingdoms. But on Middle-earth, though Morgoth the Enemy was banished from the World, his great servant, Sauron the Dark Lord, had returned and the Men in the southern and eastern lands of Middle-earth worshipped his evil shadow.

The tale of the Rings of Power tells how, at this time, Sauron made a sorcerous Ring with which he hoped to rule all Mortal Lands, and he made war on the Elves and slew them terribly and drove them back into the Blue Mountains. But the power of the Númenoreans had also grown, and they came to the aid of the Elves and made war on Sauron, and he was driven out of the West of the continent.

For a time there was peace and the Númenoreans again increased, building the ports of Umbar in the South and Pelargir in the North of Middle-earth and Perit and Mirabor on the eastern shores of the Western-lands. But they grew proud and desired to declare themselves lords of Middle-earth as well as lords of the seas. So in the year 3262 of the Second Age of the Sun they came to the Dark Lord of Mordor with such a mighty host of arms and Men that Sauron could not withstand them. To the amazement of all the world, Sauron came down from his Dark Tower and surrendered to the Númenoreans rather than daring to fight such a host.

So the Dark Lord was made a prisoner and was taken in chains to the great tower of the High King of Númenor.

Yet Sauron’s surrender was only a ploy by the master deceiver to achieve by guile what he could not by force of arms. For in the Númenoreans he perceived the fatal flaws of pride and ambition, and he believed that he could tempt them with the gifts of his powers. And so, once within the kingdom that was Númenor, he managed to achieve the greatest evil that was ever committed against the race of Man: Sauron corrupted the High-King of Númenor, ArPharazôn. In Númenor great temples were built to Morgoth the Lord of Darkness and human sacrifice was made on his altar. Then Sauron urged the Númenoreans to make war upon the

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Valar and the Eldar and he persuaded them they could win and that they could achieve dominion over the Undying Lands.

The greatest fleet that ever sailed the world was then assembled and it sailed into the north and west towards the land that was forbidden to Men. Passing through the enchanted isles and the Shadowy Seas, and no hindrance did they get from the Western-lands for that continent lay in thrall to the Dark Master Cthulthu, at length the fleet came to the Undying Lands. As the vast navy reached the Undying Lands the “Akallabeth” tells how a great doom fell on the world. Though the king came to conquer, his first step brought the Pelóri Mountains down on him and all his vast armada. To a man the Númenoreans were lost, but this was not all, after a greater disaster followed. The waters rose up in wrath and Meneltarma – the mountain that was the centre of Númenor – erupted and great flames leapt up and all of Númenor sank into Belegaer, the Great Sea. Thus came what was called the change of the World. For in that year, 3319 of the Second Age of the Sun, the Undying Lands were taken from the Circles of the World and moved beyond the reach of all but the chosen, who travelled in Elven-ships along the Straight Road through the Spheres of both worlds.

Yet a part of the Númenorean race lived on. Some had fled the sinking of Númenor and had sailed in nine ships to Middle-earth. These were the Elendili, the “faithful”, who were not corrupted by Sauron and refused to abandon the ancient ways of the Valar and the Eldar.

These people sailed away to Middle-earth in nine ships and made two mighty kingdoms in Arnor and Gondor. Others, too, survived the Downfall of Númenor and were in later times named the Black Númenoreans and they settled in the land of Umbar. And there were many who went unto the Western-lands and there made kingdoms.’

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‘Dad,’ Cuspin said sudenly, his logical mind working overtime, ‘blood sacrifice? Its possible Ashur’s story has a bit of the truth in it after all. I ain’t defending him, you understand, even though I did like him, but just look at what Men are like.’

‘Anything is possible,’ Sam responded lightly, his voice trailing a bit, sleep threatening to overwhelm him. ‘As I said, lad, history doesn’t always have to involve the truth. It’s better if it does but it doesn’t always happen. Anyway, it’s perfectly okay to like someone while disagreeing with them.’ Sam grinned and rolled himself into his blankets and promptly went off to sleep.

Cuspin listened to the patter of the rain on their canvas shelter and the “hoot-hoot” of an owl from far away, or so it seemed, and the gentle rhythmic rasp of Sam’s snores, and he pondered the relevance of the history he had just listened to, particularly as it might have an adverse effect on hobbits. He tried to pull together all the threads of the many bits from all that he had read and all that he had heard at Sam’s knee over the years. If he had it right, and just at that moment he reckoned he did, so far as anyone could, Man came into the world late, after just about every other race and species, despite claiming for themselves the title of the Second Born. It didn’t matter what you did to them or what they did to themselves, or how short-lived they were, or how easily they fell prey to pestilence or wild beasts, or their own savage natures, still they survived and multiplied and thrived. At some point long ago they founded an island kingdom and over time they rose to dominate the entire world: then that kingdom fell amid the doing of war and terrible evil deeds. And still Men lived on. Now, as Cuspin saw it, all the Firstborn were retreating from the World because no matter what they did or what they tried they could not control or guide Man. He was destined to inherit the rule of the Earth, but he would not be ruled or advised. The Firstborn were mighty and important and folk like hobbits didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things – they were just there. Thus the gentle people of the Shire were abandoned in a world that was now given over to Men. Well, that was how

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he saw it. He reflected that the priest Ashur’s version of his ancestors’ history probably contained the seeds of truth, to a greater or a lesser degree, but that did not make him an evil thing of himself. Neither did it make those believers nor the followers of the cult of Ióga wicked people. Only misguided.

The fall and sinking of Númenor was quite clearly a historical event of such a cataclysmic nature for the world that its aftermath lingered long in the memory of Man: and in Arning they now believed that only by keeping the fires lighted could a similar fate be averted in this new place they had made for themselves. Under such a belief system the life of the individual meant little, and so this was probably also true of the wider community of Man. Ashur had been puzzled by Sam’s reaction to his tale of the Fall of Nabonna and the establishing of the Cult of Ióga in Arning but then, to the good pious resident of Arn the life of the individual when set against the life of the state meant little, and so therefore Ashur had clearly considered Sam a little peculiar when he had voiced his horror at the practices worked by the priests. What was it Ashur had said earlier in that day when he accompanied Cuspin from the temple to Starr’s Hotel? “Who has not trodden on an ant without thinking or even noticing? And if a person did notice would they then go on to consider what effect the death of that single ant had on the whole ant community, or on other individual ants? Of course they would not.”

Maybe even mad cruel Lurbitz was right: perhaps it was all a matter of instinct and the urge to survive, and perhaps that was why Man would survive where Dwarves and Hobbits and the like would fail, and perhaps that is what brings out the evil in folk. But if that was the case then why did Elves care? He pondered this briefly, together with the question of why this Gandalf and Frodo and others would bother to come back from their rest in the Undying Lands.

And why was his old dad struggling across half the world for them? Cuspin knew why he was there, on this cold blasted heath under angry black skies; he was there for the love of his dad,

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but try as he might he simply could not understand why the others. He was only thirty-seven years old but he had been studying all the lores for as long as he could remember and since he was able, and he now suddenly realised that, in company with all other sentient creatures, he would need to live a very long life indeed before he would even begin to part-way understand this world. And it was with these puzzling and alarming thoughts running around in his brain Cuspin fell into a deep and trouble free sleep.

The morning was free of rain and the wind had lessened. Silver dew hung in droplets from the grass stalks on their tussocks and a myriad of mere shone like mirrors under a weak sun and a leaden gray sky. Their progress across the barren waste was easier then than it had been: it soon became a steady and monotonous plod through the long gray hours, in silence, until in the middle of the afternoon the dark line of the trees of the Kinderlorn loomed suddenly up at them from out of the misty gloom to their front.

It was then that the two hobbits chanced to look back, almost together, sensing that they were being followed, and noticed the riders in the distance behind them. They were far away yet, three of them, mounted on horseback and leading two ponies, winding their way between pool and tussock with purpose and intent.

‘What shall we do, dad?’ Cuspin asked urgently.

‘Well, right enough they can’t be about no other business but tracking us. That much is as plain as the nose on your face.’ Sam replied thoughtfully, his brow furrowed and knit in concentration, a look of worry in his eyes; ‘I don’t think it is that rogue Lurbitz. Not for our small bag o’coins or even for revenge would he venture out onto this wild moorland. No, they are some other boys who have been on our tails since we left the Starr’s company. Quick now!

Let us get on under the shelter of the trees where we will not be exposed like this out on the

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open moor. I feel these trees kindly, kinder than the Langeslora, and I think that we will be safe in there.’

They trudged forward then in some haste and pushed their way through between the thin saplings and tangled undergrowth under the eaves of the dark reddish-brown barked trees until they had penetrated far into the cool dank fastness. On they went at once into a deep silence that was broken only by the call of the birds and the scurrying of small furtive creatures.

They ignored the thorns that tugged at them and the thin web of branches that overlaid their sight, pressing forward hour upon hour, until they emerged into a little glade that was lying neath the dark of a star studded sky. Sam was spent and he grasped Cuspin’s shoulder and gasped: ‘We must hold up, Cuspin lad. I can go no farther for now.’ He was struggling and his face was pale.

Cuspin stared at him aghast, mouth agape, and exclaimed, ‘Oh dad!’ and at once helped Sam to sit down on a fallen log. His face was a mask of concern. He shook his head and tutted and scolded: ‘Well dad, it won’t do us any good and won’t be any kind o’help for Frodo Baggins or Gandalf the Wizard or anyone else if you go and collapse. You have got to take a rest when you need it. Really you must.’ He looked around the clearing, sizing up their situation. Night fell suddenly without them being fully aware of it and they were both tired and in need of rest and something to eat. ‘This is as good a place as any to make a camp,’ he said; ‘them riders will find it hard to get through that there tangle of bushes with the animals they have with them.’

Sam struggled wearily out of his rucksack, glad for the rest and relieved that the decision to halt had been taken out of his hands. He looked around the clearing also and nodded his agreement. He did not feel that they were entirely safe stopping where they did to make a camp in that place and if he had been able to manage it he would have gone on all through the night. Whilst it was true that their pursuers would find it hard going to get their horses through

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the forest there was nothing to prevent them from leaving the animals outside and coming in on foot, even if it was only one or two of them. Indeed the prospect that that was exactly what they would do made him feel terribly ill at ease but he was just so very tired that he could not find the strength within him to do anything other than lie where he was and rest and leave Cuspin to make the decisions.

‘Very well,’ he muttered after a moment, ‘let us camp for what is left of the night, but I reckon it has to be travelling in darkness for us from now on if we are to pass through this land unseen.’

Cuspin took charge of Sam’s rucksack and his shoulder bag and helped him to settle down nice and comfy on the springy leaf crusted mulched moss that covered the forest floor, his back resting against the fallen log, and before Sam was aware of it his head had fallen to his chest and he was asleep. Cuspin covered him with his blanket then rolled up his own and very tenderly placed it for a pillow behind Sam’s head and settled him in as comfortable a position as he could. He gathered wood and made a fire and hung their wet clothes from the previous day on the long limbs of branches so that they would dry off before the licking flames, then he poured some water into their Dixie ready to make a brew of tea. He was busying himself with sorting out what he intended they should eat and was contemplating whether a smoke was in order when he heard the noise of sudden movement in the midst of the trees not far off from where he was kneeling.

His whole body stiffened and his instincts suddenly sharpened and alarm bells pealed in his mind: ‘Now steady there, Cuspin lad,’ he whispered to himself; ‘no need for any panic.

You don’t know what that is. Could be it is just some harmless forest animal. That’s it.

Probably nothing at all.’

But then he heard clearly harsh and guttural voices speaking in some language that he did not recognise, echoing out from the black shadows, interspersed with chuckling laughter

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that froze his blood and dried up his mouth. The creak of leather and clanking of steel also sounded out above the normal forest noises of birds and little scurrying things.

‘Er, dad,’ Cuspin said. He reached out a hand and shook the shoulder of the blanket covered Sam, a nervous edge to his voice as he spoke. ‘Dad!’ he hissed, now shaking the blanket urgently, ‘I think we have company.’

Sam woke suddenly, alert at once, and he sat up; and then, hearing the voices and the movement in the trees all about them, he shook off the blanket and jumped to his feet and stared around at the edges of the clearing, at once taking stock of their situation.

‘Quick now!’ he hissed out a command. ‘Put out the fire.’ He cocked his head and listened for a moment and then drew Sting from its scabbard with a loud - sss! - And held the sword up before his eyes. He almost gasped aloud when he saw the blade shine with a fierce blue glow that flickered in his round eyes. ‘Orcs!’ he exclaimed. ‘I suspected as much for that sounded to me like their foul language and I would recognise it anywhere even though I have not heard it for nigh a hundred year.’

Cuspin doused the fire with the water from the Dixie and it hissed steam as he drew instinctively closer to Sam. The noises about them were growing louder and he pointed suddenly, jabbing his finger: ‘Over there! In them there bushes! That’s where it is coming from!’

The crashing of branches and the crunching of leaves and twigs underfoot seemed to be coming from all around them and it sounded very close, ominously so. Certainly there were more than three pairs of feet involved, and Sam looked again at the fiery blue lit blade, which seemed to be screaming at him. He hoped that he was mistaken, but the famous sword was Elven-wrought, a gift from the Elves of Rivendell to Bilbo Baggins, who had then passed it to his cousin Frodo, who in his turn had passed it down to Sam. It glowed blue when Orcs or other evil things of the Dark Lord were near to hand and when it did so it was never mistaken.

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Sam whispered hoarsely, his tone of voice calm and measured, ‘Cuspin lad, reach down, slow like, and fetch up your bow and get yourself prepared.’

‘Prepared?’ Cuspin’s voice was shrill and shaky as he replied. From all that he knew concerning Orcs, and that came from the tales that he had heard and what he had read in books, for of course he had never actually seen one in the flesh, he couldn’t see how his Sunday afternoon practise with bow and arrow and old Sam Gamgee’s sword, even if it was of Elvish manufacture, would deter as much as one single Orc still less the horde that it seemed were stirring all about them in the trees.

Sam sensed the younger Hobbit’s terror and he spoke soft words of encouragement to help him: ‘Orcs and all other foul things die just like anything else does lad. They are cowards if you stand up to them, like dogs, and don’t show fear. Now fetch it up Cuspin. Fetch up your bow.’

A loud grunting and snuffling and a rustle of undergrowth to their right made them turn their heads sharply. There was a clink of steel and a scrape of leather and a slithery hissing voice that uttered a single word in the common tongue, low, but clearly audible to the two frightened wary hobbits: ‘Halflings!’

The moon was pale and bright and stood high overhead and nothing in the clearing was hidden from its ghastly luminous glare, least of all Sam and Cuspin standing together small and forlorn while all about them in the midst of the trees was blackness and hidden threats.

They could not dare trying a run for it, for Sam feared an arrow in the back, and it was clear there were more than just a few of the enemy confronting them and skulking in the trees and bushes. He also recalled well enough his own experience of Orc archery from the fight in the Mines of Moria during those long ago days of the Ring Quest, and how gallant Boromir, heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, was cruelly slain by Orc arrows when they could not best him with their blades face to face.

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Of a sudden Cuspin turned and loosed an arrow into blackness that seemed a shadow against a deeper blackness, aiming at the space above the line of the top of the bushes and below the grasping overhang of the branches. He was rewarded by a loud agonised screech and a thud as something heavy hit the ground with a terrible finality and as he nocked another arrow to his little bow he surprised Sam by grinning and whooping, ‘One for the Shire!’ The response to this however, was as terrible and swift as it was sudden and unexpected for the whole forest appeared to come alive as a force of some forty or so heavily armed and armoured Orc warriors stepped forward from out of the darkness of the foliage, shaking all the bushes and the branches where hitherto had been nothing but the blackness within blackness.

They were hideous foul awful things, like small men, but bigger all round than the hobbits; they were muscular, stunted, bent, bow-legged and squat; their arms were long and strong as the apes found in the Southlands and their skin was black as wood that has been charred by flame, and in places it was scaly and green and hung in flaps; the jagged fangs in their wide mouths were yellow, their tongues red and thick, and their nostrils and faces were broad and flat, with eyes like crimson gashes; the only joy of these creatures was in the pain they inflicted upon others, for the blood that flowed within their veins was both black and cold. They wore armour of steel plate and linked chains, these Orc warriors, much of it ill-fitting, and on their misshapen skulls were helmets of iron hoops and black leather, beaked like hawk or vulture with steel. They carried scimitars, poisoned daggers, sharp serrated spears, bows and arrows and broad-headed swords and clumsily made falchions.

At sight of this terrible force Cuspin’s bow fell from his limp fingers and lay on the grass at his feet and his mouth hung open and a feeling of helplessness and utter desolation swept over him. He was not frightened for fear was a pointless emotion then; he stared death in the face and he accepted that was fated to be his lot.

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The Orcs simply stood for a moment before them, slavering and growling and grinning, waiting, cats toying with mice. Then after a moment a hoary laugh sounded from behind them and their ranks parted to allow one of their foul number to stride forth and push his way to the front. He was taller and more powerful looking than the rest, tall as a man, and he wore black armour in heavy overlapping scales and black mail that was daubed and streaked in bright red and yellow war paint. He gripped a long sword in one talon like hand and on his other arm hung a round shield emblazoned gaudily with the Red Eye of Mordor.

‘Uruk-hai! Sam exclaimed in horror, unable to prevent the words from tumbling out.

‘Yah! Uruk-hai!’ the fearful apparition growled back, a malevolent grin creased across the awful features of its flat face, lynx eyes glaring yellow, red points glittering in the depths of the black pupils.

‘You know that lad, dad,’ Cuspin asked in stunned amazement, then felt a little foolish for voicing the question.

Sam shushed him. He had decided that he would try to brass this out. He took a pace forward, holding Sting out at arms length before him. He coughed and put on his bravest face as he loudly announced: ‘We have no quarrel or business with the likes of you and you have none with us. Your master is long dead across the water at Mount Doom so be gone and let us alone.’

‘Maybe you cussed Halflings is our business!’ the Uruk grunted in reply, the sneering smile never leaving his face.

‘Have a care wi’ it, cap’n Belphagor,’ one of the Orc warriors said in his own foul Orkish language which of course neither Sam nor Cuspin could understand, ‘they as slain Grogush an’ that un has a cursed Elf blade.’

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The Uruk Belphagor paused, then turned his head to regard the one who had spoken to him: ‘Knows the orders same as me Hahsbagh. We is to git the Skull an’ brings it back to Him and we kill everything that is a threat.’

‘Halflings no threat!’

‘All Holblytan die! You know’s how they stabbed the Master in the back in the War. Cursed Halflings! All must die!’ Belphagor pointed with his sword in the general direction of Sam and Cuspin, who stood waiting and watching, puzzled, frightened, but impassive: ‘He will be pleased if we do away with ‘em. Likes to hear about it I warrant.’ He growled now and bared his fangs. ‘No need to go getting close to the filthy little vermin. Shoot ‘em up wi’ arras, stick ‘em on a spit, rest and eat.’

There was a murmuring of approval at this from the midst of the Orc ranks and a defeated Hahsbagh grinned, growled low in his throat, and barked out an order. Immediately six Orc archers lined themselves up before the two hobbits and dispassionately nocked arrows to their bows and readied themselves to draw back on the strings.

‘Get right behind me Cuspin lad,’ Sam ordered, tugging at the younger hobbits shirtsleeve while speaking and never taking his eyes off the archers.

‘What do you think these devils are about, Mister Mayor Sir?’ Cuspin called out in a plaintive voice that carried on the air in the still forest. He was hustled behind Sam’s back as the older hobbit ignored him and whispered, ‘Just get you back there.’

Sam stared defiantly at the archers poised to shoot them down and as he did, and without turning his head, he spoke crisply and in a hushed whisper: ‘Now listen to me Cuspin. Pay close attention. The first arrows will spike me, for they are under my gaze and will all want to hit me, and when they do you must make for the trees as fast as lickity, before they can reload.

Don’t look back. Just take to your heels and keep going as fast as ever you can, just like you used to do when you an’ your friends were out nicking old Bob Bolger’s strawberries when

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you were but a spit o’ a lad. And don’t go fretting over me. I am wearing the mithril shirt and I will be right behind you. Just run and we shall have a chance.’

But Cuspin could not bear the thought of that and he wailed out ‘No! Oh, dad, no!’

Sam drew himself up. ‘Yes!’ he hissed back at Cuspin. Then he held Sting up before him where it glowed bright blue, the light spilling in a circle on the mossy forest floor.

‘Cowards!’ he yelled at the mass of Orcs. ‘Afraid to come near this, hey!’

The Orcs guffawed with laughter and some were fair convulsed, slapping their thighs and holding their sides. The unsmiling Uruk barked a command and the six archers raised their bows and drew the strings back. A cloud scudded across the lower half of the moon and for a moment half the light of the world was extinguished, shadows filled the small glade, and a second only later all was confusion.

An arrow flashed out from the dark trees to the left of the line of Orcs and spiked the first archer squarely in the side of the head, and then almost it seemed at the same instant a second arrow took the next in line in the throat. The stricken Orcs dropped like felled logs and then almost immediately they were joined by a third with an arrow protruding from out of his eye socket, and all of this before any had time to loose an arrow of his own. Then the cloud passed across the moon and in the sudden glare of the renewed light three more shafts whistled across the glade and the three remaining archers fell amidst screams and terrible shrieking as black blood spattered hissing on the grass.

Suddenly, two great warhorses, neighing and snorting and stamping, and eager for a fight, like great beasts from out of some epic tale, came bounding into the clearing. Two tall riders sat these proud mounts, the one with flowing blonde hair and bright blue eyes, the other with dark fierce eyes and dark hair that tumbled out from under a black helm. Both of these curiously contrasting warriors, almost as one, like dancers in a ghastly ballet of death, reached

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down and took an Orc warrior, hacking with heavy blades to cleave their skulls in two and send more black blood flying into the air.

Sam and Cuspin seized upon the opportunity and leapt back and took shelter behind the fallen log, fearful lest the great heavy hooves of the horses should inadvertently descend upon them instead of the enemy, and Cuspin cried out, ‘Dad! That there is the feller who chased us back at the Langeslora!

‘I know,’ Sam groaned. The sudden awareness struck him that for days they had been running and hiding from what would appear to be friends, and it caused a sick hollow feeling to enter into the pit of his stomach.

The two warriors now leapt from their horses backs and readied themselves to fight on foot as three of the Orc soldiers came on at them. Sam was sorely tempted to join the fight, weary and aching in his limbs though he was, but he noticed that on the edge of the clearing the Orc named Hahsbagh had drawn off and taken most of his remaining followers with him.

They slunk on the edge of the glade until shoved away into the trees by Hahsbagh, who then turned and yelled at the big Uruk in his own tongue: ‘The Skull! Belphagor! Curse it!

Remember the Skull!’

One of the great warhorses, a muscular, lithe, dappled gray that Sam thought had the look of a Rohan bred colt, stamped an Orc warrior into bloody ruination under heavy iron shod hooves, and the two warriors made short work of their two remaining adversaries, who had anyway lost their stomach for the fight when they saw that they were abandoned by their comrades and were trying to flee when cut down. The blonde warrior tugged his sword from the throat of his dying adversary, casually placing a booted foot on the skull for purchase. He spat contemptuously on the face of the slain Orc and when he did Sam could not help thinking that he liked this man.

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From the edge of the glade the Uruk saw this gesture and he cast a venomous glance at them, his lynx-eyes sweeping from Sam and Cuspin in their hiding place to the big blonde haired warrior. Then, before going crashing away through the trees at his comrade’s heels, he called out: ‘We shall meet again Éothéod filth!’

The blonde man made to give chase but his dark companion snapped at him, speaking in the familiar common tongue of Middle-Earth, and with a strong Gondor accent, ‘No! Olwynn, no!’

‘But they are escaping!’ the man called Olwynn protested, jabbing and pointing, using his sword with its blood dripping tip. ‘And that one needs killing.’

His dark haired companion smiled and replied: ‘These are not the open plains of the Mark, my friend. And see,’ he indicated to where the two bemused hobbits sheltered still behind the fallen log, ‘we have found the Lord of the Shire.’ Then he came to Sam, closing the space quickly, and knelt down before him. He raised his blood streaked sword aloft in what Sam considered a theatrical but all too typical Gondorian salute. He announced: ‘I am Dagomir, son of Iólmer and Kamida, grandson of Boromir, who was the son of Denethor, last steward of Gondor. I am the Steward of Anorien and a servant to the King Elessar, and I am a friend of the eternal fire, and we have been searching for you my Lord Samwise these many long days past.’

‘Searching for us? How so?’ Sam responded, standing up as he did so and shaking the leaves and grass from his clothes. ‘Who sent you after us? None knew we were abroad in the world save my lasses at Bag End and the Oracle and she would not have said aught. I know that you have been hot on our tails, for we have been avoiding you not knowing who you were, but searching?’

The man Olwynn stepped forth then and introduced himself. ‘I am Prince Olwynn, Lord of the South Marches, though there will be some now calling me King back in Edoras

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and will swear that I am.’ He chuckled. He was a tall man, well built and of good proportion, and fair of face, and he was dressed in silver corselets and bright mail. His hair was braided into long golden pleats and in his bright blue eyes there was merriment and a liveliness that spoke volumes for his love of fun and for the easy laughter that lay not far beneath the surface of his face. His green shield that was emblazoned with a golden sun and his folded green banner that was adorned with the character of the White Horse hung at the side of his steed’s saddle harness. Gripped in his hand his long sword was set with green gems and the blade yet dripped black blood. He was noble and proud and fell, but Sam saw in him too that he was possessed of a rash and impetuous turn of emotion that one day, if unchecked, could easily lead him to his undoing. He would without a second’s hesitation have plunged into the unknown forest in pursuit of the Uruk had not Dagomir stopped him. Sam at once saw the lie of the land between the two warriors, the one stern and serious and the other less prone to thinking through the likely consequences of an action. They complemented one another. Yet, Sam took to this Prince of Rohan at once. He was warlike and unforgiving of an enemy and this was more than amply demonstrated when he casually booted an Orc corpse and said, ‘I am hungry. Let us relight that fire and dispose of this carrion. Then we can sit down to some food and talk.’

At this Dagomir rose and placed his fingers to his lips and whistled. After only a moment from out of the trees there stepped forth a vision of such beauty in that place that it quite took the breath from both Sam and Cuspin. There standing within the line of trees under a shaft of pale creamy moonlight was a tall willow slender, dark haired, almond eyed woman.

She held in her hand the longbow that had done such deadly work in despatching the Orc archers. Under the bright pellucid moon the hobbits caught and were transfixed by, as were many upon first sighting this vision, the ethereal quality of the full beauty of the woman; her hair shone like black spun silk of the darkest shade, thick and curling with the warmth of the sun and the depth and translucence of the sea coruscating in its deepest shadows; her neck was

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long and slender and swan-like and there were hollows beneath her perfectly rounded chin where a bird could safely nestle; the blush and flush on her cheeks was like the warm down of a ripe peach and her teeth were like little white hawthorn flowers behind the red promise of her full and sensual mouth; but it was her eyes that were her most striking feature. They were large, round, deep, warm and full of the joy of a young life but they full of understanding too, and above all they were oh so warm. She was the deadly archer who had so expertly and speedily despatched the Orc archers.

But the hobbits did not see the longbow she held in her hand. The hobbits saw only that beautiful face, a face that was a gift for a world that had seen hard use, and after a while Sam smiled, for this was a familiar face to his eyes and one that he felt he knew well.

‘This is the lady Cerowynn,’ Dagomir said simply and without ceremony.

‘I will bring in the mounts,’ she called out as she turned away and disappeared back into the forest. She was well used to receiving attention from males. Ever since she was a child she was accustomed to being stared at for her beauty and she wore it lightly as her skin, but she was too a practical soul and with her those mundane things of life that others found a chore often came first. She was neither flighty nor too serious. And as she went to wherever the trio had left the other horses her merry whistling could be heard echoing faintly among the trees.

Cuspin stood up and clambered on top of the fallen log. ‘What about them Orcs out there? I mean, shouldn’t we be hastening away from hereabouts this vicinity?’ It had taken him but a few short moments to recover from the shock of the encounter and as he stood above Sam, hands on hips, the older hobbit regarded him with a hint of amusement showing on his face.

Dagomir regarded him for a second and then chuckled. ‘We had heard it said Master Samwise had a travelling companion but we did not believe it would be so. Due to the

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strangeness of the circumstances that have brought us all here so far from home across the wide sea, you understand. But now I see it is so.’

‘A travelling companion? Aye, so it is. Do you think we would allow our old dad to come away on one o’his adventures without at least one at his side to stand by him when danger threatens?

Sam laughed.

‘Well, indeed,’ Dagomir replied; ‘may I have the pleasure then sir of your acquaintance?’

‘I am Cuspin Longthorn,’ Cuspin informed him tersely, pulling himself up to his full height and as far beyond it as he could manage. He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and stared defiantly for a minute at the proud Gondorian prince before adding, ‘And I am the Mister Mayor’s adopted son, and I must say that I would be right proud to be called Gamgee if it wasn’t for his insisting I don’t lose a sight o’ my real forebears, who was honourable folk too. I am his companion, if that is how you like to term it, on account of his age and how he needs a body to look out for him on the road.’

Olwynn came to stand by Dagomir’s side and they regarded the truculent little hobbit gape mouthed in honest and astonished amazement at this recital of lineage and position. Then Dagomir said, in a suitably chastened tone of voice: ‘Well now, yes, of course, I can see that Master Cuspin.’

Sam rose up from behind the log, rubbing at his aching limbs and wheezing. He sat down on the hoary bark at Cuspin’s feet and fished out his pipe from his rucksack and took his tinder and lit it, inhaling deeply. Dagomir winked at him as he addressed himself to Cuspin, and Sam, as weak as he was, smiled back. Almost at once Sam was struck by just how like his illustrious grandfather Dagomir was. It was like looking at a picture of Boromir come back to life.

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‘A long time ago another great hobbit of the Shire had just such a friend and companion and he was indeed fortunate that he did,’ said Dagomir.

Olwynn laughed a good natured laugh and Cuspin grinned sheepishly and said ‘Well.’

‘Fear not Cuspin,’ said Olwynn, ‘the Orcs will be long gone from here. Gone to whatever fearful mission they were about before ill-chance had you encounter them. But fortune was not entirely unkind for they led us here to you and we did not in truth think we would catch up with you before the Elf city.

‘But see here, we have eleven of this filth to dispose of before we can settle down.

There is a clearing that I espied back the way that we came and a fast flowing beck where the water looked to be running white and clean for our bottles. I will drag them away at Infillitatis heels and we can be done with them quick enow. Then we can talk and rest here for the night.

How say you?’

Cuspin jumped down from the log and grinned. ‘I’ll get the fire going sir and prepare us all a feast o’ tatters an’ sausages an’ some fat juicy mushrooms, for I have a pound in my bag.’ And so saying the young hobbit reddened and he looked down quickly at his feet and cast a guilty sideways glance in Sam’s direction. Sam tutted and shook his head, for he had warned Cuspin not to pilfer the mushrooms from the fields they had passed through in Darsmaad. There was nowhere else that he could have gotten them, but the moment soon passed with the prospect of frying mushrooms and savoury pan juices.

Besides, the truth of it was that Sam couldn’t care less at that moment about stolen mushrooms. Suddenly the realisation hit him that he was a very old hobbit, a long way from his home and hearth, and in a world no less fraught with danger than the one that he and Frodo had struggled through all those years earlier. He felt weary beyond reason and he was aching all over, and though he was by nature a fatalist and could accept dying, or rather his murder, at

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the hands of Orcs if that was the way the fall of the die was to go, he was nevertheless so overjoyed to be still in the land of the living that nothing else at that moment mattered.

Cerowynn hobbled the animals securely. There were three horses and a heavily laden pack mule, a sturdy doughty creature given to occasional and prolonged braying for no obvious reason, and a pony for Sam to ride. She explained with regret that Cuspin would have to share her mount, for they had only discovered late that Sam had a companion with him. But Cuspin was delighted with this arrangement and he asked her eagerly, ‘You an Elf miss? Something tells me you are an Elf.’ She laughed at this: it was a warm girlish laugh that was in stark contradiction to the cold precise archer who had so dispassionately spiked six Orcs with arrows in such a deadly manner, and who would doubtless have despatched more of them had it been necessary for her to do so.

‘No, Cuspin, not an Elf,’ she answered him. ‘I am not an Elf but my mother is. Will that do?’

‘Will that do? Will that do?’ he hooted. ‘Mother an Elf an’ she says - will that do?

Mercy me. Mother an Elf be blowed.’

She laughed again and the sound was as sweet music and it shimmered on the senses, like cool water tumbling between slick rocks in a clear mountain brook.

Dagomir and Olwynn dragged the bodies of the nine slain Orcs away, while Cerowynn fed and rubbed down the animals, and by the time the camp was gathered together Cuspin had the meal ready and the fire was blazing and hot. In the south on the edge of their glade the glow from the pyre of the Orc slain tipped the tops of the trees crimson while the friends ate their meal and drank the last four flasks of Micheldever brown ale the hobbits had brought with them from the Shire.

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‘I was hoping as how that would last a while longer,’ Cuspin grumbled as he laconically regarded an empty flask; ‘didn’t count on more mouths.’

Olwynn burped: ‘And very nice it was too,’ then he went ‘ow!’ as Cerowynn elbowed him in the ribs and said, ‘hog!’

They laughed. Sam and Cuspin and Olwynn sucked on pipes stuffed full with Old Toby, widely regarded as being the best Shire weed, and they blew smoke rings, Olwynn and Cuspin clearly trying desperately to outdo one another much to the silent amusement of the others.

Sam regarded his companions lazily, studying each of his new companions closely in turn, their faces illuminated in the glare thrown out from the fire. The flames flickered and cast dancing shadows and in their glow the faces seemed to shine: the Prince of Rohan was typical of his folk; he was tall and broad-shouldered, straight backed and keen eyed, his eyes bright and merry and blue as the vast skies that dipped to the horizon across the wide plains of Rohan. He was a horse-master and a man of easy charm and quick wit, his infectious laughter endearing him to all who knew him, but for all that he was a fearsome warrior in battle and not a man to casually insult.

Dagomir had his grandfather’s strong frame and his haughty pride and his cold manner.

His looks also, thought Sam, though he was a smidgeon darker and swarthier. Sam had taken to Dagomir at once, more so than he had Boromir; he was aloof like Boromir but he seemed less resentful of the world. One thing that Sam did detect at once in him was his pride. In that he was just like Boromir. But then, he reflected, why shouldn’t the men of Gondor be proud?

They had a lot to be proud of. It was they, when others fell or submitted or fled away, who held back the Enemy long before the Ring was ever found. It was by the blood and the sacrifice of Gondor that Middle-Earth enjoyed long centuries of relative peace and calm, and yet Sam found also that he could not forget that it was because of Boromir’s selfish desire for the Ring

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that he and Frodo were forced into fleeing alone into Mordor. It was Boromir who was to blame for the breaking of the Fellowship of the Ring and for Merry and Pippin’s capture by the Orcs. Still, he reflected, the sins of the father ought not to be visited on the children, and though he did not know him and had never met Boromir’s son, for at the time of the war and his father’s slaying he was but an infant, it was quite clear that the noble blood of the Stewards flowed strong in Dagomir’s veins.

As for Cerowynn she was no mystery at all to Sam: her great beauty was a distraction and always would be, he supposed, especially in male company, which she preferred anyway.

But in that sweet face Sam could see clearly both Aragorn and Arwen and he delighted in looking at her. She returned his gaze with a frank and open smile that was not at all coquettish.

He coughed and said: ‘Begging your pardon ma’am for staring so, but I knew your mam and dad long afore you were born. Elrond too. He healed Frodo in Rivendell.’

She laughed, which came very easy to her. ‘I know that Sam,’ she said gently.

Her laughter was sweet music in his ears again and it soothed his disquiet, though it could not altogether dispel an uneasy feeling he had that this single night might prove to be the happiest they would enjoy together and never again would this moment be recaptured. It brought a cold shiver to his spine. He chewed at his lower lip for a moment, thinking hard, and tapped the mouth piece of his pipe against the side of his head. ‘The king sent you three here.

Special like to look out for old Sam.’ He said this with a deep certainty and a great pride in the tone of his voice.

‘No,’ Cerowynn disavowed with a sigh. She did not want to hurt Sam’s feelings but at the same time she was not disposed by nature towards lying. ‘The truth of it is that if my father had his way we would not be here at all. It was my mother who prevailed upon him to let us come, for in truth he is powerless to resist her and can refuse her nothing that she desires.

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Besides, he sees it all as a storm in a tea cup and does not think there is any greater harm here that we could not find back home.’

Then Dagomir leaned forward towards the fire, his hands resting upon his knees, and Olwynn and Cuspin paused in their competition. Suddenly the evening had turned, as in the blink of an eye, to the serious business of what had brought the five to this clearing in a forest far from their homes. They listened attentively as the lord of Gondor spoke: ‘Sam, for a very long-time after the dreams came, and then especially after folk started to have the visions, questions were being asked everywhere. Whispering at first and then open debates. I had my learned people go out and take written depositions from all manner of folk who were afflicted. But I knew already, or at least I thought that I did, just what was afoot.

You see I had had the dreams myself. So too did Cerowynn. We have consulted the most learned at Minas Tirith and I have sought out the best, and the most learned in reading signs and portents. Aye, and a few charlatans too.’ He laughed at that and flicked a twig into the fire. It did not crackle and there was no noise. Even the forest seemed to be listening. Dagomir shook his head and sighed. ‘No concerted opinion was possible,’ he continued; ‘It seemed that everyone had an opinion and that one was just as good as any other.

‘Even the king had his dreams, though he was stubborn and refused to admit it signified anything or that it was a message of sorts. He told the council it portended nothing and he clung to the view expressed by Juille of Dol Amroth that it was but a memory lingering on from the days of the War. The wise old Cliagh of Celos dissented and advised the king that the right course of action was for us to muster and sail to the West before it was too late. But Elessar would not hear of it and he forbade any talk of such foolishness. Besides which, he was quick to remind us, Gondor already faced assault from South and East and that was concern enough without turning our faces to the West.

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‘Since those days when the Ring went into Mount Doom, which is what your great fame rests upon Sam, Middle-Earth has been hardly troubled by the foul things that were the spawn of the old days. Only a few survivors of the Dark Lords armies linger on, hiding themselves away in dark places and now more often hunted for sport than raising trouble by their own will.

Even on the borders, where Cerowynn’s brother Eldarion has his watch, all was quiet for many years until recent times. But I fear Sam that the King has mistaken the sudden rise of the barbarian lords of South and East and their minions as just another thing which must be endured and conquered as are the following seasons. Men fight, that is what he says, and it is in their nature to do so. They covet their neighbours land and the wealth of others. They fight but in these days the strength of the men of Gondor, which I think greater now that it was in the days when He was overthrown, will suffice yet again to keep us safe. I fear that the King is mistaken.

If I have it right and I am not mad as some think then it is a heavy burden has again been laid at your door Sam.’ His voice lowered now and he leaned forward and his gaze locked with Sams. ‘It has not been three months since the Queen herself had a dream and in that dream she clearly saw you and the wizard Gandalf. She reported there were many others there besides, good and evil, and many who were known to her, but chiefly it was the presence of you and Gandalf standing together hand in hand that convinced her things were not as they appeared with the world.’

Sam shuddered. He swallowed and when he spoke his voice too was low and he held the others spellbound: ‘I don’t see Gandalf. He is just a blurry shape. But I hear his voice, and it is a voice I would know anywhere, even if a thousand years separated my ears from the last time o’hearing it. I hear other voices too that I know, or at least I think that I do. And there is a tower, like a long finger of slimy black rock and at the bottom of it an’ all up its sides are horrible things all climbing on and over one another tearing and biting and slashing with knives and swords and teeth and claws. I see Orcs and Trolls, and Balrogs with their fire whips

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cracking the air, and on top of the tower perched like some evil predator waiting there sits a soul stealer. Then I can hear Him whispering to me, telling me things I’d rather not hear, trying to get inside my head. It goes on and on until Gandalf sends him away and tells me that I must go to the West. So, here I am.’

Cerowynn nodded her head and said, ‘Just so. That is the very essence of the dream that was reported by my mother, save that Gandalf did not exhort her that she must come here to this place across the wide sea. My father could not then continue to deny the dreams, not when Arwen Undomiel, Elrond’s seed, reported it thus. So Scouts were sent forth into the land of Mordor and long they searched that place where few from our lands have chosen to make a home in the aftermath of the War. But they found nothing and nothing amiss was reported from the settled lands down in Nurn. There was naught but empty silent ruin in the north at Gorgoroth where folk will not dwell.’

‘And Elfwine ordered the Ëotheód to go forth and investigate all across the horse plains, even beyond the Brown Lands. The King himself asked it of the Riders, and though the King of the Mark prefers his cups and his concubines to the care of the land and cared nothing for what might be afoot in the dark lands, we went anyway. I led the Riders myself.’ Olwynn said all this with a lazy drawl and a smile playing upon his lips. He sighed. ‘But though we rode swiftly and covered much ground and fought many a hard skirmish there were no signs of anything that was not normal for those places we visited. And we went far, as I say; to the Forest of Aôlan in Khand and to the plains of Nearer Harad.’ He shook his head and tutted.

‘Nothing.’

‘Mirkwood has been searched, twice,’ Dagomir added, ‘and Moria and Fangorn. There is nothing in those places that does not belong there!’

‘Then, forgive me,’ said Sam, ‘if that is the case why then are you here?’

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Olwynn laughed heartily and slapped his thigh. ‘I am here because it is the will of my father and it is the promise that I made to him when he was on his death bed. I held Edeomas’ hand and I promised that I would come here and seek out the destiny that his last dream foretold for me. Besides,’ he chuckled, ‘I would not let these two come alone. It would drive me mad to go abed at night at Edoras and think what I might be missing if they were here and I there.’

Cerowynn then said: ‘Dagomir and I have been resolved upon making the journey across the sea for a long while, since the dreams first came. We considered travelling to see you in the Shire but Lord Took said it was likely that if you were a part of it that you would be long gone from there, as indeed you are. Besides, until the Dwarf folk went away we had no clear idea of a purpose we might pursue for ourselves.’

‘The Dwarves, what do they have to do with aught?’ Sam asked. He frowned. ‘I did not think that Gandalf held them in much esteem, even Gimli.’

‘Perhaps not but they were afflicted by the dreams just as were so many others. It happened that King Baldur, who is High King of all the Dwarf folk, held himself in position and standing no less than that of my father, and while he acknowledges the suzerainty of Minas Tirith it is but nominal. He came to see my father on an embassy and urged him to order our armies forth in a last alliance to destroy Sauron once and for all time. Now, Baldur is a nephew of the renowned Gimli son of Gloin and Gimli holds a special place in my father’s heart.

Elessar listened to Baldur with more patience than he had shown to others, but he did not like what he heard.

‘My father counselled that we should wait and gather intelligence. After all, it was much that was being asked of him. But Baldur would not hear of it. He claimed that his scouts had discovered where all the Dark Lord’s folk had fled after the War. He said they went into tunnels that run away from Mount Doom and the Plain of Gorgoroth and go under the sea into

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the West. He claimed the Dark Lord himself somehow escaped thus, and perhaps even now he was rebuilding his forces on the Western-Lands. Then he insisted it was so.’

Sam knew of course the Dwarves had disappeared, for the Ranger Caniega had told him as much, but he could not imagine or envisage that meant all of them. Not every single one.

Cuspin coughed nervously then and offered a sheepish and all too hobbit-like opinion: ‘Well, if all the foul things from Middle-earth have come away to these lands, begging your pardon, but other than the fact that we are over here at the minute, isn’t that a good thing?

I mean for the Shire and the rest of us over there.’

They laughed and Cerowynn sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder, at the feel of which he blushed so deeply that in the fireglow his cheeks were highlighted bright and rosy red. ‘I wish these matters that simple and straightforward, good Cuspin,’ she told him; ‘You see, Baldur hath led away down the tunnels beneath Mount Doom all the fighting Dwarves from all the Dwarf homelands and now not a single one remains that can be found.’

‘Not even Gimli?’ Sam asked suddenly. ‘I can’t believe that he would just up and leave like that.’

‘Not so far as we know,’ Dagomir answered. ‘He had long dwelt with Legolas Greenleaf in Ithilien. Elessar sent folk to find them when we came away from Minas Tirith.

Perhaps they are with the King even as we speak.’

‘That would make sense,’ Sam murmured. ‘I pray it is so.’

Dagomir noticed that Sam’s chin had fallen to his chest and that he looked very tired.

He nodded to Cerowynn, who said, ‘And then we had word from Anadriel the Oracle that Sam of the Shire had indeed taken ship for the West.’

‘She should not have betrayed that confidence!’ Sam said sharply. ‘The Oracle is supposed to keep the secrets of her clients. That is a thing she is famed for.’

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‘You are no ordinary client Sam,’ said Dagomir. ‘Besides, what else could she do?

You see, she herself had the dream. Oh, yes, Gandalf came to her. He told her that he was under restraint. It frightened her.’

‘I too felt that.’ Sam nodded his head and his voice fell to a low whisper. ‘It’s all very well to come over here, but what does it all mean? Where does the answer lie? Has He come back? I have seen the Great Eye in my dreams.’

Olwynn poked at the fire with a stick and watched as sparks went dancing into the air.

‘Who can say?’ He shrugged and yawned. ‘Perhaps only Gandalf could answer those questions. I am too young to know anything of him beyond what is recorded in the histories.

He is just a name to me and has no substance beyond what I have seen on a page or had read to me from storybooks. Would the Dark Lord, deprived of the Ring, wish to return? Would he want to remain in a world where he is so much less than what he was? Who can say? All I know is that so far as I am concerned I have come here for reasons that have nothing at all to do with characters from history.’

‘Then,’ Sam began, a little hint of uncertainty causing his voice to tremble, ‘you have not understood the history you have read and been told about. I have seen a few tight spots with folk; Aragorn for one long before he was a high and mighty king, when he was still Strider, and I have learned that nothing is what is seems. I believe that we can trust the dreams and that there is indeed something very amiss with the world. It is Gandalf and that is enough for me.’

‘And so far as the Dark Lord is concerned,’ Dagomir added; ‘he is evil and that is very often enough on its own, I think. Even if all His comrades of the old races, the foul things I mean, withered and died, yet He would be compelled to strive the last. I fear that it is indeed Him and that even without the Ring he is powerful and dangerous.’

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Cerowynn said: ‘We are like children sitting discussing these things here, things that we learned as children. I for one will be counselled by Sam in this.’

‘Then you will understand that I know better than most He is no fool.’

Dagomir frowned. He stared hard at Sam, his eyes alive with intense interest, his clever mind working. Out in the forest a lone timber-wolf howled out its watch, cutting across their thoughts.

‘Go on Sam,’ Dagomir encouraged him.

‘Why only the three of you?’ Sam blurted out. ‘Why didn’t he send an army? I mean no disrespect in this but, three only … Just you three to aid two hobbits, one of whom is so old he can’t hardly stand never mind walk. Doesn’t make any sense.’

‘We have already told you, Sam,’ Dagomir responded stonily. ‘The King did not send us.’

Cerowynn leaned forward towards Sam and the glow from the fire reflected in her shining eyes and illuminated her exquisite features. And yet when she spoke her voice had a hard icy edge to it: ‘There are hostile armies gathering on our borders in Harad and Rhûn and when we left the threat was great and growing greater still. Elessar could not send an army. In any event an army takes time to prepare, and even longer to ship. Think you that is an easy task? When we left Gondor the Rohirrim were stirring and archers from Dale were coming down from the North. Gondor girders her loins and the world prepares for war. Why, even the captains Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took are come out of retirement. Oh yes, be in no doubt of it, Middle-Earth is again preparing for a great war. But it is war over there, not here.

‘At court there is much talk of how old Sam of the Shire had come also out of retirement and of how he would surely die on this quest. They say you are too old. They say too that your name will live forever in the history books. But many are convinced that that is it for you.

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And when they said these things I saw in my father’s eyes how it gnawed at his heart and tore at his soul, for he knew the truth of it and he knew too that he was powerless to help you. Sam Gamgee, companion of the Ringbearer, who had slain the spider Shelob, was alone and abandoned far from home across the wild sea. So, I sought out my childhood friends and asked them if they would come with me and here we are.

‘Ah, but Sam when all is said and done we are quite alone. There is no army and I doubt if there will be in the months to come.’

Sam felt a wave of shame engulf him, but Olwynn, as was usual for him, lightened the mood: ‘In the stories, Sam, you are noted as a suspicious sot. Not that I consider that a fault you understand. I think in the days to come we should be very glad of that.’

And Sam was glad too, for what had needed to be said straight was said. He yawned and answered. ‘None of that changes anything for me. I have to do what I have to do. I must find Calabród and Gandalf.’

‘Stoutly spoken,’ said Dagomir. ‘I do not know precisely what is what with the dreaming and what have you but if by my life or by my death I can help you in this then I will.

This I swear by the blood of my people.’

‘And I,’ Olwynn and Cerowynn added in unison.

‘Mmm, me an’ all,’ grunted a half sleeping Cuspin, whose head had fallen to rest in Cerowynn’s lap, so that then they all laughed together and their laughter echoed into the night.

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Chapter 7

SKAARLSDAG

For two days after they left the forest behind they made good progress into the West, crossing a land of vast purple heaths girt with lofty firs. It was not a wild land but neither was it one that was all tamed. Then on the third day the wind rose steadily through the morning beneath a leaden sky until it peaked in intensity and ferocity and drove before it a wall of sheet ice that stung every exposed piece of flesh. The bottle gray sky turned a filthy black and the heavens opened and rain fell in torrents. Lane upon lane of heavy wind lashed sleet hurled itself at them and soaked their clothing and chilled them to the bone.

In single file, huddled into their cloaks, the morose little party passed through a spinney of leafless trees and skittered down a steep granite scree and out onto yet another depressing moor of springy heather and moss clad boulders. All about them the wind blew harsh and never deviated in its assault upon them, now bringing in its wake gust upon gust of rain that thudded into them almost it seemed from every side.

Sam was quite frozen, despite his Elven cloak. He was shivering uncontrollably and unable to keep his face up from his hood, recoiling with a groan from every stinging lash of the spray. Heavy droplets of water rolled down his face and slipped beneath his collar. His fingers were numbed and they felt like lumps of meat that had no connection to the rest of his body. For a second he lost control of his pony and it almost stumbled into a nettle-bound ditch.

It was only with a sudden effort that he managed to tug at the reins as the panicked animal fought hard to hold its footing with a scrabbling of hooves and a shrill neighing.

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‘He can’t go no further!’ Cuspin called out, his voice barely heard above the roaring of the wind and rain.

They gathered about Sam then in a huddle. Rainwater sloshed off their heads and cloaks and ran away in rivulets down the horses flanks.

Olwynn grabbed Dagomir’s sleeve and shouted to be heard: ‘The town should only be about five miles up ahead. It’s not far.’

‘I didn’t want to have to stop there,’ Dagomir replied, also shouting. ‘I have heard no good thing of it.’

Olwynn shook his head and pointed to Sam. ‘We must,’ he said; ‘We have no choice.

Look at him.’

Sam felt suddenly old and useless and he sniffed and the words that tumbled from his mouth were distorted by his frozen lips so that the others could scarcely understand what he was trying to say. ‘Don’t fuss with me. I’ll be fine. Hot tea will set me right and this storm can’t last for ever.’

Cerowynn said to Cuspin, a little smile playing at her lips, ‘Bad time to learn how to ride, Cuspin, but you will have to. I will take Sam with me.’

Sam cried out ‘No!’, but it did him no good to protest. As Dagomir pointed out, it would not reflect any credit upon them if they allowed him to perish from cold when they had sworn to save him from the unknown dangers he had sailed across the sea to confront. In any event Cerowynn hardly paused to listen to any further debate: she was deceptively strong and in one fluid movement she reached out and heaved Sam easily up from the saddle and sat him down in front of her just behind her mount’s neck. She enveloped him in her cloak and at once he began to feel better and warmer. Olwynn meanwhile had manoeuvred himself so that he could heft Cuspin from the place he had occupied behind him and the young hobbit quickly replaced Sam on the Pony. The young prince grinned.

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‘Don’t worry there Cuspin, the beast is docile as a good wife and in any case I will stay right here by your side.’

The miles were hard as they plunged forward once more into the West, but slowly now, as the afternoon began to fade into a pink twilight Almost as though some celestial mage had waved his wand the wind and the rain dropped away to nothing but a lightly sloughing breeze.

When the day was almost faded into night they topped a rise beside a little copse of beech trees and there, spread out before them under the pellucid glow of a dying sun that they had not seen for three days, in a crooked valley, there were the hundred or so dwellings that comprised the little town of Skaarlsdag. Smoke rose in a cloying gray smoggy pall from the chimneys and hung curling in the air about the eaves of the rooftops.

It was a pathetic place. Little more really than a single long street that was lined with half-timbered and wattle built houses and stores with dun coloured grasses sticking out scarecrow-like from the walls. The rooftops were crowned with soggy turves of green and discoloured turf with patches of slick mud showing through here and there. The only building of any note was a larger two-storied version of those which surrounded it. It was ugly and square, with big square frosted glass windows, big square chimneys, and big square doorways.

It was sited at the end of the street, almost the last house before visitors left the place, or the first place that would be seen if coming the other way. They could clearly see the corbie steps on the gables and the text of the plaque above the door, written in the universal runic script, read:

‘Here Varin snig murdered King eriK in the year 1096 of the Lochlan year with fifty six blows to tHe King’s sKull 252 | P a g e

witH His iron mace and crested Hammer.’

And they could see that there was a stable block at the side and a courtyard of black and white cage-work in wood and plaster.

‘An inn-house do you think?’ Olwynn whispered to Dagomir.

‘I don’t know. Let us find out.’

They rode down into the wide street. They were wet and exhausted and so too were the animals, which struggling through a morass of mud were forced to lift their hooves high as they slithered amidst the troughs made by wheel-ruts. Near to the board-walked entrance to a house that looked like it might be a small tavern they accosted a surly looking unshaven man.

Dagomir addressed him in the common tongue, enquiring politely of him if the place that he himself was about to enter was a tavern.

‘Ain’t no lodgings in here,’ the surly man grunted in a surly manner.

‘Where then might we find some?’

The man grunted and pointed to the two-storied building and flashed a look of contempt from beneath hooded brows, as though Dagomir were asking the obvious. ‘There’n,’ he grunted again.

The strange inflections in the man’s guttural accent were interesting, but the subtleties of it were lost on Sam. He might otherwise and in happier circumstances have been inclined to talk with him and learn more; but at that moment he was oblivious almost to anything that was going on about him. A deep fever had him in its grip and he was shivering uncontrollably and his teeth were chattering loudly. Cerowynn cuddled him close and nudged Dagomir and said, impatiently, ‘Dag, Sam needs a dry warm place, now!’

Dagomir nodded his head and asked the man a final question. ‘And the town hall?’

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‘Same place! There’n!’ the man growled his reply, irritated because neither Dagomir nor Olwynn could scarce contain their laughter. The man turned away from them and pushed his way through the door and into the house, muttering to himself: ‘Garn! Otherlanders!’

‘Let us get on now,’ Cerowynn said, glaring at Olwynn. ‘Child!’ she snapped as she guided her horse’s head towards the inn at the end of the street.

They made their way gingerly up the street to the tavern, which was also the town hall and, they later discovered, the social and civic everything for the town of Skaarlsdag. As they went the deep mud sucked at the animal’s legs, making them plod, and they were aware of hostile stares cast their way from a populace that came out from houses to watch them pass by.

They seemed an unnaturally and overly suspicious and at the same time a quiescent lot. Only the ragged children, playing mud fights and yelling and squealing among themselves, were oblivious of the strangers passing in their midst. Mangy dogs came out and barked and growled fierce but empty challenges. A woman passed them driving a wagon, going in the opposite direction, a strange and knowing look upon her face. Beside her seated on the buckboard was a black skinned fellow with dull and listless eyes. As they passed the woman languorously flicked a whip across the bony backs of two sickly looking ponies and a brief smile touched her lips.

‘I don’t like it here,’ Cuspin whispered. ‘Tain’t a place in which I would care to live, or for that matter spend any length o’time.’

‘Nor I,’ Cerowynn agreed with him.

But aside from the general appearance of the town and its inhabitants they found that the tavern at least was warm and inviting within. It was grandiosely styled the ‘Dragon of the North’, and inside they found a blazing fire and a friendly and genial host, who also happened to be, he announced proudly, the town mayor.

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The animals were quickly stabled and settled in the care of a plain and friendly local lad who answered to the name of Oison; then they were shown up to their rooms, where they deposited their luggage, and Sam was stripped and washed with hot water and soon tucked up in a bed beneath a warm eiderdown. Cerowynn fussed about him like an old mother hen before she settled herself down in a chair beside the bed and ordered the others: ‘Go you downstairs now and leave Sam with me. Send some food up. I will look after him.’

They made their way down into the bar area, where they were met by the fat innkeeper, who it seemed was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. Hugo Micklethwaite had the look of the typical innkeeper about him, with his great round belly and his rosy cheeks and his bristling handlebar moustache. Beside him were his two equally chubby, giggling, rosycheeked daughters, Ivy and Vera. There were a dozen or so locals in the bar, rough looking common folk sitting at dark wooden tables in gloomy alcoves, drinking ale from polished wooden goblets and smoking pipes. Silence descended when Dagomir and Olwynn followed closely by Cuspin were sighted.

After a nervous pause Hugo Micklethwaite shuffled forward. He regarded Cuspin curiously and with frank suspicion but he said nothing untoward. He wiped his hands on his apron, his ruddy cheeks puffing above his gingery moustache, his pot belly rising and falling.

He enquired: ‘Now then sirs, rooms well heated and everything to your satisfaction?’

‘Indeed, very much so,’ Dagomir replied for them. ‘Especially welcome after the storm we have had to wade through. The Dragon is a haven indeed, sir.’

Hugo beamed a grin and indicated his two daughters, who curtsied. ‘Here is Vera and Ivy. They is good girls, but they lack a bit o’what you call the common tongue and speak only the old Loch. That’s their mam’s fault. Still, they will understand well enough what you mean when you ask for vittals and drink. I dare say you will want supper and ale. Or is it wine you

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prefer? You look like folk would drink wine. I have some Jiora red set down, for specials like.’

‘Ale will be fine,’ Dagomir told him curtly.

‘And grub,’ Cuspin chipped in. Dagomir and Olwynn laughed. ‘Aye,’ said Olwynn, ‘food, and plenty of it.’

They made to move to a table but the fat innkeeper stepped briskly before them, blocking their path into the room. An apologetic look stole across his face and his podgy hands twisted and bunched nervously at the fabric of his stained apron. It seemed at that minute that each and every eye in the room suddenly focussed upon them. The very walls of the place seemed to suck in a giant breath of air.

‘What with this being a bit o’ a frontier town,’ Hugo Micklethwaite muttered in an obsequious tone of voice, ‘and so many queer folk coming and going all the time. Here one day gone the next as it were, and not all o’ them good hearted like you folk clearly are. I’m sure you understand.’

Dagomir swiftly produced from his tunic a heavy purse of gold and hefted it under the innkeepers now bulging eyes. He smiled but there was an icy edge to his voice when he spoke and his eyes were hard as the steel worked in a dwarf forge. ‘Gold, master Micklethwaite.

Good honest Gondor gold. We have places such as this where we come from. Fear not, I understand exactly.’ And with that and just as swiftly the purse vanished back away out of sight and all eyes in the room now seemed to be engaged looking elsewhere and the inn was suddenly full of the noise of folk talking together and the crackling of the flames in the fire and the wind keening at the windows.

Hugo Micklethwaite beamed a broad smile and he and his fat daughters set to work at once. Whilst his guests methodically made short work of a small mountain of food; roasts, cheeses, potatoes, bread, all manner of vegetables, some of which were unfamiliar varieties,

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and afterwards tarts and biscuits and more cheese, the innkeeper stood just off to the side with his arms folded across his chest wearing a satisfied look on his face. His daughters bore plates of food upstairs to Cerowynn and Sam, which Hugo informed them, was not the normal practice in the Dragon and was a dispensation especially for them.

When they were at last sated Olwynn burped loudly and Cuspin lit up a pipe and the three sat under the innkeeper’s watchful stare, draining great gulps of the sweet ale. After a moment, when it was apparent there was little point in his asking them if they were satisfied with the service, Hugo attempted a little small talk.

‘I hope you don’t mind sirs, an’ it is interest only an’ curiousity for hearing a bit about the wider world, but I couldn’t help in overhearing. It seems you are seeking the Shifting City.

Is that why you are come passing through our little town? The Shifting City?’

Dagomir turned his dark eyes on the man. ‘Shifting City? I know of no such a place.’

He glanced around the room at their fellow drinkers, careful not to be seen to be paying much attention to them while in reality studying them swiftly and carefully. ‘We go to seek the city of Calabród, if that is what you refer to. Anyway, master Micklethwaite, you make much of the remote nature of Skaarlsdag, referring to it as a frontier town. How so? The map I saw at Mirabor suggested your town lies within the borders of Up-Verni. Is that not so?’

‘Ah now,’ the innkeeper answered with a nervous cough and a worried glance over his shoulder, ‘in this case that isn’t quite the truth, or at least not all of it. The maps, any one of them, could be redrawn right now and all of them could be different and yet all be telling the truth. Disputed land this is, Mister Dagomir.’ He chuckled mirthlessly and beads of sweat stood out on his brow. ‘Mostly always has been this way. You see the king in Lossarnoch is away in the south and he doesn’t really care too much about what goes on up here. Too much trouble. Anyway, we always pay our taxes on time, same as we do with the Thuraks and the Mercs, so tain’t as if any bothers with us too much. Kids in this town speak just about every

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language there be to learn. Besides,’ and on saying this he crossed to the fire and lifted his hand and placed it upon a strung harp of white wood that was set on a shelf above the roaring fire; he patted it and a look of pride passed across his face; ‘we have this. Airbreach’s harp.’

At that moment all eyes in the room diverted from the innkeeper and turned to the stairs as Cerowynn descended. She looked like a goddess out of some fable of a lost people and there were those present who caught their breath at sight of her. Such a sight was seldom, if ever, seen in Skaarlsdag. She as usual was sublimely oblivious to the effect she was having upon those who watched her. She simply glided, as it seemed, to the table where the others sat and took a seat beside Cuspin.

‘Sam is asleep,’ she told them. ‘The fever will pass, it is not so serious, but he is old and that is not something that will pass.’

Dagomir sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He was not a great drinker and in all truth he was ready for bed himself. ‘Well, we shall remain here in this place and rest until he is well enough to go on,’ he informed them.

Olwynn noticed his friend’s weariness and he knew that he would be filled with concern over Sam and what they should do if he did not quickly recover enough to go on. That was just how Dagomir was. It was in his nature, to lead and to worry about others, and nothing could prevail upon him to make him forego responsibility and duty once accepted. All that Olwynn could do was what he had always done where their friendship was concerned; he sought to divert Dagomir’s thoughts in another altogether different direction. He pointed and said, ‘Master Micklethwaite, yon harp is your talisman is it? Or some such like? Is that what you are suggesting?’

The innkeeper nodded his head enthusiastically and waddled back to the table. He began to explain when he was roughly shouldered to one side by a big loutish looking fellow who sported a patch over one eye and a bushy black beard. He was dressed from head to toe

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in frayed and somewhat threadbare black leather and over his shoulder was draped a black cloak. In his belt was stuck a dagger and at his side hung a long heavy sword such as is favoured by the knights of Dol Amroth. Though he looked warlike, and in some respects fearsome, Dagomir, who was seated closest to where he had made his sudden appearance, noted that the sword was ancient and the handle and the scabbard were pocked with rust. It was an illmaintained weapon, Dagomir thought.

‘Be about tha’ business inn keep!’ the newcomer snapped and sent Hugo Micklethwaite reeling away towards his bar area with a shove of his hand.

Dagomir and Olwynn exchanged a glance and Cerowynn instinctively let her hand fall to the dagger at her belt. The place fell silent and all eyes were turned upon them, interested now in something more than Cerowynn’s dazzling beauty. And yet this was not the first time they had audienced this very play enacted upon this stage. Then, suddenly, Olwynn jumped to his feet and swayed drunkenly and thrust out a hand. There was a big grin on his handsome boyish features and he slurred: ‘Name is Olwynn, friend.’

The man regarded Olwynn’s hand for a very brief moment, then he looked Olwynn up and down, then dismissing both he sneered: ‘You look like an Olwynn and you ain’t my friend.

None of you are my friend. You ain’t friends to none round here.’

‘Sir, if we have offended you we did not intend to,’ Dagomir said smoothly. ‘I know our tongue must sound coarse to the ears of folk hereabouts -’ The man laughed at that and his hand gripped the handle of his sword. ‘Offended me!

I watched how you came in and I have been watching ever since. Here, what’s this then? I asks myself. All fine and dandy and high and mighty. Come from over the sea then is it?

Well, maybe you is something over there but over here you are nothing! So, what is they about eh? That’s what I want to know and it is what I am asking meself. What indeed? Come riding

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into the angry lands bold as brass and says they is proposing to go on right into Thurakia. And looking for the ghost city. ‘He leaned forward and his good eye locked with Dagomir’s, challenging, threatening. He hissed, very low, ‘Ghost city don’t exist, an’ it don’t matter how many Thurak armies goes out looking. It doesn’t exist. No, that is an excuse I reckons. Up to no good you lot. That’s what I think.’

‘Not all folk are up to mischief what comes here,’ Hugo Micklethwaite bleated lamely from his place at the bar.

There was a squeak, like the protestation of an angry beaver at work upon his dam, and the man held the battered sword in his hand. He turned and pointed and waved it at the innkeeper. ‘You shut your face Hugo Micklethwaite! Just you keep it shut!’

Dagomir, unlike Olwynn, was a careful man and he did not rouse to a fight easily, especially when the fight would be little more than a bar room brawl fought out between folk steeped in drink. However, he sensed that the man with the sword was dangerous and it seemed that a confrontation was unavoidable; for it was clear the swordsman was deliberately picking a quarrel with them, perhaps testing them. His hand fell to his sword hilt and he started to rise when the sound of a voice ringing out from the gloom beyond the circle of light cast by the glow from the fire made him pause.

‘Still playing the role of bully, eh Jherzy?’

The man they now knew was called Jherzy whirled around on his heels and almost stumbled. From out of the shadows stepped a tall man of middle-age. He had jet black hair tied tightly back across his scalp and fastened in a pony tail behind and his face was suntanned and seamed, handsome if a little flat featured. His cheekbones were high and prominent and his eyes were cool green, like turquoise gemstones glittering, and writ upon the features of his face was the history of a people, a history that was full of blood and tragedy. He was dressed in a grey tunic of some shimmering fabric that was not so unlike that which was favoured by

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some Elves, and he wore black riding boots to mid-thigh. Wrapped across one lower arm was his cloak and in the other hand he held a curved scimitar, which he turned in the light in a manner that suggested he knew how to use it, and use it to deadly effect. When he spoke, moving forward slowly as he did, his voice held a faint tone of mocking that Dagomir fancied was probably always present.

‘Well now, Jherzy, you scaberous tick, is that blade just for show or do you see any customary use of it?’

‘What do you mean by that? Customary use.’ Jherzy spat the words back, but he had a clearly worried look on his face that belied his otherwise belligerent stance. Dagomir settled back down in his seat and looked on in amusement now.

The man with the scimitar advanced, a cruel smile on his face, casually turning his blade so that it caught the light from the fire and the candles, speaking in an even tone of voice that Cuspin found was quite chilling. ‘I mean, do you ever stick anybody here?’ and he indicated his breast, where his heart would be, with his free hand. ‘Or is it always in the back?’

Jherzy backed away. ‘I don’t want no trouble with you,’ he croaked as he waved the antique sword before him.

‘Of course you don’t,’ the stranger agreed amicably, striding forward until their blades were almost touching; ‘too much light and too many witnesses. And your pack of hounds aren’t at your side.’ He paused, pointed with his blade to the door, and snarled, ‘Now get out!’ and laughed loudly as Jherzy stumbled and bumbled his way outside into the night. He was followed almost at once by almost all of the other patrons in the bar. They went out muttering amongst themselves and averting their eyes.

The stranger slid his scimitar into a scabbard behind his back so that it was out of sight when he flung his cloak across his shoulders. He bowed slightly in Cerowynn’s direction and said, courteously, ‘Lady.’

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‘Sir, that was well done,’ Dagomir said, rising to his feet. He was conscious that he was a lord of Gondor and now indebted to another. ‘You have our deepest thanks.’

The stranger laughed as he replied: ‘Sir, I think that it is Jherzy who ought to be thanking me. I moved only when I saw you move and I think that he would be dead now if I did not. That would not be good for he has many friends hereabouts.’

‘I would not have killed him.’ Dagomir laughed now too. ‘He was just a dog defending his territory.’

‘Oh, a little more than that. Do not be fooled by one in drink as he was. Jherzy is a dangerous enough fellow. No wolf, but no mere dog either.’

‘Then at least tell us your name?’ Olwynn said. He sat down and took up his mug of ale and raised it in salute. ‘I would know the name of the man who is so ready to wield a sword to help strangers.’

The stranger sighed, as though it was a great heavy burden that was borne in revealing his name, or perhaps his name carried some infamy attached to it. He smiled and said, ‘To them I am Cuchuculain but among my own folk I am Brangildas. That is my otherwise name, my Anugai name. So, you may call me by either for the truth of it is that there are few in these or any other lands will give you welcome on the strength of your mentioning either of them.’

Dagomir shook him warmly by the hand and introduced their little group. Brangildas regarded Cuspin, who squirmed under his gaze, with a degree of warmth and kindness. He said: ‘I have heard of Hobbits. My knowledge might surprise you, for I know of the Shire and much of the history of your folk. Ah, but this is not the place. It will suffice to say that I am glad to meet in the flesh a member of a stout race that I know only from the tales I have heard from the mouth of an old friend.’ He paused, as though he would have liked to say more, or perhaps even join them, but it was clear he felt himself constrained by some unseen chains

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even though the place was all but empty. He glanced over his shoulder to where a seemingly disinterested Hugo Micklethwaite was behind his bar polishing glasses. Then he leaned forward so that his next words would not be overheard.

‘Comfortable this place may be, but do not I charge you let yourselves be found here tonight when the daylight hours wane. Do not be found under any shadow that lies within this town. The place that you seek is real enough. The city of Elves. Just keep your face to the West.’

At the mention of Elves and Calabród Dagomir Olwynn and Cuspin could scarcely contain their excitement but Brangildas stilled them with a ‘ssh!’ and said, quietly and quickly, ‘Just go due west across the Sighing Plains and you will find it or else they will find you. Now, farewell to you, I cannot remain. You should not either.’

With that, and just as suddenly as he had appeared, Brangildas turned and abruptly left, going out the door without a backward glance. As soon as he was gone the fat innkeeper returned to their table, waddling swiftly around his bar with a look of deep disapproval on his features. He brought them a jug of beer and a bottle of wine, which he set down before Cerowynn, saying with a smile, ‘For the beautiful lady.’ He lowered his voice and told them in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You did right to get shot o’ that Cuchuculain feller. Ooh, a bad sort, worse than any ten Jherzys on any day of the week. Why, I could tell a few tales where he is concerned.’

Dagomir had no wish to hear any calumising of a man that he instinctively perceived was a good and noble one, unlike the residents of Skaarlsdag they had thus far encountred, or one who had so selflessly come to their rescue. He said, more to deflect the innkeeper from his train of thought than any real interest in the harp, ‘You were saying about yon musical piece before that fellow so rudely interrupted us. Your talisman?’

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‘Oh yes,’ Hugo Micklethwaite answered proudly, suitably deflected, ‘so I was. So I was. Why, that harp is famous all the way to Ustarol you know. Yes, indeed it is. But see here, there is a professional who can tell you far more about its provenance than I. Maildún!

Where are you Maildún? Skulking in some corner as usual are you?’

A small shrivelled and wizened old man came forward from out of the deep gloom at the back of the room. His hair was cut in a harsh tonsure and his eyes had a dull and lifeless look to them and his skin was sallow and hung lank upon his bony frame. His robes were threadbare and ragged and he looked for all the world like some rootless beggar, but Dagomir had the impression that image of him was false. Hugo Micklethwaite placed an arm about his thin shoulders and announced: ‘Oh yes, here he is. This is Maildún. You will like this. He is a famous lore-master.’

The man leaned back and whispered something in the innkeeper’s ear and Hugo nodded his head, coughed and said, ‘Er, yes, at once,’ and bustled away and fetched a goblet of ale which he handed to the famous lore-master. Maildún took a swig, grimaced, then raised his eyes and regarded his audience with a quizzical look. ‘My payment is one Verni,’ he said stiffly.

‘You may have gold,’ Dagomir told him.

Maildún smiled a secret little smile and nodded his head, as though the payment was really of no account and was but a formality that he was obliged to follow. He positioned himself beneath the talisman and then, without any preamble, gravely he raised his voice and as he did he seemed to grow in stature and his words resonated and filled up all the room.

Cuspin was delighted and he settled down with his pipe and his ale and closed his eyes and listened.

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‘This is a story of Macha gold Hair and her death. Macha, if you did not know it, is a Goddess, or, as I know the folk from across the water known them as, a Maia spirit. Once she had a mortal life and dwelt upon Earth amongst us. She was a fearsome warrior queen who was wont to collect the heads of her fallen enemies and they were known as “Macha’s crop”.

It is said this harp is the very instrument that slew Airbreach the poet, who was most beloved of Macha the Queen and it is because of her remorse for the slaying of Airbreach that she gives her protection to the possessors of the talisman. Though she is the patron of battle and slaughter she keeps the people of the harp free from it.

So, thus, and thus did it happen, on a night of mortal life like any other she had known in her oh so long life, tragedy struck.

The harper Airbreach was seated at his usual place at Queen Macha’s feet. Oh, he loved her and had been loved by her, but during this night we speak of, that of the great Beltaine feast, his spirit was heavy within him. Occasionally he writhed impatiently on the low dragoncarved stool upon which he sat, and glanced up angrily and passionately into the lovely and mask-like face of the Queen. Yet never once that night had she even looked at him. Perfectly motionless she sat on the great high-seat, whose cunning and beautiful fashioning was almost entirely hidden by the quantity of wolf and deer-skin heaped about it that the fair body of the Queen might recline in comfort during the feast.

Following a custom first ordained by her, the harpers were ranged before the high-seat in the form of a half-moon, for Macha liked to be girdled with music at all times. The ancient Muirteach, who crouched on his stool figured with grotesque fish and dragon shapes immediately before the Queen, had composed a rann:

“As the foamy swift-footed milk-crested wave of the south Calls to the pleasant shores of smooth-sanded Avallone

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The desirous sweet-lipped surf of our singing Is raining about the star-woman, the Queen Macha of gracious words.�

This tribute had so greatly pleased the Queen, that as a mark of her special favour she bestowed upon the old bard a magnificent golden torque that was wont to circle her own throat, and with her own hands had fastened it still glowing with the warmth of her sweet flesh about the neck of the aged minstrel. All the other bards then had become inflamed with jealousy, and not content with criticising with rancour the merits of the rann, they made many attempts secretly to poison its author.

From where Macha was seated she could see with ease every corner of the great dun.

Though it was fashioned externally of clay and wattles rudely enough, the interior was, after the fashion of that time, not wanting in beauty or even of splendour. New rushes had been strewn upon the floor and the damp walls were overhung with sumptuous skins and even in places with tapestries, many of which were already rotted and mildewed with the sticky ooze of the soaked clay beneath them.

The dun was lit by blazing rushes twisted tightly into a kind of plait, dipped in the fat of animals, and mounted in fantastically carven metal braziers. They burned badly, giving forth a very evil smell, and as they were continually going out with much hissing and spluttering several attendants had been set apart for the sole purpose of trimming and relighting them.

The hour was late and the feast was over long since, but still the flagons of mead passed precariously from hand to hand. Most of the ceanns and nobles and many of the women were drunk and the floor was strewn with inert bodies of warriors, ollavs, amazons and maidens mingled almost indistinguishably, some rolling feebly alone amongst the soiled rushes, while others lay duly folded in one another’s embraces, their heavy listless arms tightly interlaced, often as it seemed almost unconsciously.

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The captain of the guard lay on his back in the middle of the floor, his glazed eyes staring without expression at the damp and oozing roof, and his right arm vaguely waving above him his drinking-cup, skilfully hammered out of the bleached skull of one of his foes. He murmured quarrelsomely of his own exploits, whilst the paint and sweat dripped off his face into the rushes of the floor.

But the bards circled about the feet of the Queen were sober to a man. It was not from inclination they were so, but because they knew well that a false chord or a forgotten word meant instant death. All through the night they had sung almost unceasingly, but the Queen was in very ill-humour, and they were disheartened and ill at ease. Airbreach, close to Queen Macha’s impatiently-tapping sandaled foot, glanced up again into her staring unfathomable face. The air in the dun was stifling, filled with the heavy odour of human bodies and the fumes of mead and wine.

Airbreach felt very dizzy, and he was not sure what thing might happen in the next moment. He drew a deep breath, and with that inhalation seemed to suck into his being a wandering flame that instantly set light to some primitive fury smouldering in the depths of his spirit. He shuddered slightly, and making a convulsive movement with his body leapt to his feet. His face was very pale, yet a red spot burned in the centre of each cheek. Tossing the long black hair out of his eyes, he smote several loud sour chords from his harp, and unheeding of the fact that two of the strings had snapped beneath his fierce fingers sang:

“Woe to the sweet-tongued bard And the hero skilled in combat, Be to be putting faith in the smiles of women And the honey talk of a high queen.

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His soul to be trapped in the snare of desire, In foolish and profitless things, The poisonous net of her hair And the pale mists of her flesh.

If I saw the hawks of the machair The fierce broad winged eagles of the West, And I after gazing at the haughty queen, My heart tormented in the bitter heat of the night, I would say that those are gentle enough things.

I cry to the gray falcons of the Red Gap, The gray-backed very swift swallows of the winds, That they traverse the six roads of green Faodlha And circle the winds with their strong flight, My words scorching at their tongues Till they shower them o’er the world.

The wounds in my middle cry out to you, O’wild birds, and this is my message: Macha, the comely Queen of the Western glens, The white-shouldered woman of the special places, Is without gentleness, without honour, Without warmth, without affection, Without love of poets words and the roaring of the harps; An empty flagon, a hollow reed,

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A blasted birch tree, a false string, Blown foam on the shifting sands is she, A whirl of dust on the dry roads of Lossa, Vain she is as all vain things, Vain, with the vanity of women.”

Throwing the harp to the floor, Airbreach burst into a roar of bitter mocking laughter and stood before the Queen, his breast heaving and his body swaying as though he were drunk.

When she had first understood the meaning of the harpers song Macha’s face had flushed violently, but now she was very pale. She bit her lip, and her eyes seemed to search some icy distance. Then she smiled slightly. There were those in the dun trembled on seeing that smile.

‘Cut out his tongue,’ said Macha simply, and she smiled again, and sat very still, though her bosom rose and fell like a stormy sea.

The guards rushed upon the harper, and after binding him they seized his long dark hair and wrenched back his head. Then they battered on his mouth with the butt-end of a spear until the teeth were driven in, and one of them drawing forth his sharp dragon-toothed sgian hacked out the tongue.

Macha sighed. ‘Bring it to me,’ she said. They laid the tongue on a silver dish and placed it before the Queen. She looked at it curiously for a moment, and then a wave of fury appeared to flood through her whole body. She trembled violently and her cheeks became redder than the wine stains upon the rushes on the floor. Drawing a golden pin from her hair, many times with its delicate point she stabbed the tongue, about which the blood was already beginning to congeal. Then she rose to her feet, her chin thrust out, and her face lime white even to the lips. She swept over the floor, the rushes hissing beneath her long scarlet robe, to

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the edges of which some of them clung. Laughing low and derisively she stood before the harper.

‘Airbreach, Airbreach,’ she said softly, ‘where will you be finding any white woman to kiss those lips that a thousand windless nights among the dewy hills have lied so sweetly that the stars and the lake-waters have listened to thee even as thy love has listened? Between what fragrant breasts shall thy mouth that was beloved of queens whisper its music now in the secret corners of the house when lights are overturned?’

And she pointed her white forefinger, the nail dyed with a costly red spice, at the battered thing that had once been the mouth of a great poet.

‘Sing to me, Airbreach, my poet of the golden voice,’ she went on with false tenderness.

‘Sing to me one of thy songs that are sweeter than the music of the nightingales of Callismorton, and more heady than the red mead the rivers pour among the flowers of Sarn Melig, the pleasant plain. Sing to me the “Waxing of the Corn”, with which Men say the hearts of the proudest women are melted, as the snows of the lofty Carnmabens are melted in a single night by the warm honey breath of golden eyed Bel.’ The eyes of the harper rolled expressionlessly in his bloodstained and contorted face. Even in his agony the Queen seemed to hold him fascinated, as some lovely and evil she-snake fascinates her prey.

‘Sing! Sing! Sing!’ cooed Macha relentlessly. ‘I thirst for thy songs as a hero thirsts for battle, as the weary for sleep, as the night for the dawn. She leaned forward, her eyes close to his staring and strained eyes, and suddenly she stamped her foot in a sham of wrath.

‘Thou wilt not sing!’ she screamed savagely, and her eyes blazed. “Cowherd! Mule!

Clod! Ha, ha, ha! Thou hast made very sweet music in thy day upon yonder harp, now shall thy harp make music upon thee!’

She made a sign to the captain of the guards, pointing at the harp which lay among the tossed and trampled rushes, most of its strings already hanging tattered over the edges of the

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frame. But before any of them could make a movement an exulting cry rang out and from the midst of the listless and stupefied throng a woman leapt with the agility of a wild cat, trampling heedlessly on bare faces and arms in the fury of her wild rush. She was of abnormal height and clad in a single skin garment. Her muscular tanned legs were bare, and her thick black hair hung in matted dishevelled clusters over her eyes. Between her left eye and the corner of her mouth a long livid scar stretched, and the slipping aside of her loosely folded garment revealed the fact that her right breast had been burnt off according to the usual custom of warrior women, a practice which allowed the spear arm greater freedom of action. Thrusting aside the bleary eyed staggering warriors, she snatched up the heavy clairseach harp with a sweeping movement of the arm as she ran.

The pain clouded eyes of the doomed harper regarded her with a kind of dull surprise.

For a moment she stood looking through her tangled hair into those eyes. Then she shook herself like some wild animal, and with a feral scream swung the harp above her like a battleaxe. As it fell one of the drunken women lying upon the floor cried out in terror and began to whimper, but the blows still continued to rain down. With the heavy embossed frame of the harp the amazon battered Airbreach’s head until the bones of the skull were crushed and the blood spurted out upon the rushes. She laughed, feeling the hot dark drops dripping form the harp upon her hands and bare arms. And she chanted this rann:

“Aïa, Aïa, O-ro!

Long shall the day be remembered In the dun of Cliath-na-Righ, In the godly wide-spreading feast-house Of Macha of the haughty eyebrows.

Long shall this day be remembered,

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The night of the Bleeding of the Harp, The harp of Airbreach Honey-Mouth, Whose singing was a sword-edge, A moonlit drift of blossom, A wave on the shores of the heart.

O-long shall this day be remembered In the grianons of the Western-lands, The day that the strings were wont To stream with songs of poisonous passion That were sweated with blood and death.”

When she finished this chanting she dropped the harp and fell swooning as it seemed across the dead body of the poet, his face pressed into her breast.

Macha had regarded the scene with startled eyes that for the moment under the sway of astonishment appeared almost innocent and childlike, but the sudden silence which followed the Amazon’s chant broke the spell. The Queen turned her head away contemptuously with a short laugh that seemed wrung from her throat almost involuntarily. There was a moment of silence, and then a strange sadness passed over the Queen’s face as a cloud that floats across the hard blue midday sky. She stared abstractedly at the aged Muirteach’s head, but in some grievous reflection, his long silver hair falling forward among the strings of the cruit that rested upon his knees.

‘The waving of the corn,’ she murmured slowly into the depths of her shining hair. She stared with a gesture of irritation. ‘I am weary,’ she said fretfully, ‘lead me to the grianon. I will that only women sleep with me tonight. I tire of Men and their foolishness.’

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The women led her down the length of the dun, the proud feet of the Queen stepping delicately as those of a hind among the rushes stained with blood and wine. Her beautiful head, poised with marvellous grace on her white shoulders, was motionless, her eyes stared forward without expression. Already she seemed to have forgotten the tumultuous happenings of the evening. As she moved the little golden balls suspended to the ends of the four twisted plaits in which her yellow hair was dressed swayed languidly and rhythmically upon her graceful back, and the amethyst brooch that fastened the scarlet embroidered robe glittered now and again with unearthly and disturbing hues as the flickering gleam of the rush-lights fell momentarily upon it.

For a long time a profound silence had reigned in the dun. Then there was a very faint rustling somewhere among the rushes followed by a soft swift pattering sound. A rat ran across the skins on the floor and leaping upon the dais began to gnaw at one of the carven legs of the high-sear. Another half hour passed, and then a pale shaft of moonlight stole through the single small opening that served the great dun as door and window. It moved slowly to the right, revealing for a moment perhaps the flushed face and swollen eyes of some sleeping reveller. It seemed to be searching for something, timidly, tenderly, as some fragile woman searches a star-lit battlefield for the body of her love. It swayed forward slowly and obliquely, every moment becoming more and more narrow; until finally, slender as the shaft of a spear, it fell upon the body of the dead Airbreach, on the blood, stiff, dark, and clotted about the wrecked milk-white face, on the obscure shadows about that lifeless shape, and the heavy hair spread out about the pale breast like a thundercloud. The moonbeam seemed to cling there for a moment, for still beside Airbreach was the living breathing amazon woman, then as sudden as a thunderclap it stole softly away, leaving the dun in unfathomable darkness.

Towards morning Macha the Queen awoke with a start, the grianon was strangely hot and she felt an unusual and painful sensation at her throat as though wires were being twisted

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about it and were gradually biting into her flesh. She became furiously angry. With one hand she groped for the knife that was always her bedfellow in the darkness, while with the other she clutched her soft neck, but under her trembling fingers she felt nothing but the smooth firm flesh.

She opened her eyes, closed them again in terror, and opened them once more. A heavy red glare smote upon them, and something smelling acrid and sour wreathed about her, flooding everything in dense swelling clouds. Fire and smoke! She tried to scream, but those wires about her throat strangled the sound. She lifted herself upon her elbow with a supreme effort of will, for her body seemed turned to stone. She attempted to draw a full breath but was unable to do so. Something seemed to be straining and tearing her breasts, strange lights and darkness swam before her eyes, there was a buzzing sound in her ears as though some bee had strayed into her brain and was striving to escape.

Through the smoke and the glare she could see the forms of her women, lying as if in sleep, most of them quite still. Nearby one of them writhed languidly, heaving up her body for a moment and then falling back, as it seemed to the Queen with a certain dreadful luxuriousness. She did not move again.

Macha was afraid of death, now that it seemed it was upon her, and the heat was becoming every moment more intense. It was as if spears were piercing her eyes outward from behind and that they must fall from her head in the next instant. She tried to rise, but some force pinned her down to the bed. With a fearful struggle that threatened to tear the heart from her breast she gained her feet and stood reeling, the red glare wrapping like a lover her beautiful naked body, over which as it seemed to her a thousand envenomed tongues were sliding. She tottered this way and that, hiding her mouth in her hair, and seeking for some door of escape.

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Suddenly she heard a sound of singing, coming from what she thought must be an immense distance. Her brain became confused. At times the singing melted into the flames, at others it seemed it was the flames that sang, and again she thought that in those red-tongued darting things she was actually looking at the very forms of those bitter passion wrung final sounds made by Airbreach. It was indeed a bitter singing that night for the Queen Macha Gold-har:

“Hei-a! Hei-a! Hei-a!

A red night for the land, For the shining grianon of Macha.

Sweet the song of the flame to the stars, A music passing that of stately harps.

Masterful the red lips, Kissing the breasts of the Queen, The tossing burning arms Now wreathed in her tressy hair.

Hei-a! ei-a! Hei-a!

The four winds of green-pastured Lochlan, The leaf hungry winds, How they furiously follow the fire; The brown wind of the West, with the moon in his hair, The red wind of the East, his feet stained with the sun-blood, The gray wind of the South, the rain in his eyes, The black wind of the North, the storm froth on his mouth.

Ochone! Ochone! Area!

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The pale lips of the dawn Will be crying after Macha the Queen The blown sands in the dying sea-grasses Shall answer with vices weak, faint, very thin, And the smooth gracious body of her That was as flowers that fell through foam, The breasts that were apples on a sunny bough, The hair that was ripe corn in the summer wind, The mouth that was the berry of the rowan, All these are dust, and a very little dust; And it lying between the fingers of the four winds, In the sundered mists of the Western world, That cling to the four great mountains, Of surfy foam-worn Eldamar.

My grief is for him that is beloved Of the two pitiless fierce-eyed women!

Evil shall come to him from out of the sun, And misfortune among the rains of the moon; And never will he find peace in the hollow hills.

Aio, hei-a, aha! O’Macha of the scornful brow; My laughter leaps in the flames, Sure am I after drowning you in the great fires of my mirth!”

The Queen’s head fell back, she clutched her breast with both hands. Dimly she heard a great crashing and growling and a splitting as the sides of the grianon fell in roaring.

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Through the glares and blackness circling giddily in her eyes she perceived indistinctly the figure of a woman that leapt over the breach and was instantly lost in a wilderness of flame.

Some say that woman was the amazon: Macha’s spirit did not know if it was, all that she knew was that it was not one of her Lochlai; and after, she wandered, as spirit, to the place where Airbreach and the harp lay still. The dun was otherwise empty and it was there beside the dead poet she made her vow upon the harp.

So, when she was gone and reborn amidst her brethren, who thought anyway that she had stayed away from them for too long, and when the priest Ionicûs fetched away and raised the talisman above the sacred place, the only question she left behind was – who did murder the great Queen?’

Maildún concluded with a flourish and a bow and after a moment of silence, in which the only sounds were the sloughing of the wind outside and the spitting of the fresh logs that Hugo Micklethwaite had added to the fire, first Cuspin, and then Olwynn, and then Dagomir and Cerowynn clapped their hands together loudly. Dagomir rose to his feet and said ‘Bravo!’ and handed a gold coin to the little man.

‘These are storytelling skills worthy of a better hall than this,’ Cerowynn said.

‘Tis a bloody tale,’ Cuspin added, ‘and one that rivals any I have heard from my dad.’

He frowned and shook his head and tutted. ‘But, you do not say who it was killed the Queen.’

Maildún smiled. He paused for thought, and then answered: ‘Who can say. Some speculate it was Airbreach’s poor tortured spirit, some that it was the Amazon and that she was a secret lover of the poet. Some think the Gods wanted Macha back with them. But I do not think it was any of them. I think Macha slew herself and that the mortal life was not any longer for her.’

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The enigmatic old man made to leave them, turning towards the door. ‘Wait!’ Dagomir called out suddenly. ‘The talisman, the harp that is it?’ Maildún half turned his head. He looked up at the harp hanging in its place above the fire and then he fixed Dagomir with a stare, then a moment later he grinned and without giving any answer he strode away and vanished through the door and was gone.

Hugo Micklethwaite did not speak to them then. He seemed to be satisfied that he had provided them with an entertainment they had very much enjoyed and so he stayed at his bar polishing goblets and setting them on a tray.

Cerowynn leaned forward and said: ‘I feel in these past hours that things are beginning to move a little into place. The folk of Skaarlsdag believe themselves untouchable because of that harp. People in Erebor have a similar tale that they swear by concerning a Maia who chose a mortal life but was then set upon and slain by her own folk. There is a spear that they revere, but it was lost a long time ago. There are many parallels between our lands and these. If so, then it may be that the people hereabouts practice strange rites after others have gone abed, like the Wildmen of Dunharrow are known for, and that may be what Brangildas warns against.’

‘That could be it,’ Olwynn agreed.

‘I reckon that Brangildas lad might even have an acquaintance with someone we ourselves seek, or at least him that my dad seeks,’ Cuspin said. He drained his goblet, drew upon his pipe, blew smoke into the air, and added, ‘we might be best thinking about moving on from here, no matter how comfy we are.’

‘For my part,’ Olwynn whispered, ‘I venture we need to speak to that fat innkeep and learn more from him. Brangildas would not lie about the Elf city, I am sure of that, but there should not be any Elves in these lands. The whole point in them going away to the Undying

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Lands was to be quit of the mortal life, for now is the time of Man. It is very puzzling but I do not think it a riddle that we will solve all at once.’

Dagomir snorted: ‘That is just like you, Olwynn. I for one believe what we have been told. There are Elves here and there is a city. There should not be, but then there should not be any armed Orcs at large either, and yet you have seen them with your own eyes.’

‘And hobbits,’ Cuspin chipped in; ‘he knew all about hobbits too.’

‘Quite so,’ Dagomir agreed. A thoughtful look passed across his face as though he was inwardly engaged in debate with himself. He sighed, and then he tapped the table-top with his finger and said, ‘Very well, here is what we shall do. That stable lad took to you, Cuspin. Did you notice?’

‘Oison? Yes, I did. He is a plain, simple lad, feller after my own heart. What of it?’

‘It is not very late. He should still be at his labour. Go and have a word with him Cuspin and see what you can learn from him. He will still be there, I shouldn’t think that Master Micklethwaite will be the sort to let his workers off much before midnight when there are guests in his rooms, despite his fat jolly demeanour.’

Cuspin nodded his head seriously and slid out from behind the table and squeezed past Cerowynn and went off out the door. Dagomir next turned his attention to Olwynn: ‘Have a discreet word with our host. Cerowynn and I will go and sit with Sam. And here, take this.’

Dagomir counted out five gold coins from his purse and handed them to Olwynn. ‘Pay the fat rascal, but not before his tongue has wagged a bit. And mind me, Olwynn, no knocking off of heads. The last thing we want to be doing is to have to fight our way out of here with a sickly Sam in tow.’

With that Dagomir and Cerowynn drained their goblets and left and went away upstairs, leaving Olwynn to saunter across to where Hugo Micklethwaite stood at his bar, arms folded and eyes watchful and alert.

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‘The little ‘un has gone out,’ Hugo said, a tremble in his voice; ‘I shouldn’t like him wandering too far.’

‘He has only gone for a walk before bed,’ Olwynn replied, amiable and polite. He looked around and commented, ‘Emptied quick enough this place.’

‘Gar!’ the innkeeper gestured with a pudgy hand towards the silent empty room where only the crackling of the logs spitting in the fire broke the monotonous stillness. ‘You have chased away all the decent folk with your shenanigans and with the little one sitting there. We have a settlement of Midgens down at Helmsminn, but they are chummy with the Thurak so they have few friends hereabouts.’

‘You cannot blame us for the rowdy custom you attract, Olwynn retorted.

‘Oh, but I do sir. Most certain I do.’ Olwynn’s affable manner and his boyish features had lulled the innkeeper into thinking himself on safe ground and he set to berating the young prince without giving the matter a second thought: ‘Why, folk round here are peaceable and there ain’t no calling out done like what happened tonight as a regular occurrence. Who then would you have me blame? And that Cuchuculain character don’t help nobody lest he has good reason. Why, he is one o’them blamed Khanite wild murdering Men who steals babies and cuts decent folks throats while they sleep.’

Olwynn’s natural response to this under normal circumstances would have been to react voilently at once to this annoying and sanctimonious little man’s outburst, which was only made worse so far as he was concerned by his bad breath, his bad skin, and his bad accent. But he was mindful of Dagomir’s exhortation and he held his temper in check. Instead he very deliberately set the gold coins down on the counter between them. He smiled broadly as Hugo Micklethwaite’s eyes widened until they were almost popping out of his head and his mouth fell open in a cavernous gape.

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Olwynn said, nonchalantly, ‘I am instructed to pay you this. One-two-three-four-five.’

He tapped each coin as he counted and watched the gleam of the gold reflected in the innkeeper’s eyes.

Hugo reached forward instinctively, his fat little fingers stretching forth, his lips quivering as he murmured: ‘Oh yes that will do nicely sir. That will cover the bill and no mistake. Yes, indeed.’ But as his fingers neared the first of the coins Olwynn covered all five with his left hand and raised his right hand and said lightly, ‘Ah, ah, ah, do not be so quick there sir. Dagomir is much too generous I think. Do you see this hand, Master Micklethwaite?

The fingers?’ The innkeeper looked up and nodded his head slowly and Olwynn grinned mischievously and said: ‘Well, I want you to count the fingers for me.’

‘Count the fingers?’ Hugo croaked.

‘Olwynn nodded his head, a smile fixed upon his face. ‘Yes, count. You can count?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Count then.’

Count.’

‘One-two-three-four-five.’

Then Olwynn clenched his fingers together and waggled his fist under the sweating innkeeper’s nose. His face wore a different countenance now and he snarled at the innkeeper as his next words came out. ‘I would much rather give you this, Master Micklethwaite, or even perhaps this,’ and with that he swept his sword from its scabbard and held the point beneath Hugo’s wobbling chin. ‘Handy us being on our own like this, wouldn’t you say? Gives you a chance to get an acquaintance with the Bright Blade.’

‘Oh, lords sake! Please don’t hurt me sir,’ Hugo warbled in terror; ‘I am just a poor old innkeeper, a widower with two greedy lazy daughters to support. You seen ‘em sir, it’s not

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like I am going to find a body to take ‘em off my hands just like that. Not out here. Not in this wild place. Oh, please don’t kill me!’

‘Shut up!’ Olwynn said loudly, more irritated than anything else, and being so annoyed he pressed the tip of his sword against the hapless man’s throat. Hugo’s eyes widened until they almost popped out of his head and he swallowed hard. ‘Now, my fat friend,’ said Olwynn, ‘questions, questions and answers.’

‘Yes, very well, do fire away so to speak.’ Hugo Micklethwaite was terrified, sweating and trembling violently, his voice quaking. ‘Don’t be tardy in the asking. Old Hugo is an open book.’

Olwynn laughed lightly. ‘You will indeed be open if you lie to me.’ He noted with a grim and sadistic satisfaction the sweat that was pouring down the man’s wobbling jowls and his ragged breathing. ‘No,’ first, I think I would hear something of this Brangildas fellow. Out with it, all that you know.’

Hugo allowed a sigh of relief to escape his lips. This was a question he was happy to answer and not one that needed threats to elicit answers. ‘Why, that one sir is a Khanite from the great steppes. I know that coming from across the water like as not your knowledge of our lands is scanty, but them places is no places for decent folk, whatever their hue or wherever they hail from. There is nowt there but endless grass or endless desert or endless ice, full of mad savages and strange creatures and demons and other things I durst not mention.’ A look of genuine fear passed across his face and his voice fell to a low conspiratorial whisper, as though his words were words that not even the walls or the night should hear: ‘I reckon’s he is a low thief sent into these parts to be spying. Prince! Pah! Maybe even he is a murderer, or worse, on the run from his own. You don’t ever see him in the company of another. Never.

Folk don’t right know what brings him round here, down our parts. Yes, on the run, or a spy, that’s what it is.’

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Olwynn shrugged his shoulders. He relaxed his sword arm. He frowned in puzzlement.

‘And that’s it?’

The innkeeper raised his eyebrows and he also shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s it,’ he said; ‘he comes, he goes. Pays for what he eats and drinks, and always in local coin, and he never asks any questions. What else is there?’

Olwynn thought about this for a moment. The man was under suspicion for being entirely nondescript, anonymous, and inoffensive, and he thought how very like Middle-Earth that was, then he quite suddenly and forcefully pressed the sword tip again. This brought an immediate and satisfying yelp from the startled Hugo, who did not know how to take this stranger, who before he had considered a bit of a buffoon, so that all he could do was squeak: ‘Oh! What now sir? For pity’s sake!’

Cuspin and Oison sat close together shoulder to shoulder on a bale of straw. They munched on oatmeal biscuits and drank steaming hot tea from tin mugs. The stable was warm and Cuspin found the pungent smells somehow comforting and a reminder of the faraway Shire; fresh straw and animal sweat, wet leather and treated timbers. He had a sudden image of Saul Bracegirdle’s smithie house and he exhaled a deep sigh of contentment as the sweet tea followed the biscuit down his throat.

In terms of their ages, even in comparative terms, Oison was much younger than Cuspin, but he stood head and shoulders taller. He was gangly with bushy unkempt blonde hair and wide innocent blue eyes and freckles that covered his little snub nose. He was a cheerful lad who was only too aware of his station in life and that his position in the stable, so far as it went, was probably all there would ever be for him. He would have changed the future if he could, but like most folk of his ilk, he would never know how to, unless there occurred some cataclysmic event beyond his control; in old age he would be vaguely aware of feelings

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of disquiet, at quiet moments when he was not being mithered by his grandchildren, and there would be resentment too, but he would go to his grave never knowing why. Cuspin liked him.

Earlier that evening when he had watched as Dagomir and Olwynn and Cuspin had led their animals into the stable Oison had naturally assumed, because of the clothing and arms of the two men and Cuspin’s lack of height, that the hobbit was one who occupied a similar station to his own. His shy smiles had all been directed Cuspin’s way and it had not taken much for them to strike up a friendship.

Cuspin sighed with satisfaction. ‘These biscuits are delicious,’ he announced as he reached down into the bag at his side for another one. ‘And you say they are baked by your ma?’

‘They are, sir,’ Oison replied enthusiastically, pride making his voice tremble; ‘a whole tray three times a week, on account of there are my brothers. Dixie, an Folger, an Rob, an-’ ‘Whoa there,’ Cuspin stopped him, chuckling. ‘Hang the pipe. How many of you are there Oison? Without delivering a headcount.’

Oison scratched his head thoughtfully and frowned and his lips moved and then he said ‘Well now, there is my ma an my pa, an’ I got four older brothers an’ two smaller, an’ two older sisters an’ one smaller. So, that’s-’ He tried counting in his head and then on his fingers, but he gave up after a minute and a wide grin creased his face. He shook his head and laughed.

‘S’a lot, that’s all I know.’

They both laughed. Infillitatis, Olwynn’s mighty grey Rohan steed, snorted and neighed and kicked at his stall, as though joining in with the joke, and suddenly Oison burst into floods of tears. Great choking sobs racked his body and Cuspin placed an arm about his heaving shoulders to comfort him. He fished in his waistcoat pocket with his other hand and produced a hanky which he put into Oison’s hand.

‘Why now, lad, whatever is it? What is amiss?’ he asked him.

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‘Oh, sir,’ Cuspin replied between his sobs, pausing to dab at his tears and blow his nose; ‘I am afeared to tell you and yet I know that I must.’

‘You can tell me anything,’ Cuspin gently told him.

Oison gazed for a second into his companions face and then another bout of weeping engulfed him. It took a minute for him to stop and compose himself but when he did he drew in a deep draught of breath and announced. ‘I ain’t going to do it no more. No, never again.

When you first come in here I thought you was one o’them Midgens and I didn’t think you could be anything above a servant, a slave even. Maister Hugo said you wouldn’t be hurt an’ they was only interested in them what had coin. He said I was to do just what I always done an’ you would be safe. Oh, but Mister Cuspin, now I sees you cares so much for them up there and that you ain’t no servant or slave. I tell you I have never met anybody like you afore. You are a proper gent an’ no mistake.’

‘You don’t have a thing to be worrying about,’ Cuspin reassured him, aware now that the fears expressed by Dagomir and Olwynn and Cerowynn earlier in the bar were all too real.

There were dark doings planned for them this night. He smiled at his companion and placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently in a way that was intended to reassure. ‘Why, inside this very tavern you have a Steward of Gondor and a prince of Rohan, who might very well be the King now, and they are two mighty warriors,’ he said; ‘and Cerowynn is no dunce with a bow. No, there is nothing for you to be frightened of Oison.’

Oison stopped weeping and sniffled, running the hanky under his nose. He hardly understood the significance of a house full of fine folk and how that would keep them from harm in a place whose past was steeped in blood and foul deeds, but he determined that from that moment on he would never again collude in the villainy of the place. ‘Mister Cuspin,’ he said firmly, ‘I ain’t going to let them hurt you folk.’

‘Who?’ Cuspin asked him with a little laugh. ‘Who wants to hurt us?’

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Oison lowered his voice and a look of earnest determination was set on his face as he answered. ‘Jherzy, bless you sir. That is his name. Jherzy an’ his cursed Black Cloak gang.

They come here about two year back. Before that this was a quiet honest peaceful town but now it is an evil place ruled by Jherzy and his cronies. Traveller’s that stays the night in the Dragon is prone to disappear and they ain’t never seen again. And nobody is allowed to talk about ‘em or even mention they ever was in the place. For a lot of folk the old Dragon has been their last stopping place.’

‘And that is what was intended for us,’ Cuspin said grimly. Oison nodded his head.

‘Yes, sir, I am supposed to be going up to tell them when you are all asleep while Master Hugo stays here and keeps watch. It is why I am still at work when I should be home wi’ my ma and my da.’

‘Murdered in our beds!’ Cuspin hissed. ‘Where is this band of cutthroats and footpads now and how many are they?’

Oison shook his head. ‘Not a good idea going up there, sir.’

‘Where are they?’ Cuspin demanded to know.

‘No, I will not say,’ Oison quaked his reply. He was filled with fear for what he may have unleashed by opening his mouth. Nevertheless, he answered, fearful of the determined look on Cuspin’s face: ‘They are up at the woods on the edge of the town, at the top of the street.’

‘Near where we passed this morning,’ Cuspin mused.

‘But there is near a hundrit o’ them Master Cuspin,’ Oison wailed. ‘Oh, please don’t go up there! You will only get yourselves killed!’

Cuspin jumped to his feet and flashed Oison a sudden smile. So that is what Brangildas meant when he warned against staying the night. “Be not found here tonight!” Very well, thought Cuspin, we cannot fight them but neither will they find us helpless and asleep in our

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beds. ‘Oison,’ he said, ‘if you can fetch the ponies and horses around to the front I shall rouse the others and we shall away and cheat them of their prey.’

‘Right away sir,’ Oison replied, leaping to his feet also, an equally resolute look upon his face.

Cuspin arrived at the front of the Dragon and was at the door in time to see Olwynn coming out bearing Sam in his arms swathed in a blanket. Dagomir and Cerowynn followed close behind with their arms laden with their bags and possessions. Clearly they had also gleaned some inkling of what was afoot.

‘Jherzy! The Black Cloak gang!’ Cuspin blurted out.

‘We know all about it,’ Dagomir replied curtly. He set the bags he was carrying down on the wooden boardwalk and cursed some vague Gondor demon. ‘Our innkeep let Olwynn in on the town’s filthy little secret. It is a nest of vermin we have fallen amongst!’

‘Not all of them,’ Cuspin said. ‘See, Oison is saddling us up.’

‘Let me down, I can walk.’ Sam wriggled in Olwynn’s grip and loudly raised a protest, though he was clearly groggy still and could scarce keep his eyes open.

‘No, Sam,’ Cerowynn told him in a soothing tone of voice. ‘You are too weak and we cannot be fretting over you without knowing exactly where you are.’

‘Where is Hugo Micklethwaite?’ Dagomir asked abruptly.

From far up the street then came the sounds of many angry voices. Dagomir glowered at Olwynn and kicked a booted foot against the wooden bar meant for the tethering of animals.

‘Ah, curses! I told you to lock him in his own wine closet! Olwynn, you dunce! Can you not follow the simplest of instructions?’

‘He seemed a harmless enough oaf,’ Olwynn spat back.

‘Harmless? He has rousted out this Jherzy and his crew!’

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‘Quickly! Both of you! There is no time for reproaches! We must be gone away form here!’ Cerowynn berated them loudly.

Oison came around the corner leading the animals. He stood by, gripping the horses and ponies halters tightly in his hands and wearing a look of shame on his face. They looked anxiously up the street, where the noise of the approaching crowd was now loud. Some of the men carried torches and in the fire glow the man Jherzy could be clearly seen at their head, no antique sword in his hand now but instead a heavy-bladed war-axe.

‘Do you feel up to riding Cuspin?’ Dagomir spoke quickly, urgently, explaining: ‘Sam is still fevered. He cannot ride and must go with Cerowynn. Even if all others fall he at least must be saved, and her mount is Iallorä. She is the swiftest of all, but she is Elf bred and she will be ridden by no other but Cerowynn, and we must have at least one pony.’

Cuspin looked abject at this prospect, for this would be no leisurely walk among the heather but a flight at the gallop, but he was saved by Oison, who volunteered himself. ‘I can ride. I will ride this pony for you.’ And so saying he jumped up onto the back of one of the ponies and took hold on the reins. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘they will be upon us any second.’

‘So be it!’ Dagomir shouted. ‘Olwynn, Cuspin is with you!’

Cerowynn mounted Iallorä and Olwynn handed Sam up to her in his blanket, then he helped Cuspin up onto the back of Infillitatis. The great animal’s eyes flashed open and he snorted but Olwynn placed his hand to the horse’s nostrils and whispered something in the ancient musical language of the horse-masters. Then, suddenly, he turned and ran back into the Dragon as Dagomir mounted into the saddle and cried out, ‘Olwynn!’

There was a crashing sound that came from within and a second later the tall Rohan Prince emerged grinning and vaulted easily into the saddle behind Cuspin. At that moment he noticed their luggage where they had left it on the boardwalk and he called out. “Dagomir!

The baggage, we cannot leave it behind!’

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Dagomir was in two minds for a moment. He watched the advancing mob and then from out of the darkness somewhere an arrow thunked into the timber wall above their heads.

The horses neighed shrilly and snorted and pawed impatiently at the muddy street and Infillitatis reared on his hind legs.

‘Dagomir!’ Cerowynn cried out as a second and then a third and a fourth and a fifth arrow whistled at them from the darkness. Thus was Dagomir decided. He cursed and promised a vengeful return to the town of Skaarlsdag then led them galloping away into the night. At their backs they left angry voices and a cry of ‘To horse! They escape! To horse!’

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Chapter 8

THE SIGHING PLAINS

The night sky was devoid of cloud and the moon, though it had made the turn, was only just past full; it was a great white eye that seemed to fill up all of the sky. A translucent ghostly light left nothing hidden under its wide and all encompassing wash and as they went they were pale riders who hour upon hour wound a path up and over and through gaunt and brooding and ever steepening hills. They rode past small hamlets and white walled farms under mud turved roofs where smoke poured from brick chimneys and hung curling in the air; babies cried and dogs howled, answering the primal calls from distant wolves. It was four hours of hard going for animals and riders. They were watchful and alert for from behind them the sonorous horns of pursuers could be clearly heard. It was long after midnight when they emerged from out of a sickly striped wood and crested a ridge and tumbled down onto the edge of a wide flat savannah.

‘The sighing Plains,’ Oison whispered in awe. ‘I have heard of them but I ain’t never seen them or been this near.’

‘Oh, wonderful,’ Olwynn snorted derisively. ‘This is all we need. Mile upon mile of flat open grassland, just like the Mark, and a big moon under which it is quite impossible to hide. Where, oh where, by Mordor’s bane, is there a wizard when one is needed?’

At the mention of Mordor, almost as though something dark and terrible was listening, a low rumble came from far away to the south and a brief icy cold wind stirred the grasses. It

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was a wind in which voices seemed to cry out all together for a moment, and the voices whispered: ‘Come, come, come to Mordor in Barad núl Orgymm.’

Dagomir angrily bucked his black mount against Olwynn’s gray, forcing Cuspin to tighten his grip on the saddle pommel to prevent him from falling off. ‘How you whine!’

Dagomir hissed at him. His face was a mask of cold fury. Cuspin and Oison looked on with wide eyes. The two Men glowered at one another and squared off as the horses neighed and snorted. But they need not have worried for this was a dance that the Lord of Gondor and the Prince of Rohan had waltzed together many times since their childhood. Olwynn bucked Infillitatis right back at Dagomir and forced him to give ground.

‘There,’ he said with a satisfied smirk creasing his face, ‘take that, and do not again try to match that bag of bones against the Wind of the Mark.’

Dagomir shook his head and tutted. ‘And do not let that mouth of yours fly into action without the brain catching it up first,’ he retorted. ‘Do not ever mention anything of Him again.

It is foolish and it is dangerous.’

Olwynn raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I see. Well if we are talking about the brains here in this crew, why did you leave the baggage behind? Hah! Now we have nothing to eat and we have no clothes to change into. My best cloak is lost.’

‘Would you rather be fat and warm or alive? And, whilst we are on that subject, it was you going back into the inn when you had no cause to that forced our delay. What was that all about?’

Olwynn grinned. ‘Use your imagination!’ he answered defiantly. ‘Let us put it this way, they will be in need of a new talisman in the town of Skaarlsdag.’

‘Ach! You buffoon!’ Dagomir thundered, slapping his forehead with a gloved hand.

‘That little show of petulance might very well cost us dear. If you hadn’t gone running off

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back into the Dragon we would have gotten at least some of the baggage before having to flee before that mob.’

‘Pah! One good charge would have scattered the lot of them. It is typical of you Dagomir. Our flight was cowardly!’

Dagomir’s eyes widened and he fair rose up in his saddle. ‘What! You call me a coward!’ he spluttered.

At that point Sam awoke and he muttered: ‘What is happening? I hear angry voices?

Am I dreaming?’

‘Not dreaming, Sam,’ Cerowynn answered. She laid a cool hand upon his forehead and explained very briefly the events that had led to their flight from Skaarlsdag. She concluded by saying, loud enough so that Olwynn and Dagomir could hear, ‘And now here we are, sitting here awaiting the arrival of our pursuers, while these two great braggarts fight it out. They quarrel about who is to blame.’ Dagomir slumped in the saddle and a sheepish look passed across his features. Olwynn looked suitably abashed also.

‘I grieve for your lost cloak, friend Olwynn,’ Dagomir said after a moment. Olwynn stuck out his hand and Dagomir gripped it and they shook. ‘And I grieve for my harsh misuse of you, friend Dagomir,’ Olwynn said.

‘And I grieve for the five pound of sausages we have left back there and the baccy and everything that’s needed to make us nice and comfortable,’ Cuspin groaned. They laughed and Sam shook his head and wondered what he had let himself in for, but he was too tired and weak to be bothered about their squabbling and so he nestled back into Cerowynn’s bosom and closed his eyes.

Now they were riding out on the vast rippling plain that contoured beneath the bright shining moonlight. For as far as the eye could see under that spectral light the long curling

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stalks of the grasses writhed and shuddered before the lash of a keen and mournful wind that had sprung up at their backs. Handfuls of sparse smoggy clouds now appeared and went scudding across the sky, spinning eerie shadows on the shimmering grass, big black shapes that spiralled and danced across the earth.

At length they came upon a small waterhole in a depression. It was a low fold in the otherwise flat and featureless landscape. Beside the moon-bright shallow pool there stood a stone and on it there was carved in rough hewn letters that were worn and weathered a line of runic inscription. It was much similar to the dwarf-runes found on stones in Middle-earth near the tracks and the places inhabited by that folk.

‘There,’ said Cuspin as he clambered down from Infillitatis back and went slithering into the depression. ‘Look. That could be a warning.’

‘Or equally, it could mean that the water is fine,’ Olwynn said.

Dagomir slid down from the saddle and knelt by the side of the pool. He scooped up some water with his hand and put it to his lips and without any hesitation he drank. He grinned up at Cerowynn, who was shaking her head and had a reproachful look upon her face. ‘I do not know what is writ on that ancient rock,’ he said, ‘but whatever it is it has not affected the water.’

The water was cool and clean and clearly it had to be rising from some underground source. Cuspin suggested the whole plain could be a giant aquifer for indeed beneath their feet the ground was soft and springy.

They drank their fill and filled their water skins and then allowed the horses and the pony to slaver and wallow to their hearts content. Olwynn climbed up to the lip of the dell and stared back in the direction from which they had come. Their path was marked very clearly by the swathe of flattened grass they had left in their wake. He stood gazing pensively into the

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distance and after a moment he was joined by Dagomir. They could see little under the false light, for the moon was occasionally mottled and screened by the drifting clouds. Dagomir was at his ease for he was well aware that the prince of Rohan, like all of his folk, like the elves too, was possessed of keen eyesight better than that of normal Men. ‘See anything?’ Dagomir asked him.

Olwynn pointed. ‘Perhaps two miles up yonder. It is hard to be certain in this light.

No, wait, yes, it is them.’

‘Mounted?’

‘Mmm. But moving slowly. Poor quality mounts, I think.’

‘How many? Can you tell?’

‘I cannot tell. Too many for us to stand and cross swords with.’

‘Very well,’ Dagomir said firmly, ‘Then run we must. But let us keep watch a while together and let the others rest.’

Cuspin whispered because Sam was sleeping still, lying on the grass at Cerowynn’s side: ‘So, Oison, tell me about these Midgen folk you made reference to when we spoke together earlier. And these Thuraks, what are they?’

Oison shrugged his shoulders and picked at a grass stalk, yawning hugely. ‘I dunno really,’ he said, ‘I am no scholar and I ain’t had no kind o’an education beyond what my ma and dad give me.’ He chuckled. ‘And, lord knows, they ain’t what you would call the scholarly sort neither. Fact is that I haven’t been no farther than a couple of miles outside Skaarlsdag all my life and there is probable more wrong in what I know than what is true. I don’t know, Mister Cuspin, I really don’t. I don’t think I want to say anything about what I seen round the town.’

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‘Anything you can tell us might be useful,’ Cerowynn told him gently. She smiled at him and he blushed hugely.

‘Well,’ he began doubtfully.

‘It will be of interest,’ she went on, ‘please. We are ignorant of everything so far as the Western world is concerned.’

Oison looked miserable then and his head sagged so that he was staring down into the water between the animal’s legs. More than anything else he was deeply embarrassed about the depth of his own ignorance and he was ashamed of where he came from when set against the fine folk he had fallen in with. He was also very tired. It was not an hour that he could recall ever having seen before. He flicked a grass stalk onto the surface of the water and sighed and told them anyway, so far as he was able, what they wanted to know.

‘The Midgen folk live in their own little country down south of the town. They came when we was still called Lochlan and when the Iron Kings ruled. They don’t seem to be like your hobbit folk Mister Cuspin, not the ones that I have seen. They are more like little Men. Begging your pardon, and no offence intended, the three I saw last year didn’t have hairy great feet like them you has. Well, at least I don’t think they do. They was wearing shoes, you see.’

‘We Hobbits don’t wear anything to cover our feet,’ Cuspin said with a chuckle.

‘Naught save hair.’

‘My dad told me that because they don’t fight and don’t know how to, they are good at hiding,’ Oison went on, his brow furrowed in concentration. ‘They live under the protection of the king at Lossarnoch apparently, and the Thuraks don’t bother them much, on account of they is good farmers apparently and they supply a lot of vittals for them. Anyway, that’s all I know about them. Not much.’

‘And the Thuraks?’ Cerowynn asked a little abstractedly, unimpressed by his knowledge, or rather his clear lack of it. She yawned.

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‘As far as they go I have only ever seen them the once. One o’ their kings came to the town for a meeting o’ some kind. Would you believe that? Thuraks coming to Skaarlsdag?

Come to see Jherzy they did, not long after he first came, and lots of folk reckoned then that was what made him so important. A Thurak king coming to see him. Was after that he kill’t old Burnaker and made Maister Hugo mayor. A lot of people vanished from the town and the land about then, and my dad said we was never to say anything on account of they was traitors and had run away to live in the king’s lands in the south. But my big brother Fergal told me that wasn’t true an’ it was the Thuraks had taken em off to be slaves at their holes or to eat them.

‘Them Thuraks is a bit like what you said them Orc things are like, except, as I told you, I ain’t seen no folk about like them and the Thuraks is smaller than Men. They are like horrid skinny little kids, but strong they are, and they have sharp pointy teeth and yellow eyes.

They come from out of the east a long long time ago and the tales say they were wanderers and never stayed in one place very long and for sure never long enough to make friends. My dad reckons they have farms and towns and a land ‘un their own and that it is up near Merland. He reckons that just what they do to folk when they come raiding and thieving and killing is what the wild-folk from the wild lands does to them, so it is Margol paying Mersos so to speak. I dunno what’s true. Like I say, I ain’t been more than a couple o’ mile out of Skaarlsdag and never so far as where I sit now.’

‘Cuspin placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘That is interesting, Oison,’ he told him. ‘Thank you.’

Cerowynn smiled. Oison was a pleasant simple lad and it was clear that he would make a loyal and trustworthy companion, if he ever left his family and found the right employer.

Already he was looking to Cuspin for approval for his every action and it was evident that he hero-worshipped the young hobbit, but for all that he was probably not very accurate in his

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descriptions of Midgens or Thuraks and eventually they would have to send him away to return to Skaarlsdag. They could not simply up and take him away from his home and his family without so much as a by your leave. She smiled to herself and wondered where this night of his life would fit into his view of the world and how he would tell the story of their flight from the Dragon of the North and Jherzy and his cutthroats. And yet, as with all the tales that folk passed down to one another, there might well be some truth in what he had to say.

She reflected idly that the Midgens he described were most probably in fact hobbits who had emigrated from Middle-Earth in times past. Possibly during that time when the evil first entered into the world and the Greenwood was renamed Mirkwood. It was likely they had hitched a passage with the Elves, many of whom left to go into the West at that time.

The Thuraks were more of a puzzle. Races did not simply spring up in isolated pockets of the world and then remain in one place through all their history. Besides, Oison said the tales spoke of them as being “wanderers”. Was it possible, she surmised, that these Thuraks were the descendants of the notorious Greflag Etelans and his Mllô-hai Orc clan? That prospect was far more frightening than any other possibility that she could think of.

She reviewed what she knew of the Mllô-hai. They had been a smaller breed of Orc that originally had come out of their dwellings in the Carnen caves in the land beneath the Iron Hills. They fought for King Azog at the decisive battle of Azamulbizar, which was where, at the East gate of Moria, the Orc’s of the North were destroyed by the Dwarf armies. Greflag and many of his Mllô-hai survived the apocalyptic battle and alone and terrified they stole away far into the north. They wandered through Angmar, settling for a time at Carn Dûm before they were driven out again. It was said then, for here the memory of the Mllô-hai begins to fade into legend, that they came down into Annúminas at the Nenuial but Rangers drove them away again, slaying Greflag Etelans and his three brothers. Their new king, who is unknown to history, led them into the north again, through Emyn Uial and the hills of Evenduin, then

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across the River Lhûn and eventually going through the Luin Mountains to come out at last on the Western shores of Middle-earth opposite the island of Himling. A very brief entry in the Record of the Dark Peoples records that the Mllô-hai stole boats and inshore barges from the Men of North Lindon and sailed to the island of Himling. This place they found cold and harsh and the caves and tunnels that they burrowed and dug were quickly flooded by the sea, but the Men of Himling were a famous sailing folk and the Mllô-hai by main force compelled them to do their bidding. In the year 2931 of the Third Age, that very year when Aragorn the Dúnedain chieftain of Arnor was born, it is said the Mllô-hai sailed away across the Great Sea into the West and left Middle-earth forever.

The Thuraks were most likely the descendants of that renegade clan but Cerowynn doubted if Oison would know anything of their true nature or their history. She gazed up to where her two childhood friends stood together staring out across the wide plain they had crossed. They were almost shoulder to shoulder, just as they had been in everything throughout their lives, and this despite the times uncounted when she had played the role of mediator between them in their endless quarrelling. What would they say, she wondered, if they knew that Hobbits and Orcs dwelt on this continent just as they did on Middle-Earth? And, that being so, why shouldn’t there be elves too? A whole city of them. But she knew that of the two only the serious natured Dagomir would devote much thought to it. Olwynn would merely shrug his shoulders and take it all in his stride. She smiled and her heart was filled with love as she watched them and listened to their quiet talk.

Dagomir placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and told him: ‘Olwynn, my dearest friend and companion, I do not know what to say about earlier.’

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Olwynn smiled at him and patted his hand. ‘No Dagomir, there is nothing to be said.

I was foolish. You are right and there should not have been any angry words between us. I accept your apology.’

‘That is not what I was going to say,’ Dagomir said stiffly.

‘What then?’ Olwynn asked. There was a look of perplexion on his face.

‘It was about what Cerowynn said. I was going to ask if you thought she really meant what she said when she called us braggarts. She has never called us that before.’

Cuspin groaned and rubbed at his stomach and wailed. ‘I am so-o hungry.’

‘Me too,’ said Oison.

‘What I wouldn’t give for one o’ your ma’s biscuits right now.’

‘Me too.’

Sam stirred and opened his eyes and a little feeling returned to his limbs. The fever had passed and only the afterglow of weariness and stiffened limbs remained. He looked up into the deep pools of Cerowynn’s eyes and the warmth of her smile. ‘You are so very much like your dear mother,’ he whispered to her.

‘It has been noted,’ she replied softly.

Sam wanted to say a few words more but suddenly and without any warning Dagomir and Olwynn together slithered down the slope into the hollow. ‘Quickly! Everyone! Get mounted! The enemy has outwitted us!’

Olwynn pointed to the north as the animal’s hooves crested the lip of the dell and they headed into the west once more. In the distance the dappled moonlight clearly betrayed a line of riders silhouetted and closing fast with them, perhaps only a half a league distant. ‘We were too busy looking over our shoulders to the east,’ Olwynn spat out bitterly; ‘they have gulled us and we are flanked.’

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‘Too busy arguing the toss again!’ Cerowynn berated them with unkind words as they kicked up dust and galloped forth. She let Iallorá have her head but yet, when she looked at the line of riders, she knew that it was unlikely in the extreme that they would be able to escape them. She suddenly yelled out a blood-curling chant that made Sam cover his ears: ‘Aiee! Ho, Iallorá noro lim! Noro lim!’ And at the sound of it the great Elven mare leapt forward and in a huddle at her back they galloped across the grassy plain, clods of wet earth flying up behind them in their wake.

They raced across the swaying shadow speckled grass, a wind at their backs, night birds wheeling and calling as they hunted, wolves howling, and their pursuers horns now loud on the wind. Those off to the right, in the north, veered onto a diagonal course that would inevitably allow them to overtake and intersect with their prey, no matter how poor were the horses and ponies that bore them.

‘They knew where we would stop to rest,’ Dagomir said bitterly, cursing himself for a fool.’

‘Do not hammer thyself too hard,’ Olwynn told him. ‘What else could we do?’

Cerowynn ignored them. She leaned over Sam so that her head rested close upon Iallorá’s flowing mane. She began to chant in the ancient Elvish tongue of her mother’s people.

Her eyes were closed and her lips barely moved but the words tumbled out and were caught by the wind and they filled up Sam’s ears and raised a gleam of hope within his breast that they might yet escape. She was working something and he knew enough of her people to know that whatever it was it was only something she was trying as a very last resort: ‘A’llitha enou Ilórt mai. A’llitha enou Ilórt mai.’

Olwynn pointed and shouted. ‘We cannot outrun them! We must stand and fight!’

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‘A’llitha enou Ilórt mai.,’ Cerowynn was urgently whispering her chant over and over, until it seemed to Sam that it underlay a louder and more compelling sound of sweet voices singing on the whistle of the wind. Iallorá fell to a trot and then after a moment to a complete halt.

‘Stop!’ Sam called out suddenly. ‘Wait!’ he gasped, ‘all of you.’

‘A’llitha enou Ilórt mai,’ Cerowynn went on, ignoring them all as she continued with the incantation.

Dagomir nudged his mount over to where Cerowynn and Sam and proud Iallorá stood, haughty and defiant, her nostrils sniffing at a wisp of scented smoke or smog that wafted on the breeze.

‘Sam,’ Dagomir spoke in an urgent way that betrayed his fear of the approaching riders, ‘why has Cerowynn stopped and what is it that she is doing? We cannot stand and fight, they are too many, and we have no leisure for foolishness’ But Dagomir knew that Cerowynn was not the sort to play any foolish games or to take an unnecessary risk, and the sight of her hunched over the neck of the horse brought a frown to him. ‘Sam?’ he whispered in a plaintive voice.

Sam cast an anxious glance to his right. He could make out the faces and the flapping black cloaks of the oncoming riders and he could see the steamy breath in the horses’ nostrils.

He shrugged his shoulders and could offer nothing that would make any sense or give Dagomir comfort.

‘A’llitha enou Ilórt mai. A’llitha enou Ilórt mai.’ Cerowynn continued with her remorseless chanting, utterly oblivious to both Sam and Dagomir or to anything that was going on about her. ‘A’llitha enou Ilórt mai.’

‘Sam!’ Dagomir started to shout something, but he was stilled almost before a sound had left his lips by the suddenness of a puffy swirling mist that exploded abruptly from different

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points in the earth all around them. Within seconds everything was completely obscured and Cerowynn slumped heavily so that only Sam bracing her up kept her in the saddle. He took up Iallorá’s reins and the mare turned her head sharply, but she seemed to understand and she did not raise an objection.

‘Did it work?’ Cerowynn whispered.

‘Aye lady,’ Sam chuckled, ‘aye, indeed it did. I have never known an Elven lady, or even a half-elven one for that matter, who did not have a good spell or two tucked away up her sleeve.’

Cerowynn was spent in the effort of invoking the earth-spell of Aúriallïm, which means “shield” in the High language, but she still managed to giggle like a little girl. ‘Well now, who would have believed it?’ she whispered.

The neighing and heavy snorting of horses and the shouts of angry men filled the night, but Dagomir ignored them, even when they sounded so very close that it seemed Jherzy and his gang must be right on top of them.

He dismounted everyone, even Cerowynn and Sam, who were both still very weak, and Olwynn took Sam on his back and bore him piggy-back, and he led them away into the north.

They picked a way through the disordered ranks of their now confused pursuers and after a quarter of an hour they were clear of the last of them.

The mist had a strange consistency to it. It was not a fog and yet neither was it insubstantial. Underlying it was the hint of a song and magic that turned the swirling veil to glass and silver so that even the grass beneath their feet had an otherworldly appearance and feel to it. Distances were hazy and deceptive as the fugitives trudged on in silence until there was a good league or more between them and their pursuers and the sounds of their voices seemed far-off and vague.

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The going was slow. To prevent any getting separated and wandering in a different direction to the rest they went in single file, with Dagomir leading. Cuspin and Oison followed on behind him and then came Cerowynn and last of all Olwynn with Sam. The rolling gray and white fog was cold and damp and water soon dripped from their hair and from the animals’ flanks.

After a while Dagomir asked in a loud whisper: ‘How long do you think that this fog will last?’

‘I cannot say,’ Cerowynn replied, ‘the spell is Elvish earth magic. It is a cry for help to the old ones of the land and its strength depends very much upon the conditions within the earth herself. For example, you cannot summon ice in a desert. Could be an hour, could be a week. My mother taught me a few spells but she did not lecture me much in what the effects of them might be.’ She chuckled mirthlessly. ‘I don’t suppose she ever thought that I would have need of them.’

Dagomir held back for a minute and allowed the others to go past him until Olwynn came up beside him, his grinning face looming out of the mist.

‘Did you know she could do that? Or anything like that?’ he asked in a hushed whisper.

Olwynn shook his head and replied, ‘No, I certainly did not. Makes me wonder what else she can do if she has a mind to it. Magic, eh? I thought she just shot her enemies full of arrows.’

‘We can’t go putting on her,’ Sam told them firmly. ‘That spell-making took too much out of her, even if she ain’t showing it. Her ma might be near all Elf but she ain’t.’

Cerowynn came back and stood beside them. ‘If you are going to discuss me,’ she told them, ‘at least have the courtesy to do so whilst I am present. Besides, Sam is right. I took a chance and it worked, this time, but I didn’t know if it would. It might not next time. And, -’ she paused and shivered and a look of dread was upon her face.

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‘And, Cerowynn?’ Sam prompted her after a moment of expectant silence.

Cerowynn looked at each of them in turn and her voice lowered as she spoke: ‘when I was working the spell I - I,’ she paused again and trembled and her hands gripping Iallorá’s reins shook, ‘I felt a presence join me. There was more in that mist than just the earth magic.

Things that should not be still in the World, and things that are spoken of only in myth and story. They came forth whispering and hissing, and I dare not report the terrible things that were said. I could feel Him, trying to reach out, searching for weakness. There was a terrible darkness coming and I know that if the mist had not arisen when it did that I would have been sucked into oblivion. Such spells can only be worked by those who are practised in them for only they can control the other desperate things that seek to arise through them. I am no adept.

We were lucky.’

Dagomir and Olwynn looked aghast at one another and Sam told them firmly: ‘Do not ask her to do this again. That there you describe is what almost happened to Frodo every time that blamed Ring went on his finger. And I have experienced it for myself when I walked into the shadow world wearing the blasted thing. So don’t you two go getting ideas and expect any more magickin out of her.’

‘No, Sam,’ Dagomir and Olwynn said almost in unison, like two naughty schoolboys chastised by a stern schoolmaster.

Oison loomed then out of the fog. ‘Master Cuspin says to tell you the mist is clearing up ahead,’ he informed them.

They mounted swiftly then and turned their faces to the West and galloped hard. The ethereal fog that Cerowynn had summoned was fading fast. It was dispiriting for them to see how quickly it was vanishing back into the earth or was dispersing on the wind. They were

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hungry and they were tired and when Cuspin’s voice echoed on the breeze he voiced a sentiment felt by all.

‘What wouldn’t I give for one o’fat Hugo Micklethwaite’s roast dinners now.’ Oison’s voice joined in with a plaintive, ‘Me too.’

A light drizzle of rain swept across their faces, lasting less than ten minutes or so, and it steamed on the grass and the little tufts of bushes and hissed on root and mould. Suddenly the last of the mist was rolled up and thrust aside and a biting wind came blowing from out of the east, and ahead in the gloom a deep shadow lay about the edge of sight. It was a dark haze above which the sky was like a blue cap, musky and heavy. This did not last for long and then, it seemed with an abruptness that was unnatural, the dawn was upon them. They knew from the sounds of the hooves and the angry voices at their backs that the pursuit was renewed and that they were now in plain sight of Jherzy and his Men. The distance they had put between them and their pursuers was greater than it had been but the danger was hardly lessened, and now they did not even have the cloak of night about them as a shield.

Cerowynn’s Iallorá and Dagomir and Olwynn’s big Rohan war-horses would easily have borne them away from the pursuit, for tired though they were they were creatures bred for stamina and endurance, but the pony that Oison rode was smaller than the others and was older and slower. The plan when they so hastily fled the Dragon of the North was that the pony would bear as much of the luggage as they could carry and Oison would be left somewhere close to the town where he could make own his way home on foot without any blame attaching to him. The events outside the inn put paid to that and now they were stuck with him and the pony. There was nothing they could do but let the horses match their speed to the slower pace of the pony.

Soon, their predicament worsened as the day came. The wind died away and the sun came up quickly and the air warmed until it grew unseasonably hot. The only sign that a mist

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had ever enveloped the plain were the long thin wispy vapour trails hanging across the humid sky.

The two groups, pursuer and pursued, raced it out across the singing waving open grassland, pounding hooves on the dry earth raising clouds of dust that shimmered on the hot air in tall columns. On they went, league after league under a blazing autumn sun, and all the while it grew even hotter and fiercer with every passing hour.

Time and again Cerowynn or Dagomir or Olwynn would be forced to slow their mounts still further, and sometimes all three together would came back and circle about the fast tiring pony, allowing Oison to catch up and for a time go on ahead, and when they did, inexorably, the black cloaked riders would gain on them.

Towards noon, almost as though a signal had been given, both parties halted simultaneously to rest horse and pony and riders. While they did so they stood staring at one another across a divide that was less than a league.

Oison was sitting on the ground when Dagomir wrenched him to his feet and took hold of him by the scruff of the neck. The stable lad winced and cried out: ‘Ow! What?’

‘Leave him be!’ Cuspin spluttered.

Sam was on his feet now too, but Olwynn placed a hand on each of their shoulders and bent down and whispered. ‘Fear not. Dagomir will cause him no harm. It is just that we must learn more of this Jherzy fellow and his followers. Only Oison can tell us and we have no time for niceties. Our pursuers are much too implacable for mere thugs.’

Sam and Cuspin sat down together and Cuspin turned his face away and stared morosely into the distance.

‘Tell me about this Jherzy and these Black Cloaks!’ Dagomir demanded of Oison in a stern voice.

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‘’I don’t know nothing!’ Oison squealed.

‘Dagomir -’ Cerowynn was going to raise a protest but a withering glare from Dagomir silenced her. He turned Oison, still held in his grip, to face him. ‘We must know!’ he snapped, ‘and you are going to tell us.’ Then he released his grip on him and said, more gently, ‘It may be our lives. Do you at least know where they come from?’

Oison rubbed his neck and flashed a look of indignation at Cuspin, who could not meet his eyes. He drew a deep draught of the hot stale air into his lungs and spread his hands. ‘All I can tell you,’ he said quickly, as though saying anything at all should be done as swift as he could form the words, ‘is about the one night not long after they first come.’

Dagomir smiled encouragement at him. ‘Go on.’

‘It was up at the woods above the town, where they has their secret place. There was only about thirty or so Black Cloaks then, an’ Jherzy of course. There was a load o’ town folk and other folk from round about what was there but after a while, when they got shot of all them, just before they sent Maister Hugo away, they told him that everybody was to speak only the common language and that nobody was to speak the Loch.’

Olwynn snorted derisively. ‘Is that it? Is that all he knows?’

‘Shush, Olwynn,’ Cerowynn said. ‘Go on, Oison.’ Dagomir added, ‘There is more.’

‘Yes. Well, the fact is, and I ain’t the type to disobey what my ma or my da orders, but my old gaffer used to go hunting and setting his snares up in them woods and on one particular night, about a year since I reckons, I was out among the trees collecting the rabbits: I didn’t think there was any danger on account o’ my da used to go there and I wanted to help him out, save him a bit o’time. Anyhow I saw them this night in their clearing up there. They had a big fire lighted and blazing away and all the Black cloaks was there and there was another man.

He was sitting on a monster huge horse the like o’ which I ain’t ever seen, bigger even than Mister Olwynns.’ He shuddered at the memory of it and Dagomir turned away, arms folded,

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and gazed out to where Jherzy and his group stood in the distance. ‘It was a tall and evil shape I saw and the Black Cloaks was singing some funny song to it low in their throats.’

‘Describe it,’ Dagomir ordered him in a cold voice.

Oison paused for a moment and swallowed before answering: ‘It was sat on what I reckoned was a black horse, an it was huge and hideous, an its face was a frightening fearful mask I durst not look upon, more like a skull than a living head, and in the sockets of its eyes and up its nose there burned a flame. He wore these black robes and he had a big black helmet.

The queerest thing is I can’t remember a thing about his face.’

‘He had no face,’ Sam said in a sombre voice of deep certainty.

‘What did he say? Did he speak?’ Cuspin asked him.

Oison opened his eyes and looked straight into Sams. His breathing was shallow and ragged and when he spoke it was as though every word he had heard that night was burned into his memory, or worse, that the words had become a part of him, to be recounted even when he did not want to remember them. ‘“Men of Caffirod, I am the Herald of Cirith Gorgor, the voice of Him who is Ungollag.

This is your banner and know you that the time is yours. We give you the sovereignty of this land of Lochlan. Hold it in the name of the lord of the World and he will reward you well.

Bring forth chaos and despair and he will reward you well. Eat of the world for the Age of Sauron is at hand.” Then he stuck a pole in the ground and on its spiked point there was a shrivelled head and, oh, lord sake, it was only the head of old Burnaker. Then Jherzy an his crew set to cheering and all these wolves what I never noticed before started howling and snarling and I felt that there were hundreds and hundreds of horrible evil things creeping all around me so I throwed down my rabbits and I ran. I would not have stayed there not for all the gold in the world. Something chased me for a bit, crashing in the trees behind me, but then it stopped an I heard a voice in my head: “Soon enough, we will have you anyway, soon

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enough”, an it started to laugh and laugh and laugh and when I go home I was so scared that I told my dad. He leathered me hard, oh but he did, but it weren’t for the loss o’ the rabbits. Oh no, it were because my dad said that Jherzy an’ his crew was the dead men of Caffirod, on account of how all that country was destroyed and the conqueror only let dead men get away from there and out into the world to fight and rule in his name.’ He paused, then gave a nervous laugh and whispered. ‘Daft, but that’s all I know.’

They were stunned to silence for a moment. Then Cuspin went to Oison and put an arm about his shoulders. ‘So,’ Dagomir said after a minute, a great sigh escaping his lips, ‘it would seem that the Enemy is here indeed and that his claws have a long reach. It is as well for the world that you trusted to your instincts Sam.’ Sam laughed a short bitter laugh and told them, ‘my instincts should have warned me against crossing the Sea, and if I had trusted to them, as you say Dagomir, I would be at home in Hobbiton at this very minute. I am weak and old and I fear that to go on another mile will be the death of me. What seemed easy while I was sat before a blazing fire and comfy surroundings in Bag End, wi’ a pipe in one hand and a mug o’ tea in the other, doesn’t seem to be so now.’

Cuspin stared with pity at Sam as he spoke and then he turned his eyes to where their pursuers waited at rest, like them, and he realised all of a sudden that he was standing in the midst of great and momentous events whose unravelling was the matter that had brought them all together. The Great Enemy, having failed in his bid to bring darkness to the world, still dreamed his dreams of conquest and he was indeed rebuilding his cause in these WesternLands. Still, he thought in a second of doubt, if all was dependant upon him and his dad and these few companions of theirs then fate possessed a cruel and capricious sense of humour.

Dagomir carefully watched the young hobbit, sensing his unease and the doubt that was now rising within him. He placed a gloved hand upon his shoulder and grinned down at him.

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‘I know how you feel, Cuspin,’ he told him lightly; ‘I feel the same way. We have come, not knowing quite why it was we did, only knowing that it was the right thing to do, and now it would seem that we are caught up in events far greater than anything any of us could have ever imagined for ourselves. What you must remember though is that Sam Gamgee and Frodo walked into His evil realm alone and they prevailed.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Cuspin. Then after a moment he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘But if anything so momentous as that depends upon my poor dad now, particularly where this wizard Gandalf is concerned, well, I shudder to think what might happen. He is near done in, the poor old lad.’

Dagomir sighed deeply too and a smile creased his face. ‘All that we can do is to protect him and keep him safe,’ he said. And Cuspin felt better for that, for he knew that the brave Steward would die first before he would let anything happen to Sam, but still he pointed. ‘First we have to escape from them.’

Amidst the ranks of the Black Cloaks there was a murmur of disquiet. Jherzy stood apart from his Men and seemed not to notice.

‘We has been promised lordship in Lochlan, but this is too far out in the lands of the Thuraks we have followed this chase,’ one of them said. There is no treaty for this.’

‘Saluvatar don’t rule the Thurak so the Lord doesn’t rule here,’ a second man said.

‘Besides,’ a third added his voice, ‘every man here knows what has been agreed with Nezgoth. Anything that is in their territory belongs to them and anything that is in ours belongs to us. If they catch us out here we will all of us finish out our days dangling and kicking on the end of a line, or worse.’

‘I would rather be sitting with my feet up and a drink in my hand in the Dragon.’

‘And I have a wife now.’

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A reluctant spokesman was thrust to the front and he went and stood nervously behind his chief, attracting his attention with a small cough.

‘Clotharch of Sanik, Jherzy muttered. Disdain edged his voice and he did not turn around. His stare was implacably fixed upon his enemy. ‘What do you want?’ he growled out.

‘Beg pardon, sir, it’s the lads see,’ Clotharch answered, coughing nervously.

Jherzy closed his eyes and murmured in a low dolorous tone, ‘Gragallach,’ which in the common tongue means “Annatar”, or “giver of gifts”, and an image appeared in his minds eye of a dark and terrifying vision: there was a deep darkness across the smokes and red glares on the mountain top: a storm was approaching and there was a shimmer of lightnings under the black skies; the air was filled with fumes and the working of furnaces and on a long road that wound climbing and twisting about the mountain, like a rising girdle, long columns of dark skinned warriors were marching.

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ Clotharch repeated.

Jherzy sighed very deeply and exhaled wearily. He fancied he could smell the fire of Auna Alarasi still reeking in his nostrils, where his betrayal had allowed the fierce black and green skinned warriors an easy access to the city. In the streets he sacrificed his wife and his babes to savage slaughter, together with all the other citizens, despite the assurances he had personally received from the lord Khamûl. He had loved his wife and his children, but it did not take long for him to see that the sacrifice was a small price to pay, and after the new power had established itself in his lands and neighbouring Hador and it was obvious that nothing could stand in its path he willingly joined with it. Power, which was what it was all about; power, and the wielding of it without fear.

‘The lads think that we should turn back.’ He said abruptly. It was a statement, not a question.

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Clotharch nodded his head enthusiastically and Jherzy turned around slowly on his heels and reached out lazily and seized a grip of him by the collar. He pulled him in close so that their faces almost touched, their breath mingling, the spittle flying as he spoke: ‘Now you listen here to me you dung snuffling shag beetle! They aren’t ever going to reach the Thurak Hills, not ever! I am going to stick that high an’ mighty mister on my pig-sticker an’ us Black Cloaks is going to share that dame, them horses, that gold, an’ anything else besides what they has about them. Each and every one o’them dogs back there has betrayed the Caff just like me an they has sworn allegiance and I am named chief. We was all there an’ we all lent a hand when old Baron Fianch was ripped into little bits at the tails o’ the horses. So just you get back there and tell em what I say and tell em that any man deserts and he hangs from fat Micklethwaite’s dragon post till his flesh rots from the bones!’

Clotharch extricated himself and took a step back and rubbed at his throat with a calloused hand. There was a sulky look on his face. ‘Ain’t none of em is talking up desertion,’ he muttered sourly: ‘it is just that, well, hang it all chief, we are trespassing on Thurak land.

Nezgoth’s to be more precise.’

‘Thurak land border ain’t set this side o’ the hills,’ Jherzy stated in a matter of fact way, as he continued to glare out to where his prey still stood at rest.

‘But here is where they comes for to get their prairie rats,’ Clotharch continued to protest. ‘Don’t mean nothing no treaty where Nezgoth is concerned.’

Jherzy chuckled. ‘There is more than sixty of us an’ I ain’t scared for no Thurak.’

‘But that fog last night. Now come on, chief, that wasn’t no natural fog. Even you have to admit that.’

Jherzy ignored him. The prey were mounting into the saddle and preparing to ride on.

Sunshine slanted down in bright yellow blocks that escaped from behind small clouds that pocked the sky in what seemed almost solid chunks. Little birds rushed across the sky and

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beneath that vast cap of blue and indeterminate white the colours were green and pale gold.

There was not a tree nor any other impediment, and he knew that out there on that plain there was no water to be found before the Thurak Hills. It was a continuing country of grasses and short springy turf, silent now except for the whisper of the air over the edges of the land and the high lonely cries of solitary predatory birds. There was no hiding place to be found anywhere in the miles before the hills.

In the distance the Thurak hills, or what locals knew as the Caernless Hills, were a low thin pencil line of purple etched deep on the horizon. Jherzy gauged the distance and grinned a malevolent grin: they would never make it. Three, four more hours at the most, would see them overtaken. They would have been taken on the previous night had it not been for the cursed mist which had arisen to shield their escape. Oh, but he was clever, that stranger, the one called Dagomir. Him of the high and mighty airs. He had led them northwards for a time before turning again into the west, and that had also caused the trackers confusion. Jherzy cursed, but he consoled himself with a vision of just what he planned to do to him when finally he did have him under his hand. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep draught of air into his lungs and imagined what sweet exquisite pain he would give him when he slid a hot iron into his belly. Then he roused himself as he watched the dust cloud rise in the distance. ‘Mount! He yelled to his Men, and then he grinned with deep satisfaction when he saw that not one of them failed to respond at once to his command.

The deadly pursuit continued, while the sun grew even hotter, the grass waving and swaying, the air shimmering, and everything around them growing hazy and indistinct and surreal under the fierce oppressive heat.

The hills drew ever nearer but seemed yet tantalisingly just out of reach, and too far away to offer hope that salvation lay close. They made an undulating ridge, often rising to

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heights of eight hundred feet, and here and there were deep shadows where clefts jagged and uneven ran up into the glacial rock, promising shady passes that led into the lands beyond.

‘The hills are still too far away!’ Olwynn cried out. ‘We will surely never make it before we are overtaken! Cerowynn! Cerowynn! Is there no more magic you can work?’

‘There is no magic! Sam called back. He shook a fist at the Prince in savage reproach.

‘Leave her be!’

‘But Sam!’ ‘Did you not see what it did to her before? Be told! I will not allow it!’

Suddenly, while the others were focussed on this exchange, Oison made a fateful decision. Cerowynn racked her mind to see if there was one that she might use and could perhaps drag up from the well of her memory, while Sam and Olwynn shouted across to one another, and Dagomir and Cuspin half hoped something might after all be done to help their plight, and while they were thus distracted Oison bellowed: ‘I’m sorry Cuspin! I never belonged here with you and I ain’t going to be able to forgive myself if I am the cause of you all dying!’ And with that and the sound of his cry tailing away on the wind he turned the pony’s head and set off at a diagonal run back away from them and across the front of the black cloaked riders.

‘Oison!’ Dagomir yelled after his back. ‘No!’ But it was too late, for already the black cloaks were almost upon him and it was quite clear that they were in no mood to stop to ask questions or show any mercy to one from the party they had pursued so relentlessly for so many long hours.

‘Darn it!’ Olwynn cried out in frustration and Cuspin gasped when an arrow flew out from the midst of the ranks of their pursuers and was followed at once by a flurry of others.

Two black feathered shafts struck the pony in the flank, biting deep into the flesh, and a third caught it square in the face; it fell in a cloud of dust, shrieking horribly like a banshee. The

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animal’s legs kicked frantically as it choked its way into death and Oison tumbled free and jumped to his feet, but he was not standing for long. An arrow thudded into his chest and he fell without a sound and lay still. Thirty seconds from start to finish and it was all over.

‘Oison! Oh, Oison!’ Cuspin wailed. Hot tears stung his cheeks and he would have leapt down from Infillitatis’ back had not Olwynn taken a tight grip on him about the waist and held firm. ‘Let me go! Let me go!’ he yelled and writhed and struggled. ‘No,’ Olwynn said between gritted teeth as he struggled to maintain their position on the great steeds back while it kicked up dust and fretted about what was occurring; ‘I will not let you go, Cuspin. Keep still! You going off and getting yourself killed will do neither him nor us any good.’

‘Oison is gone!’ Dagomir told him brutally. ‘Dead, dead and gone. And so too will we be if you do not cease this foolishness.’

At these words, which he could not argue with, but thought harsh and cruel nonetheless, Cuspin slumped and his struggles ceased and he turned his face to Olwynn’s breast and he wept pitiably.

They heard the whooping black cloaks shouts of triumph and watched as they halted for a moment to view their fallen victim, and they cursed when they saw one of them, just to make sure Oison was not feigning death, jab down with a spear into the inert body. Dagomir growled with rage and helpless anger. Sam knew what was going through the Steward’s mind: poor Oison, snatched from the world in the wink of an eye, taken from his family, who would never know where his bones lay, would not even have a decent burial. And yet, the boy had willingly given his life as a sacrifice to save theirs. He had a nobility of spirit in him that was worthy of the mightiest prince and his life would not be wasted by the loss of theirs or any one of them. They each vowed it to themselves.

‘We must go!’ Sam told them curtly. ‘Come on! We can’t stand here staring all day!

Nothing has changed!’

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Dagomir bellowed and tugged on his mount’s reins to put his back to the oncoming Black Cloaks and the place where Oison had fallen: ‘On! On! Let not his sacrifice be all in vain! Fly! Fly! And with that the three powerful horses leapt away and went galloping into the west, no longer restrained by having to match their pace to that of the pony.

It was easy for them now to maintain the distance between themselves and their pursuers, and though the necks and flanks of their great beasts were flecked with foam and their powerful muscles were trembling, they were not over-tired.

Cerowynn exchanged a glance with Dagomir; there was a guilty look in their eyes, they knew they should have sent Oison away home hours earlier rather than expose him to a danger that was not his, and they were filled with sadness. Cuspin mirrored their feelings and he did not cease his weeping for a long while, and as he wept Olwynn held him close and comforted him as best he could. At length the young hobbit was able to raise his head and turn his face out to the world again. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Why Olwynn?’ he asked in a small plaintive voice.

‘He had a stout heart, Cuspin,’ Olwynn answered him after a moment’s hesitation, ‘when all is said and done. He did not want to be responsible for anything happening to us and what he did brings nothing but honour to his memory. He could not bear to see us hurt, just as he could not bear to see any harm come to us at the Dragon. He has found his place, albeit his life has been very brief. He proved himself a noble and dignified man.’

‘These are cruel hard times and this is a wicked world,’ Cuspin muttered bitterly.

‘There has never been anything like this in the Shire. Why, if hobbits can live in peace with one another cannot Men do the same?’

Olwynn chuckled without humour. ‘This is not the Shire Cuspin, and not all Men want to or do live in violence. Besides, it does no good to dwell upon poor Oison’s loss. I doubt he

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will be the last to die before we are done with this business, and you only live the life that you live in your Shire because before you were born good solid hobbits like old Sam Gamgee there, and Frodo, and Pip Took and Merry Brandybuck, went out into the world and fought against evil. How else do you think peace was won for Middle-Earth? There is nothing good that is won without sacrifice. And do not forget ever, the King has ringed the Shirelands with Rangers just to make sure your little country remain free from trouble.’

‘I know all that,’ Cuspin replied tersely, tears welling again and a feeling of helpless frustration raising a cold fury within him; ‘I may have less height than you, Prince Olwynn, but I ain’t got less in the way of brains. But if you are saying that I should get used to folk dying then I am sorry but you have very much missed your mark with me. There ain’t no death that serves any useful purpose. It is only the events that lead to death that have any point to them.’

Olwynn was suitably reproached. ‘I know,’ he whispered, and at that moment an image of Edeomas came unbidden into his mind and he saw again his great father lying dying in the Hall of Death surrounded by ritual and the final ceremony his people accorded a great lord.

‘Believe me,’ he told Cuspin, ‘I understand only too well the truth behind those words.’

He urged Infillitatis on to greater effort and let his most bitter memories of the past come to him, though they brought him nothing but pain. He thought of his mother and his two sisters, who were carried off so suddenly in the plague years. That was a time of famine and suffering so great for the people of Rohan that the common folk were brought in and given shelter in Helms Deep and Dunharrow. So many succumbed that there were not enough to go out upon the grasslands and the herds had to be brought in from the Mark to protect them from wild animals and thieving gangs of rustlers, and at Edoras the horses were stabled in Meduseld.

It was only the aid sent by the king, Elessar, that saved Rohan in the end, but even then it took many years before the land recovered fully and by then not one family remained intact.

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‘But we grew stronger for it,’ he said aloud, without realising that he had, as though he was answering a voice echoing across the years that only he heard.

‘Stronger?’ Cuspin repeated.

Olwynn smiled. ‘I mean, I like these wide open spaces. They remind me of home. The ground is soft and Infillitatis here only gets stronger as he eats up the miles.’

And home is what filled all of their thoughts as the grim chase went on, their pursuers unable to make up any ground on the strong swift horses of Middle-Earth, as they advanced on the twilight world of the west.` The wind died down, but heavy, grape-coloured clouds were louring in the north, gloomily dragging towards them. The sun was fading fast, sinking beneath the rim of the world, but they still had a way to go to reach the safety of the hills, now beckoning with a tease of salvation. At the base of the distant slopes they could just make out darker patches of woodland, and, encouraged by the sight, Dagomir called out: ‘On! On!’ urging them to even greater effort.

Before the pounding hooves of the mighty animals, while twilight was descending suddenly all about them and the shadows were deepening, dark shapes rose up from the plain and scurried hither and thither, scattering, squealing in protest. When one reared before them momentarily, screeching, they caught a glimpse of a bulky furry body, fat with red feral eyes and sharp teeth and a long tail that whipped in the air like a bullwhip.

‘Ugh!’ Cerowynn exclaimed. ‘What was that thing?’

Olwynn laughed, shaken from his reverie, and his mood of despondency was dispelled by this sudden confrontation with the unknown creatures. He called out cheerily, ‘Prairie rat.

Another thing that fat Micklethwaite warned against.’

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It seemed for a few frantic seconds that the panicked creatures were everywhere, leaping and squealing masses of tangled fur, claws and teeth white and furious red eyes gleaming. The horses pulled up abruptly and stamped and reared and snorted in anger and indignation, but as swiftly as they had appeared the rats vanished almost as though they had never been there at all and only their chittering could be heard as they disappeared away into the south somewhere. In their wake a strange silence fell about them for a moment and then, from out of the north and the gathering night, there came to their ears the unmistakable drumbeat of hooves pounding on the earth. It was the unmistakable sound of a large body of cavalry approaching at speed.

‘How?’ Olwynn asked in a desperate tone of voice. ‘How is it possible? They cannot have gotten past us.’ He twisted around in the saddle to look behind in the direction from which they had latterly come. ‘No,’ he muttered slowly to himself, ‘they are still at our backs.

Even if they had divided their force they could not have overtaken us.’

Dagomir sighed and answered in a weary drawl, ‘I fear this is some new mischief that has naught to do with Jherzy.’

‘What new mischief?’

Dagomir shook his head and mouthed, ‘I have no idea.’

The light was fast fading now and in the gloom every noise was magnified so that when the sound of a horn echoed out ringing three loud clear notes it seemed the horn blower was standing right next to them. The light of the moon shone eerily with a spectral glare and after a moment the horn called again. Sam and Cuspin leaned over and stared into one another’s eyes and there were looks of blank uncomprehending astonishment on their faces. Cuspin hissed out; ‘Dad! Do you hear what I hear?’

‘I hear it,’ Sam answered in a small voice. ‘I don’t believe it, but I do hear it.’

‘It can’t be!’ Cuspin spluttered, then in a lower voice, ‘can it? Is it?’

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Sam laughed loud and long and Cuspin joined him and was soon close to tears. He slapped a hand to his thigh and shook his head and between his fits of laughter he managed to gasp out: ‘It only is. It only is. Oh, my lord!’

‘That is no mischief for us to fear,’ Sam explained to their open mouthed companions, ‘not unless there is the most fantastical coincidence at work.’ He laughed again then drew in a deep breath and only managed to control himself with an effort. He wiped tears from his cheeks as he spoke. ‘I do not know how this can be. Truly, I do not; if I was not hearing it with my own ears I would not believe it. It could not be written into a story.’

The notes of the horn echoed again, louder and clearer, and abruptly both Sam and Cuspin’s laughter died with it. They stared at one another. ‘It isn’t possible, dad,’ Cuspin muttered.

‘They say truth is stranger than fiction,’ Sam replied contemplatively, ‘but that is only because a story has to make some sense. Possible or no, it is.’

Olwynn craned his head to look down and give Cuspin a puzzled frown, which Cuspin answered with a grin and a brief explanation: ‘If I am not very much mistaken that call is the muster song of the Shire Watch.’

Sam’s features darkened then as the sudden realisation of the implications of that intruded upon his thoughts. ‘Tickler!’ he snapped. ‘He has followed us.’

‘And look there,’ Cerowynn said and pointed, and lo as they turned their heads to look where she pointed, they could see that quite plainly Jherzy and his Black Cloaks were scampering off under a great cloud of dust into the east.

‘The Shire Watch?’ Dagomir asked. ‘Here?’ He was equally as puzzled as was Olwynn, and so Sam shrugged his shoulders and explained: ‘My lad Tickler is the Captain of our little police force. I did have him following about at my back everywhere I went before Cuspin and I came away. He doesn’t hold with

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adventuring for his old dad. Thinks I am too old and decrepit, and who knows but that he might be right about that. I never wanted him trailing after us to Harlond, never mind crossing the Great Sea.’ ‘He is sore against our dad moving much beyond the hearth, or even visiting round the Shire,’ Cuspin added.

‘But I could never have imagined that I would hear that sound here.’

‘And how on earth could he have gotten the Watch across the water?’ Cuspin went on, musing as though in deep debate with himself on some impossible problem; ‘I mean, look at the difficulty we had in getting passage just for us.’

But they did not have to wait long to find out, for soon enough a company of fifty-four grim faced travel stained and weary hobbits came riding up out of the gloom of the night. They sighted the little party in surprise and reined in their ponies with some difficulty amid a welter of skittering hooves, clods of grass, and flurries of dust. They were mounted on sturdy shaggymaned Shire ponies that looked to have been ridden as hard as the big horses that now neighed and regarded them with hostile eyes and disdainful snorting.

Sam and Cuspin were open mouthed with astonishment to see the entire Watch lining itself up before them: there were Chubbs and Bolgers, Sutters and Guddlers, Bracegirdles, Boffins and Hogbins, Lightollers and Pilgers, Brandybucks, Proudfeet and Tooks, and each of them wore a thick leather waistcoat beneath a long coat, and heavy corduroy breeches, and they sported cloaks of coarse brown with a hood pinned with a brooch embossed with a crude image of the Great Took. They carried bows and spears and they each had a little sword fastened at the waist and they looked as though they meant business, although Olwynn and Dagomir almost laughed aloud at the somehow faintly ridiculous nature of this sudden rescue.

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At once both sides made loud exclamations together: ‘Tickler!’ Sam thundered: ‘Dad!’ Tickler Gamgee responded: ‘Mayor!’ some of the hobbits called out in their surprise: ‘The Watch!’ Cuspin shouted, then he laughed.

When they had settled down the two groups stood facing one another. The Watch was arrayed in a long line as though on parade, the hobbits looking sheepish all of a sudden, like naughty schoolboys caught stealing apples in some farmer’s orchard. Sam could only shake his head and could not think what to say. Olwynn blinked rapidly and had to fight to control his urge to burst into fits of laughter. Dagomir was too astonished to say anything. The hobbits of the Watch were struck dumb with terror at being so suddenly confronted by him they considered the master of the Shire. It was left to Cerowynn to break the spell and end the embarrassing silence.

‘I am Cerowynn and yonder is Olwynn of Rohan. The scowling fellow is Dagomir, who is a lord of Gondor.’ She whispered and winked. ‘Do not let him scare you, his bark is far worse than his bite.’ There was a little nervous laughter, but not much. All eyes were turned on Sam. But with this introduction the spell was broken and a voice rang out across the divide betwixt the two groups; angry and full of indignation it was. ‘Cuspin Longthorn! You!’ It was Tickler Gamgee who roared, his voice hoarse with a vengeful fury he had nurtured for hundreds and hundreds of miles of journeying. He wore his green captain’s armband on his left arm and there was a feather set in his cap, so that even in just these small ways he was set apart from his comrades. By hobbit standards of course he had scarce attained full adulthood, but where his father was self-effacing and modest, Tickler was proud and impetuous and, for his kind, he was a trite overly ambitious in his hopes for himself and his future. It was understandable that, Sam often thought, for Samwise Hamfast’s son was born into the family

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of a lowly gardener whereas Tickler was the son of a hero of wide fame and the hobbit who, in all but name, was king of the Shire.

Tickler shook his fist in Cuspin’s direction and he called: ‘How dare you bring my old dad out here across that sea to this wild place! Ain’t you got no love or respect for him? You blamed fool! Don’t you see this can be the killing o’ him? At his age! You rascal!’

‘Tickler Gamgee!’ Sam thundered at him upon hearing these words. He pointed a shaking finger at his son. ‘You come right out here to the front where I can see you with these old bad eyes o’mine. Come on! Get you before me!’

Cerowynn leaned forward and down to be able to see Sam’s face. She gave him a questioning look and he explained: ‘Son o’mine. The second eldest.’ He sighed. ‘Captain of the Shire Watch and the bane of my existence. It was your dad’s idea. Supposed to help the Rangers guard the Shire. Trouble is, Tickler there takes himself way too seriously and fancies himself the great military leader. Well, I suppose it keeps these young rascals out of mischief, except of course where Tickler is concerned they can manage it without too much bother, as you can plainly see.’

‘Good looking lad,’ Cerowynn murmured, a merry smile upon her face.

‘Mmm,’ Sam agreed grudgingly, ‘must get that from his mam.’

Tickler manoeuvred his pony until it was directly in front of Iallorá, looking up into the bigger horse’s eyes. Cerowynn wiped the smile from her face while Sam fixed his son with a withering stare. ‘Dad,’ Tickler swallowed and said in a very subdued tone of voice. ‘I can explain everything.’

There was a short pause during which the horse and the pony touched noses and said hello.

But Sam was in no mood to show mercy to his errant son. ‘Oh, you will most certainly do that,’ he told him firmly. His voice quivered with barely suppressed anger. Disbelief still

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rippled within him and a part of his mind was already considering the form his dire punishment would take. ‘You will certainly provide an explanation lad, you always do, but whether it is one that will save you from my anger is quite something else.’

‘Now dad -’ Tickler began to speak again but Sam cut him off before he could begin.

‘No! I will hear none of it, not here and not now! We have had it hard these many hours, days more probable, and we are hungry and we are tired beyond speech and I am in no mood to listen to you. And just you pin back your ears and pay close attention! And don’t you let me hear you gainsay my words Tickler Gamgee! You just leave Cuspin be. He didn’t bring me out here, I brung him, and mighty relieved I have been many times these past days that I did.’

And yet despite the scolding and Sam’s harsh words the others could clearly see the warmth in Sam’s eyes at the sight of this son of his. Equally, the sudden appearance of a company of hobbits on the Western-lands, deep in what had proven hostile territory, was, putting it at its mildest, surprising and at its worst it was a heart-stopping shock so far as Sam and Cuspin were concerned. Very suddenly all the hobbits of the Watch realised the enormity of what they had done in following Tickler’s lead in crossing the Great Sea and they looked sheepishly down at the ground.

Sam let his eyes range slowly along the line, his mouth silently counting, and then he shook his head again in disbelief and said, ‘You brung them all. Every last blamed one of them. They are all here, right here.’

‘We came to look out and watch for you, dad,’ Tickler spluttered nervously; ‘I mean, you are needed back home, apart from anything else.’

‘Watch for me? You lot are going to keep a watch over me? If you are over here watching for me who is over there watching out for the Shire? Or is duty only something that you follow when it suits? Hey?’

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There was much nervous coughing at that and an averting of the eyes among the hobbit company and, of course, there were no appropriate answers they could give. Cerowynn felt sorry for the hapless hobbits, particularly the wretched white faced Tickler, and she gently said: ‘Sam, do not be so harsh with them. It would appear that they have come to our rescue at just the right moment and for that we should be grateful, surely.’

That was when Arnaud Took, nephew of the famous Ring Companion Peregrin Took and cousin of Sam’s son-in-law Faramir, who was Tickler’s second-in-command piped up and reported smartly in the soldierly manner the Rangers had taught them. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but that ain’t entirely true.’

Dagomir jabbed with a gloved finger then, pointing into the north in the direction from whence the Watch had come, to where a large billowing cloud rose on the face of the pearlescent moon. ‘What is that?’ he asked slowly, in dread of what answer might come for it was a very large cloud.

Tickler sighed and shot a venomous glance in Arnaud Took’s direction before he answered. ‘That, sir, is what we have been running from for half this day. Truth is we did not even know that you was here. We saw your dust and figured we would head for you, but, well basically, it’s like this, we just kinda bumped into you like.’

Sam groaned aloud and slapped his hand to his forehead and Cuspin snorted in derision.

‘There are maybe a thousand of em,’ Arnaud elaborated in a rush; ‘all horrible snarling faces and riding these big rat things. They came after us when we left the road and I don’t reckon’s they will stop till we are in the pot, so to speak.’ ‘Horrible! Terrible!’ some of the other hobbits joined in, their fear rising and causing the ponies to whinny and paw the ground nervously.

Cuspin chuckled and muttered, to nobody in particular, ‘Best brains in the Shire, by the old Took!’

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‘Has to be the Thuraks,’ Olwynn said, a deep frown etched upon his forehead. ‘This is their land. No doubt it is why Jherzy and his gang fled.’ He patted Infillitatis’ neck gently and whispered, ‘No rest for you great heart.’ Then to Dagomir he said grimly, ‘If old Micklethwaite is to be believed they will have no mercy upon any of us if they take us.’

Sam gave Tickler a final hard look and muttered: ‘We will discuss this at a later time.

The reckoning is only postponed.’

Dagomir gazed at the large massif of the hills and the trees at their base. So near and yet so far, he thought bitterly. ‘Very well,’ he announced briskly, putting heels to his horse’s flanks, ‘we will go on,’ and thus saying he led the now swollen company into the west, running this time before a different but no less cruel and relentless enemy.

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Chapter 9

THE THURAKS

Sam barely noticed the passing of the miles beneath the hooves of the horses and the ponies. The rhythmic drumbeat on the hard dry earth lulled him almost into a swoon. His head swam with the thoughts that filled it. It seemed to him that he had missed so much, that he was a mere passenger, little more than a piece of luggage. He had closed his eyes somewhere about the fringes of the Kinderlorn forest and when next he had opened them and could think clearly he was near two hundred miles farther along his road and many things had happened of which he knew nothing and in which he had played no part. He was a passenger in more ways than one. He and Cuspin had entered under the eaves of the Kinderlorn two weary frightened hobbits and now they were a company of nigh three score in numbers. He sighed deeply.

Then there was the Watch to consider, and there was Tickler, and where his son was concerned his feelings were mixed and not a little confused. Probably they always had been.

He felt anxious for his wellbeing, of course, understandably, even though he knew that he was grown up and could fend for himself. It disturbed him that he had so wilfully disobeyed him, but yet he was proud of him and, if the truth be known, he was glad to see him. If nothing else he would bring news from Bag End and the children and his grand-hobbits. He might even have some news of what was happening in other parts of Middle-Earth, though Sam doubted

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that somehow. Tickler was just that typical sort of hobbit who was quite content to let the boundaries of his little world be marked by the frontiers of the Shire.

And yet Sam could not help but feel a great weight of responsibility descend upon his shoulders, particularly when he reflected that at his back was a company of hobbits who he knew were each and every one going to look to him for leadership in the days to come. It was almost impossible for him to come to terms with the fact that yet again he was confronted with the burden of a duty that he regarded was his own unique and implacable destiny. He perceived some things more clearly now, seeing them for just what they were, and he appreciated that his years with Rose and the kids were but a pleasant interlude in his life, a respite. It was a depressing thought and he was grateful that he had Cerowynn’s arms about him for he might have been tempted to just let himself go and sink down before it; and above all, it was his helplessness in the face of his own fate that made him feel so wretched and alone, even while he was in the midst of friends. He cursed inwardly, for he knew with certainty that what he and Frodo and the others had thought vanquished was not, and that through all the long years of his life back home the truth of it was always there had been the dark shadow, waiting, growing, hating, and nurturing a malevolent thirst for revenge.

He shivered and Cerowynn wrapped her cloak about him. Would there ever be a time of peace and rest again for him? Probably not, he concluded without rancour, stoically resigning himself to the fate that awaited him. There was a long road that was before him, one that he was destined to follow, and he did not know what he would find at its end. All he knew with certainty was that it was a road that he must follow. And yet, there was hope, he reflected, there was always that. But hope alone does not victory achieve, Sam Gamgee you old fool, he told himself, and now it seems even victory is not victory. Sorrow and fear, these were the hand-maidens of Sauron and those who followed him into the darkness, and then he felt a wave of nausea turn his stomach to jelly and bring a foul taste to his mouth. The Watch, Tickler had

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brought the Watch, and though he could not doubt they had come from out of the best of motives, nevertheless it was yet fifty-four more reasons for Sam to worry.

He was thirsty and he craved a smoke and some food and a sleep, for since leaving Skaarlsdag neither he nor his companions had been able to take rest or eat. It was harder for him and Cuspin, he reckoned; hobbits are used to regular feeding and long hours of sleep. But under the bright moon, as the shadows danced, and trumpet calls and the howls of wolves sang in the night, he knew that would all have to wait. All he could do to dispel the gloomy thoughts that had come to him was

pray that their mounts were swifter than those of their pursuers

as the column raced on towards a distant beckoning line of trees.

All through that long night they fled before their unseen pursuers, alternately galloping and walking the tiring animals, backtracking often, sweeping into the south in a long loop, trying always to deceive the hunters, until at last they beheld the strong glow of the rising sun flaring across a mass of shelving cloud so that it seemed a bank of molten lava had been squeezed from the bowels of the earth. Each striation was distinct and glowing with a different fire. The topmost layer was a rich ruddy purple and beneath layers of orange and yellow fell to where the hills met the sky in pure white fire, and there in front of them, below the shadow of the hills stretched a line of trees, deep and rich dark green.

They reined in their exhausted animals and gathered all together, the stragglers trotting slowly up to join the circle. Dagomir pointed in the direction of the trees, now less than a league away. ‘It grieves me sorely to say it,’ he said wearily, ‘but I do not think that my Nerva can bear me much farther. And the rest of the animals don’t look much better.’

‘Besides,’ Cuspin added glumly, voicing what they were all thinking, ‘I am starving. I ain’t eaten nothing for two days, and I feel that I will faint at any moment if I do not have something in my belly.’

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‘Well, our choices are limited,’ said Olwynn. He twisted around to see where the dust cloud at their backs was still coming on, now plainly visible against the azure blue blanket of the new day’s sky. ‘We can make a stand in the woods or we can be caught in the hills or in the open beyond. Those fellows are not going to give up.’

Dagomir scratched his chin. He was deep in thought. Then he glanced around at their expectant faces. They were waiting a decision, and, as usual, it was the steward of Gondor that was, without anyone saying it was so, nominated leader. He did not think that they had any choice at all open to them and so when he spoke it was really only to state the obvious. ‘We will make a stand in the woods. That is where we can perhaps restrict the numbers of those able to attack us.’ A frown etched his forehead. He looked at Olwynn. ‘We will need to send a scout on ahead to find us a defensive position, if there is one.’

Arnaud Took heard these words and at once he spurred his pony forward. He was tall for a hobbit, and Dagomir thought that up close he was, for a hobbit, quite an imposing fellow, like his uncle. His height was a common characteristic among the Took clan, stretching back far into their history: according to the Red Book of Westmarch Bandobras Took, nicknamed the “Bullroarer”, the son of Isengrim the Second, was four foot and five inches tall and able to ride a horse. He was renowned for his leadership of the hobbit armies that repelled an invasion of Orcs and for defeating them at the Battle of the Greenfields. It was even claimed that he personally slew their chieftain Golfimbul with a club. Then of course there was his uncle, Peregrin Took, who was reputed to be the tallest hobbit who ever lived, but he was discounted as being a “natural biggie” on account of his having drunk so much of the Ent-draught fed to him while he was with the Ents in the Fangorn forest. That was the legend anyway that attached itself to him. What was known about him and accepted as fact was the prominent role that he played during the Ring War and thereafter in the Scouring of the Shire: his history was illustrious and it was the pride and the bane and the envy of every Took that came after.

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So when Arnaud thrust himself to the fore it was with every intention that he should emulate his great cousin and live up to the fine name of Took. And yet he could not stop himself from blurting out his words too quickly and stammering; ‘Sir, oh sir, begging pardon for I’m sure you know best, but me an’ my lads are trained to that. Agramor and Ovenás say’s we are the best they ever trained. And they should know for they are the two finest Rangers ever lived.’

‘Slow down there,’ Dagomir told him.

‘What I mean is that we are trained by the Rangers in just this sort of scouting,’ Arnaud said more slowly, after taking a breath.

‘Rangers is it?’ Dagomir answered with a chuckle, then he diplomatically cast a look in Tickler’s direction.

‘It is true,’ Tickler said with a groan, and at the same time gracing Arnaud with a venomous glance that hinted at some vague retribution to come. ‘We are all Ranger trained, but Arnaud and his troop gets extra taught about fieldcraft and things o’ that sort. They are our special unit.’

‘I see,’ Dagomir said thoughtfully. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the dust cloud was now billowing close, some skeins drifting on the breeze above their heads. He nodded to Arnaud. ‘Very well then, master Took,’ he ordered him in a firm stentorian voice, ‘make it happen. We will follow on behind. Find us a strong place. Go!’ Arnaud raised his hand and beckoned and called out a strange cry, or at least to Sam and Cuspin’s ears it was, and at once half a dozen young hobbits spurred their ponies forward and with a loud whooping they galloped away in a cloud of dust towards the trees.

Olwynn silently mouthed to Dagomir: ‘I hope that you know what you are doing.’ Sam looked up eyes squinting and smiled at Cerowynn. ‘Now there, dear lady,’ he said sarcastically,

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‘goes a Took. They are all the same, each and every one. I have one has wed my darling Elanor.’

‘He resembles his uncle in many respects,’ she said wistfully. ‘But he is so young.’

‘They all are, Cerowynn, they all are. That is what chafes me so and fills my heart with sadness and a deep sense of foreboding.’

When the sun was high and the long shadows of the trees dark they at last filed beneath the red and gold green boughs of the wood under an impossibly blue sky that was broken only by wispy strands of cloud. It was hot and Sam whispered, ‘Winter is late coming here.’

‘It is,’ Cerowynn agreed with him, and then she added, ‘or perhaps it is just the autumn that is hot. Look, the leaves are turning and many are dropping. The boughs droop and I fancy that winter is no kinder here than in our own lands. It is coming, Sam, and in more than just the one sense.’

Sam knew what she meant but he did not make any answer. The cool forest was all about them, mulchy and tangy, the sounds of birds crying in the high branches; and after a while more as the column picked its way deeper they climbed through a stand of pine, winding amid slender limbless trunks, straight as spear-shafts, which culminated in crowns of branches which lent the pines the appearance of well-used upside down paint brushes. There was little in the way of undergrowth and the forest floor crackled dry and sere under the hooves of the weary animals. The air here held no taint of rot or fungus or mould and it was odourless, except for the occasional furtive, astringent whiff of sap or pine needles.

As they came on out from the sun-dappled shrubbery to their front a voice echoed in song:

‘See who comes over the red-blossomed heather,

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Their proud fell banners kissing the pure north air, Heads erect! Eyes to the front! Stepping out proudly as one.

Out and make way for the bold and the brave!

Stand proud and pay them back woe for woe, For the despoilers cannot oppose you!

Give them back blow for blow, one upon on., Out and make way for the bold and the brave!

Side by side for the cause have we struggled, In the hills where never hath echoed the tread of the slave: In many a field where the arrows and spears have rattled, Through the red gap of glory then march to the grave.

We blessed inherit their name and their spirit, And march with the banners of liberty and flame; ‘Gainst those of the foreign writ, ours to keep.

Out and make way for the bold and the brave!’

Arnaud Took and his scouts had discovered a deadfall in a clearing among the pines.

It formed a natural breastwork, and it was from there that the singing of Emmett Chubb guided the company.

‘What is this?’ Sam called to Tickler.

‘Agramor insists we learn war-songs. Reckons it instils spirit among the lads.’

‘Huh! Sounds like no song I want to hear good honest hobbit lads singing.’

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Sam did not approve, but then he approved even less of what he realised all at once was about to happen. Hobbits, his hobbits, the sons of his friends and neighbours back home, were about to fight a battle. Some, if not all of them, might be killed out here in this lonely wild place. He cursed and he understood then how Frodo had felt before the Battle of Bywater when he had been so reluctant to involve himself with the fight that had scoured Sharkey and his thugs from the Shire. Yet, there was nothing to be done. He held his tongue and said nothing more as the animals were led away deeper among the trees to be hobbled and Dagomir sent him with Cuspin and Cerowynn to the rear, to guard against any among the unseen enemy sneaking up and taking them from behind. Sam knew that was just an excuse. He knew the real reason was to keep him out of the way. But nevertheless he said nothing as he went with Cerowynn and Cuspin away through the trees to the west.

When they found a little clearing a good quarter mile behind the deadfall they chose that as their spot. It was true enough that even allowing for the fact that he felt old and a burden on the rest, Sam was still weak from the fever he had contracted before Skaarlsdag, and two days without any food had weakened him further. He did not grumble much at Dagomir’s arrangements and, like Cerowynn and Cuspin he was just grateful for the food that had emerged from the saddle packs slung across the ponies ridden by the Watch. Typical hobbits, they had ensured they were well provisioned. Cuspin soon had a meal cooked up of cheesy potatoes and bacon and biscuits, which they wolfed down. There was even a flask of wine.

After, Sam wrapped himself up in his cloak and a blanket and settled down with a pipe filled with Southern Star. He looked at Cerowynn, who was busily poking at their small fire with a stick, then, at Cuspin, who was gazing longingly at Sting where it lay on the grass between them. He reflected on the strange situation they found themselves in, sitting waiting for an attack to come from folk they had not even clapped eyes on yet. It seemed one way or

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another they had to fight their way across this Western land and he thought to himself, oh why can things never be simple.

‘How do you feel now?’ Cerowynn asked him, her features a grave and concerned mask.

‘I am tired, Cerowynn,’ he answered softly, between taking puffs at his pipe and blowing smoke up into the air, ‘and I do not entirely feel myself.’ He chuckled. ‘But then I don’t suppose that Sam Gamgee has been Sam Gamgee for many a long year.’

‘Well, we should be alright here.’

‘Will we, Cerowynn? Really? You think we are any safer here than we would be up there with the rest? I used to be full of hope you know, even when me an’ Frodo was together, when things were at their worst, oh but my dreams have been dark of late. And I am not simply speaking of the dream I have shared with so many other folk.’ He sighed and his eyes locked with hers and he smiled. ‘And yet,’ he told her in a more optimistic tone of voice, ‘when I see you and Dagomir and Olwynn, and Cuspin here and all the jolly young hobbits, I feel my life is re-awakened. I am just so very frustrated because I cannot do the things I used to and when something happens like poor Oison it knocks the wind out of the sails, if you know what I mean.’

‘Then we must ensure that we find Calabród for you,’ she answered brightly, flashing him a dazzling smile, ‘so that all is not in vain. I have learned much at my mother’s knee, Sam, and all that I have learned leads me to conclude that if we are to overcome this old enemy we need old friends.’

‘You are a credit to your mother,’ Sam told her, ‘and Aragorn. Yet, all the friends in the world cannot gainsay what I feel. I am certain the long night has returned.’

‘It is an old wicked foe we face to be sure, but he has been beaten before and he will be again.’

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Sam grinned at her and Cuspin joined in and grinned too. She was so very much like her mother, he thought, but there were differences between the two. Arwen had been very long lived when he met her first in Rivendell, and she had three thousand years of wisdom and experience to call upon for guidance when she needed it. Where Arwen was cautious and careful in her dealings with others Cerowynn was trusting and hopeful.

‘Alas!’ he exclaimed suddenly, startling the other two, his voice bitter, and his teeth gritted; ‘that these evil times should come again in my dotage is a bane! That they should be mine at all and come in my old age instead of in my youth. It is robbing me of that peace I deserve and have earned! Alas for Oison the brave! The young perish and the old linger, withering slowly, clinging to life like moss on a cliff. Why! Why!’ At the mention of Oison’s name Cuspin slumped down and covered his face with his hands. ‘Sometimes that is just how these things are, Sam,’ Cerowynn told him, struggling to give an answer, if one was wanted.

Sam subsided and said, ‘I am sorry. The foolish ramblings of a foolish old hobbit.’

Cerowynn placed a hand upon his shoulder and smiled gently. ‘Your fingers will be better employed if they are wrapped about the hilt of Sting.’

Sam reached out from beneath his blanket and pushed the blade away from him. He nodded to Cuspin and the young hobbit grabbed the magical Elf blade and jumped to his feet and held it aloft.

‘I am too old for this, lady,’ Sam said wearily, ‘much too old. Dagomir and Olwynn know, for why else do you think that we are sent back here away from the fight? It is to keep poor old Sam safe from harm.’

‘Dagomir is just being cautious,’ she answered.

Cuspin felt a fierce and exultant pride fill him right down to his soul as he held the legendary blade and danced a pirouette and stabbed an imaginary enemy. It was entirely un-

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Cuspin like, for he was usually more at home with himself if he had a book in his hand, and the sight of it somehow disturbed and annoyed Sam. ‘Cuspin,’ he drawled wearily, ‘leave off with that will you.’

But now Cuspin was feinting and parrying, much to Cerowynn’s amusement, despatching one enemy after another, his dance a wild jig that Sting had not danced for many long years. Cerowynn grinned at the younger hobbit but Sam only scowled. He knew that when it came to the real thing it was a dance that was not quite so easily mastered.

‘Sit down!’ Sam snapped out suddenly at the swordmaster. ‘You are making me fair dizzy with all that nonsense and silly prancing.’

Cuspin was brought up short by Sam’s words and his tone of voice and he slumped down beside Cerowynn, his face a mask of petulant hurt, Sting lying across his knees. ‘I’m sorry Cuspin lad,’ Sam said after a moment. ‘I am all on edge, you understand. I just feel so very foolish now for coming all the way out here at my age. I can scarce move a muscle without it screaming in protest and creaking.’

‘I feel it inside that you will be alright,’ Cerowynn said without conviction. ‘We will get through this. Fate wants you for some task and fate may not be gainsaid, Sam.’ ‘Fate doesn’t have creaky old limbs,’ Sam told her laconically, ‘and certainly not like these what holds me up. Anyway, it seems to me like fate has decreed that old Sam Gamgee’s bones are destined to be left here to whiten for the next hundred or more year before disintegrating altogether.’

‘Nonsense Sam,’ Cerowynn said with a chuckle. ‘Dagomir’s plan is sound and he and Olwynn are strong fighters and they will be guarding the flanks of a line of stout hobbits who are Ranger trained. They are well armed with the bow and they have spears and you would have had to have seen Olwynn Bright Blade fight to appreciate just what a fearsome warrior he is.’

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‘Bright Blade?’ Cuspin chimed in, suddenly brightening up, forgetting, as was his way, about the rebuke from Sam that had put him in a mood.

‘Howso Bright Blade?’ Sam added his voice.

Cerowynn laughed. She was glad of the opportunity to change the mood and divert their thoughts. She raised her eyebrows and explained: ‘that was the name he inherited when he came to manhood and received his sword and armour from his father, Edeomas, Warden of the South March of Rohan.’ She smiled to herself as a warm memory came to her. She could remember every detail of that day when Olwynn, the great friend of her childhood, was inducted into the Brotherhood of his people a man and a warrior. At Helmas-Adúr they had entered upon the sacred place, escorted by four thousand Eöd Guards, their golden hair braided on their shoulders, the sun blazoned on their green shields, their long corselets burnished bright, and when they walked they seemed taller than mortal Men. And there were two hundred of his chosen companions to walk with him, and, since the Prince of Rohan had no wife and his poor mother and sisters were dead, it was Cerowynn who had been his maid-friend and borne the fasces of bound rushes from the Snowbourn.

‘Well do I remember that day,’ she said in a low voice, speaking as though from a great distance; ‘Like the bright fire of Arien after all the years of war and plague and famine much hope there was for Olwynn, son of Edeomas, whose line is named in the Book of Times and whose name is hallowed in the Annals of the Kings and Rulers, for he was of the line of King Eorl the Young, who was first seized of the county of Calenhardon for the Rohirrim, which was got in war as thanks from Gondor. I remember we went up a broad path, paved with hewn stones, which wound upwards steeply, climbing in short flights of well-laid steps. Beside the way in a stone channel a stream of clear water flowed, sparkling and chattering. At length we came to the crown of the hill. There stood a high platform above a green terrace, at the foot of which a bright spring gushed from a stone carved in the likeness of a horse’s head. Beneath it

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was a wide basin from which the water spilled and fed the falling stream. Up the green terrace went a stair of stone, high and broad, and on either side of the topmost step were stone hewn seats. I sat on one of those ancient carven stone seats and Olwynn sat on the other and there he received as gifts from old King Eomer mighty Infillitatis, though as yet he was but a rude colt almost newborn, and he received from the great King’s own hand his sword and Elessar embraced him as a life-friend. It is the sword is named Bright Blade.’

Sam whistled and a look of wonderment was upon his face which made him look younger and less fragile and more like the Sam Gamgee whose likeness was painted on a wall in the library at Minas Tirith: ‘And he has come all this way just to die side by side with old Sam,’ he said glumly, for it seemed it was true. Sam genuinely did not hold any hope at all for their survival. He grinned a sardonic grin and added, equally glumly, ‘It is a fool’s errand unless we live through what’er comes, and one of his breeding, well, and you and Dagomir too, ought to have known better.’

She laughed loudly at that. ‘I would not be too certain that we are bound to failure,’ she told him stoutly. ‘Dagomir and Olwynn may be young in years but they have overcome many foes together. At Caenas Marstis it was their charge that saved my brother Eldarion.’

Sam was going to point out one or two obvious flaws in Cerowynn’s reasoning, the principal one being that Dagomir and Olwynn were but two and two, even with fifty-four hobbits at their sides, could not hope to prevail against a reported thousand. But he did not get the chance to say anything, for at that moment a horn sounded in what seemed the depths of the forest all about them, though in reality it came from the direction of the old gnarled windswept birchwoods that lay to the north of the pine stands through which they had passed earlier in the day. Another trumpet sounded and this was answered by many others, harsh and guttural, which raised a cloud of screeching birds and sent them swarming up into the sky.

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A hobbit soldier, almost on cue with the echoing of the trumpets and the horns, burst out from the shelter of the trees and came skidding to a halt beside them. He dropped to one knee, breathless and clearly excited. His big blue eyes were bulging and his chest was heaving up and down and he was panting with exertion.

‘Slow down there, Al Brockhouse.’ Sam chided him gently, ‘afore you have a heart attack and drop dead right there in front of us. Mercy me, but what would your old gaffer have been had he been all a bustle like this when he took the lead at Bywater, hey? Shot full o’ Sharkey’s lads ‘arras that’s what, be blowed. Dead and in the ground instead o’ being the hobbit hero he is.’

Al Brockhouse grinned. It was a foolish grin, but not the grin of a fool. ‘Dad weren’t no hero, Mister Mayor Sir. You was the hero, you an’ Mister Brandybuck and Mister Took.’

Sam groaned and wagged a reproachful finger under his nose. ‘Just because the books don’t mention the likes o’ your dad it doesn’t mean he isn’t a hero. And besides, Al, if I tell you that your dad was a hero then that is exactly what he was. And still is. Raised four sons ain’t he?’ Al nodded his head. ‘Well then, hero.’

Al looked unconvinced but Cerowynn saved him further embarrassment by asking him: ‘You have a message for us, sir?’

Al turned his eyes upon her and his mouth fell open and a deep crimson flush spread upwards from beneath his collar, creeping over his neck and his cheeks. It was as though he were seeing Cerowynn for the first time. Sam smiled knowingly at the plight of the podgy little hobbit, with his thick mass of unruly hair, his freckles, and his typical ruddy Stoor features.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘out with it.’

Cuspin was less kind. He elbowed Al in the ribs and said sharply, ‘If you have a message to deliver get on with it and then get lost!’

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Al glared at him for a second and then blurted out: ‘The Lord Dagomir says to tell you that you must come in closer to keep an eye on us backs. Some o’ them things is creeping about down there a way.’

Cuspin’s face darkened upon hearing this and he jumped to his feet, angry indignation making him tremble with sudden fury. ‘And leave the gaffer lying there on the ground?’ he spluttered. He strode about before them waving Sting in the air as he spoke. ‘You can just go back there Al Brockhouse and tell the high and mighty Lord Dagomir that we shall do no such thing. He can hardly walk and I will not leave him here alone. If the Lord Dagomir wants some folk up there among the trees he will just have to detail off some o’ you lot.’

The stricken Al stood up and looked first to Cerowynn and then to Sam, his eyes plaintively pleading for help. ‘Beg pardon, Mister Mayor,’ he said in a small voice, ‘but they is my orders and I am only passing them on. Who am I to go questioning the orders o’ my betters? The enemy is closer than we thought and now they are coming forward for a parley scarce afore we have had time to put some grub in our bellies.’

Sam smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring way and said: ‘I am not angry, Al, and neither is anyone else. The only thing that vexes me is how you keep calling me Mayor.

Do not do that, for I am not. You may rest assured Lord Dagomir’s orders will be obeyed.’

Cuspin would have objected then and said more, for his blood was up, though the truth of it was that now the time of crises was close at hand he was frightened, but Cerowynn came to him and placed her hand upon his shoulder and told him: ‘No, brave loyal Cuspin, Sam is right. We must obey Dagomir, for in these things he is wise and knows best what must be done to prevail against odds. You will stay here by the fire with Sam and I will go into the trees yonder with my bow. Do not fear, if the enemy approach you need only call out and I will return. I have my mother’s keen eyesight and the strength of my Ranger father. Together, you and I, we will do our duty.’

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Cuspin seemed uncertain still but he nodded his head anyway in agreement. Sam turned to Al Brockhouse and commanded him suddenly and in a loud strong voice, ‘Now go. Tell the lord Dagomir that the rear is safe. Go!’ Al turned at once and bounded away through the trees and Cerowynn bent and picked up her bow and quiver and looped them over her shoulders.

‘Cerowynn,’ Sam asked slowly, ‘have you come up against Orcs before?’

Cerowynn laughed, it was a girlish laugh that now seemed so very out of place. ‘Bless you, Sam, you should not go listening to what Dagomir and Olwynn say about me. Until we met those Orcs back there in the Kinderlorn I had only ever faced off one encounter in my life.’

She grinned mischievously at some memory. ‘That was when me and Dagomir wandered in the wrong place at the wrong time and were ambushed by renegades of Khand. They were Men.’ She winked at them. ‘But fear not, I have never been bested at the butts.’

‘All the same, these are not the butts. I hate to say it, but in many ways I am hoping that these Thuraks are Orcs or are some relatives of them. If they are I caution you remember this advice, Cerowynn, they are cowards and if you slay a few and if your face is bold and fearless they are as like to run away as to stand and fight.’

‘I will remember that advice, Sam,’ Cerowynn smiled at him and said softly, and then she turned and sprang away into the trees and vanished from their sight.

Her absence was like a great gulf opened in their world, and Cuspin heaved a deep sigh and twirled Sting lightly and easily in his hand, still staring at where she had been but a moment before. ‘Well, dad,’ he said, ‘it’s just you and me yet again.’

Sam grinned up at him and shook off his blanket. ‘Does seem that way, Cuspin.’ He sat up straight and rubbed at his back, which was throbbing with pain. He held up his wrinkled arthritic hands and stared glumly at them and he tutted and groaned. ‘Right, come on; let’s be

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having that bow and some arras. If they come round here they will find a warm welcome awaiting them, eh?’ Cuspin gave Sting another twirl and they both laughed.

Not a one of them had ever beheld a Thurak and their ranks were tense and a ripple of apprehension passed from hobbit to hobbit as the moment neared. Even Dagomir and Olwynn were filled with curiosity. For some time the droning of the ill-tuned trumpets and the dolorous sounds of drums and gongs and the creak of leather and the jangle of harness had mingled with the clash of steel and the harsh shouting back and forth of what they surmised must surely be a sizeable host. Fred Hogbin blew on his own Shire Watch trumpet, answering the cries that surrounded them, but it could hardly compete with the cacophony of noise that Olwynn informed them was designed to unsettle and unnerve them.

The hobbits were frightened, and any who claimed he was not would be lying, but they were well trained by the Rangers of Bree, much to Dagomir and Olwynn’s pleasant surprise.

The two Men did not waste the minutes while the enemy sought to unnerve them by creating a din. They used the brief time they had together to good effect; the hobbits were drilled so that they would begin the coming fight, if fight there was to be, before the earthen wall, drawn up in two lines. The front rank would kneel down and the rear rank would stand and fire their arrows, then on a command the front rank would stand and discharge their arrows while the rear rank reloaded, and so on. The horses and ponies were removed far to the rear, fed and watered and rested, so each man and hobbit had only himself and his comrades to concern himself with. They ate a meal and then Olwynn moved amongst them, cheering them up with his dry humour and inspiring them with his quiet confidence, drily telling them to eat up because it was always better to die on a full stomach.

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Yet, for all that their preparation was good, or as good as it could be in the time that they had available, nothing could disguise how desperate was their position should this enemy choose to attack. They were less than three score hobbits, without fighting experience, trapped in a clearing in a wood and facing a large and fearsome host. Still, many of them were thinking to themselves, they were fortunate for they had Dagomir and Olwynn and at the very least they looked the part.

It was as well then that they did not witness the small drama that played itself out between the two men in the hidden lee of the trees beyond their sight just before the enemy chose to make their appearance, for if they did they might not have felt their confidence justified.

In the ancient time honoured tradition the two men stood close with their hands bunched into fists which they touched together. After a moment they went forehead to forehead, before embracing. Olwynn held Dagomir at arms length and stared hard into his eyes for a minute before smirking and saying, nonchalantly, ‘This might be our end. We may die this time.’

‘We may,’ Dagomir agreed simply, his eyes and his face betraying nothing of his inward emotions; ‘All Men die. It is but a question of where and when and under what circumstances.’

‘Ach! Dag, you are a cold fish.’ Olwynn kicked a booted foot against the trunk of a tree, sending a squirrel scampering away along a branch before it leapt to what it saw as safety in the foliage of another tree.

‘We have seen enough death, you and I,’ Dagomir said grimly, ‘enough for any ten lifetimes. All our youth has been spent fighting in the King’s wars to make the world a safe place. And yet, here we are. Does it mean anything? My own father died at Emyn Arnen before I was born, and you -’

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Olwynn raised his hand to still what he knew would be his friends next words. ‘I know well enough what the plague years took from me without needing reminder from you!’ he snapped. They glared at one another for a moment and then Olwynn placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and stared intently into his dark cold eyes. ‘I know there are things you care deeply about, Dag. I know you. But darn it all! Many times when I have watched you fight I have despaired. You are heedless of your life, caring nothing if you live or if you die, and many times I have thought to myself: well, it is his life and it is his to do as he will with it. Perhaps this thing lies within you. I don’t know.’

‘I care,’ Dagomir told him simply, ‘but some things there are in life which we do not have control over.’

‘That may be true, Dag, but this time it is different. There is Cerowynn to think about, and I know that you care for her, and there is Sam. If it is indeed so that the Dark Lord lives and is stirring then Sam must be got to the Elf city. Guard your life better this time, and if all else looks to be falling I charge you go and fetch Sam and bear him away across the hills to safety.’

‘What do you say?’ Dagomir chuckled.

Olwynn grinned at him. ‘If one or the other should fall the survivor must get away with Sam, and I would feel happier if Cerowynn were saved too.’

Dagomir gazed up for a moment at the high canopy of the trees and the sky beyond and the dancing birds, creatures that cared little what events went on below them. He sniffed the now sweet and slightly piney scent on a gentle breeze and then he grinned and punched Olwynn lightly and playfully on the shoulder. ‘You try to stay alive my friend. Come, I smell blood.’

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Dagomir and Olwynn stood tall upon the earthen wall while all about them were ranged the hobbits here and there before the grassy bank. They were spread out to the sides and behind in an effort to make their numbers seem more than they actually were.

Then, without warning, the enemy appeared from out of the trees before them. They were a heaving ill-disciplined mass as they pushed forward through the trees and formed up on the edge of the clearing, just inside the tree-line. The Thuraks stood for many minutes shaking their fists at the hobbits and jeering and hurling insults in a harsh language only they understood.

They were taller than hobbits but not as tall as dwarves; they were not as stocky as hobbits, but were more muscular, but not as strong-looking as dwarves; they had black beards that were thick and tangled but not so long or as bushy as those sported by dwarves. Their large round heads looked to be too heavy for their thin wrinkled necks to support and they glowered with large bulbous black eyes. Long filthy lank black hair hung down their backs: some wore it in ringlets and some had it braided, some preferred it pony-tailed and others just left it to hang in greasy hanks. They liked jewellery of every description, loving it as greedy children will love sweets and they would do anything to get their hands on a bright bauble, and these warriors wore it all: necklaces and rings, anklets and armbands, bangles, torques and nose-studs, nipple, ear and belly rings.

Heavy cuirasses hung at their necks, for these warriors disdained the wearing of armour and this was all the protection they would adorn themselves with for battle, and only short leather breeches preserved their modesty. They had long powerful arms that hung low, almost to their knees, and their weaponry was of crude manufacture; swords and clubs and maces, for they disliked archers and considered the bow a coward’s weapon.

Their mounts were the fierce prairie rats, which they rode as others ride the horse, and these rats were large as a small pony, with sharp envenomed claws and sharpened teeth. They

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were trained to war and caparisoned in gaudy coloured garish coverings. The Thurak’s preferred method of fighting was to charge with lance lowered on the back of their fierce hellish steeds and then when their enemy’s ranks were broken and disordered they would dismount and wade in with their heavy hand weapons. But they were quite flexible and in the case of fighting among trees they would simply dismount and go forward on foot with their rats at their sides, which is just what they intended at the earthen wall.

The two sides regarded one another in a cool silence interrupted only by the cooing and chirping of birds.

‘What do you think? Olwynn whispered.

‘Blamed ugly!’ Tickler exclaimed.

Olwynn suppressed a chuckle and said, ‘That isn’t what I meant, Tickler. It is true, but it is not what I was referring to.

Dagomir ignored them both for a second, and then he said, a pensive look upon his face, ‘Looks very much like a cross between an Orc and a Dwarf. Skin is black and slightly scaly, and that is an Orc feature. But the arms and those stout legs definitely dwarf traits, and the beards.’

‘Look out sir!’ one of the hobbits cried out.

Coming towards them from the edge of the clearing and the midst of the jostling mass of the warriors, seated astride rats whose long tails twitched lasciviously, there came three Thurak chieftains. They differed from their fellows hardly and were set apart from them in small ways only; they wore ornate black helms adorned with clawed metal wings and one had the bones of a normal rat dangling from a cheek-guard.

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They halted twenty paces before the earthen wall and as their rats hunched down, snarling and scowling, they regarded the hobbits with frank curious stares. Dagomir looked out over their heads to the hundreds of their waiting warriors, now standing silent and watchful beneath their lightly stirring banners, only the occasional chitter of a rat breaking the still silence. About them the solitude of the brooding trees was oppressive. After a moment Dagomir raised a hand in salute and said in a loud voice: ‘Hail to you, sirs. I regret we speak only the common tongue; or otherwise the language of Gondor, but I do not suppose you are familiar with that.’

The three Thuraks spoke a few words to one another, exchanging glances and smiling dark secret smiles. Then one of them looked up at Dagomir and fired off a question in the common tongue. ‘You has no Loch?’

‘Only the common,’ Dagomir replied apologetically.

‘Vernie?’

‘No.’ ‘Arabor perhaps? Arabor is widely spoke.’

‘No, I have told you, only common. We come from the lands across the Great Sea and we do not know anything of your languages, much less the lands you refer to.’

The three chieftains conferred again and whilst they did Dagomir gazed idly around the clearing to where clumps of thick growing arum-lilies were clustered and glinting under the sunlight that seemed concentrated between the dark shadows of the trees. They are so pretty, he reflected. He sighed. He knew that soon they would probably all be trampled underfoot and the thought of it made him sigh and suffer a pang of sorrow.

Olwynn interrupted his thoughts by whispering urgently; ‘Hang it all! Why don’t they just attack us if that is what they have come for?’

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‘They are curious about us,’ Dagomir answered him abstractedly, then he turned his head slightly and added, for the benefit of the hobbits, ‘and they are very interested in you lads.

Look how their soldiers stare at you. I do believe that they are unsure what to make of you.’

‘If what Oison reported of the Midgen folk they are used to is correct then perhaps they have never come across armed and warlike little folk before,’ Olwynn suggested.

‘Perhaps,’ Dagomir agreed.

After a minute or so that seemed longer the chieftains appeared to have come to a conclusion. The spokesman raised his voice again. ‘The Lord Nezgoth is willing to parley with you through me. I am Urlik and he,’ he pointed to the third chieftain, ‘is named Chelatin.

Lord Nezgoth carries the bones of blessed Gliszom on his helm. This is his fief you violate.’

Dagomir ignored that last remark. He gave a little stiff backed bow and smiled affably and made his own introductions briefly. ‘I am Dagomir, Steward of Gondor and the lord of Enedwaith. Here beside me is Olwynn Prince of Rohan and yonder is Tickler Gamgee and his hobbits of the Shire.

‘Fancy,’ Urlik commented with a sarcastic smile.

‘We are travelling in peace and seek only to pass on our way without giving or receiving harm,’ Dagomir went on, ignoring Urlik’s comment.

The Thurak laughed upon hearing this and then turned to his two companions and translated for them all that had been said. Dagomir watched them carefully, and at once he perceived that though the chieftain Nezgoth was listening to his confederate he was clearly able to understand what had been said. After a moment of reflection Nezgoth pointed at Dagomir and then let his fingers run along an invisible line that encompassed all of the hobbits and he muttered something in his own guttural tongue. Urlik nodded and translated.

‘Lord Nezgoth says that you come in a fair size and well armed company for folk who travel in peace. Midgen! That is what they are! You lie! You lie!

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‘No, Dagomir told him smoothly, his voice never rising above its normal even tone, his manner betraying nothing. ‘I do not. I am Dagomir of Gondor, I do not lie.’

‘Hah! Well, it does not matter. You trespass on Thurak land and that will carry a toll.’

‘It is my understanding that your lands lie farther to the north, beyond the hills,’ Dagomir told him lightly. ‘I do not think that we trespass on anything but wild untended forest and plain.’

‘An’ we was on the great road when we was set upon!’ Tickler exclaimed in indignation.

‘Shush!’ Dagomir hissed at him sternly. He never once removed his eyes from the Thuraks as he spoke low and quiet to the hobbit: ‘Are you a fool sir? Keep silent else they will not even bother with this small talk.’ Then to Urlik he smiled and said, ‘We are travelling companions. As I said, we do not travel in a warlike band, as you seem to think, no matter how it may appear. We seek only to pass in peace.’

Urlik grinned hugely. It was a green and gap toothed grin and then he turned his head and spoke again with the other two chieftains, their conversation running fast between them.

When he was done and he had taken his instructions he fixed Dagomir with a stern gaze and said, loudly, ‘The Lord Dagomir is sorely mistaken. As is the Midgen vermin he has beside him.’

Tickler and one or two of the hobbits stirred at that and there were angry murmurings but Dagomir stilled them with a stern glance. Urlik laughed harshly and so too did his companions. ‘Don’t like it do they?’ he cackled. ‘Lord Dagomir should know, and if he does not then he should make it his business to find it out before coming trespassing in places he an’ his has no business to be, the Thurak owns the land they walk upon. We are the Orocgumb and we are lords of all beneath the great river and north o’ the Carnmaben. Why, we even claims tribute from the kings of Narn and Merc and the Vernins fleg the kiddies wi’ tales

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o’ us.’ He paused and drew himself up and, with a shrug that suggested he was prepared to be reasonable with them and show a conciliatory face over what was clearly an uneven stand-off, he announced: ‘But we are prepared to accept that you did not know any better. We offer you the right to buy a passage on our lands. A trade.’

Dagomir laughed. It was a mirthless hollow sound that echoed and clearly irritated the Thurak chiefs. ‘We have nothing to barter with,’ he told them.

‘What, such high and mighty folk have nothing to trade?’

‘Nothing.’

‘We know you seek for the Elf city,’ Urlik said with a look of shrewd cunning on his face. Nezgoth and Chelatin watched Dagomir now with cold vulpine expressions on their faces, like cats toying with a mouse. ‘City is protected by powerful magic. You do not have any magic. How will you find it? Do you have a secret?’ He chuckled. ‘No? No secrets?

Ah, well. You will fare no better in finding it than we have, but if it is what you seek we will let you go on only if you pay us. It must be important to you. Barter. You may have a passage free from our spears if you give us what we want.’

‘We cannot barter,’ Dagomir insisted.

‘You must trade! Trade is life, life is trade, and it is your own life on the counterweight.

What is them Midgen to you? You all but said they are not part of your company.’

‘Such sophistry,’ Dagomir said sarcastically. ‘But it will not make me give up my friends, not even if it means my life.’

‘You must trade,’ Urlik said with finality. It was a flat simple statement that he believed quite definitely summed up concisely the truth of the situation. Surrender, or destruction more like, was inevitability. In the minds of the Thuraks there was simply no room for argument or compromise.

‘What would you have us trade?’ Dagomir asked him wearily.

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The Thurak smiled in cruel satisfaction, perceiving what he considered was a chink in the man’s armour. He pointed. ‘We want the woman we know you have with you, and forty of the Midgen, and we will let the remainder go on, but afoot.’

‘And if we decline?’

Again Urlik smiled and when he did so it was with a cruel glint shining in his eyes, as though he did not really want to have his offer accepted, as though fate had already written the script in favour of the Thuraks.

‘Refuse and we will kill you all and you and your mates head’s will be placed on a pole high enough that you will see all the way to Skurmirr. Refuse and we will feed your carcasses to the rats and we will have the woman to ourselves anyway, aye and everything else besides.’

‘We will need some time to debate this,’ Dagomir told him. ‘It is much you want.’

Urlik whispered to his companions and then he looked up and said, curtly, ‘Five minutes Lord Dagomir,’ and then the three chieftains turned their hellish mounts heads and scuttled away back to the ranks of their army.

‘Well, that neat as neat settles that,’ Dagomir said. ‘No chance at all of a compromise there and no chance they will simply let us go on our way without hindrance.’

‘Is there nothing we can trade?’ Arnaud Took asked in a worried voice.

‘Not even if we pool all of our cash together?’ Another added.

‘This is the only thing that they will understand,’ Olwynn said as he swept the Bright Blade from the scabbard at his side. A whistling shriek filled the clearing. He held the blade up for a moment, where it caught the light of the dazzling sun high overhead. From the ranks of the enemy there came some jeering and whistling but the hobbits looked on at the tall fearsome warrior in awe. The prince grinned at them. ‘This was forged for King Elessar by the greatest armourer has ever lived. Poliakos of Sarn Ettus. It is his masterwork and when it

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bites upon them it is all the trade that I will give. I would rather die than give them one of you, or surrender Infillitatis, or even a penny piece to sit in some filthy pocket.’

‘There is one thing that may yet stand in our favour,’ Dagomir said, a thoughtful look upon his face, ‘and that is the fact they obviously believe that you hobbits are these Midgen. It seems they are folk to be held of little account. It is the reverse that is the truth probably.’

‘Hobbit’s? Here, in the Westlands?’ Tickler exclaimed. ‘How is that possible? And if it is, for sure it is something would be of interest to my old dad.’ And then, at his sudden mention of Sam, it was like a great floodgate opened within Tickler Gamgee and he could not prevent thoughts of him from flooding into his mind. His face betrayed his true feelings. Tickler did not consider his father in terms of him being a great hero of the Ring War. All he saw was an old vulnerable hobbit, one who was his beloved dad who needed his care and attention. They were going to die, he thought morosely, and it was his fault. An irrational and unwelcome image of a slain Sam Gamgee blasted across his minds-eye. He shuddered and groaned in a weak voice: ‘Dad!’ Olwynn placed a strong arm about his shoulders and squeezed. ‘Bear up there, Tickler, your folk look to you, and a captain must know what is what and how to conduct himself if he expects to get the best from his followers. Sam must look out for himself for a while whilst we deal with those fellows. He has managed that well enough and often enough in times past and today will prove no exception.

Tickler nodded his head and swallowed back tears: “Eat the pain,” Agramor had once lectured him, and so he did. ‘I will do my best to win, for him,’ he said in a determined voice.

‘We must win,’ Olwynn told him, ‘else what happens after that will be of no concern to any here.’

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Dagomir whispered then to Tickler: ‘Quick now captain, get your lads lined up and ready, just as we have practiced. Their chief approaches and I do not think they will be tardy in coming on once this parley has ended.’

As the hobbits moved to their positions, forming their two lines before the earthen wall, Olwynn whispered to Dagomir: ‘We cannot hold those fellows, not for more than one charge.

The hobbits are not warriors, stout though their hearts be.’

‘I know that!’ Dagomir replied tersely. ‘What would you have us do? We cannot flee, even though we know now that the city does indeed exist. If we run they will only catch us and cut us down piecemeal.’

‘I would have you go back and save Cerowynn and Sam. A small party could make it.’

Dagomir cast a sideways glance at his companion. ‘Let us first see how matters unfold.

At the worst, if things go badly for us, we can hope that Cerowynn and Sam have the wit to fly. They do not need me there to run.’

‘We could mount a fighting retreat,’ Olwynn suggested without conviction; ‘just as we did at Ar Nurn. Send riders on ahead to seek for the city while the rest fall back.’

‘No, Olwynn that is a foolish notion. The hobbits would never survive such a retreat for more than a mile or two. Once in the open the enemy’s numbers would simply engulf us.

Besides, let us see what this fellow wants.’

Nezgoth strode forward across the clearing alone kicking at fallen leaves and twigs as though they were some type of annoying little creatures; once he stamped a little cluster of spotted toadstools to ruination. He stopped before the double line of hobbits and looked disdainfully up and over their heads to where Dagomir and Olwynn stood side by side atop the wall.

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‘So then,’ Dagomir called down to him, ‘you feigned not to speak or understand the common. To what purpose I cannot guess.’

‘I am Nezgoth,’ the chieftain replied in a loud clear voice that was edged with contempt: ‘I am the High War-Nargyll of all Thurak. We are fighting Oroc-gumb and I am he who slew Wifen of Sarnik. I have never been bested in battle and I do not know you. You are like the men of these lands in one way only.’

‘Oh, really, and what might that be?’ Dagomir asked.

Nezgoth laughed. ‘You like to die,’ he answered whimsically. ‘I did not say that I could not speak or understand you only that the parley would be with Urlik. Besides, it is not important. What is important is your answer. What do you say?’

Now Dagomir laughed briefly, then his countenance drew down a dark stern veil and he swept his sword from its scabbard. ‘I say that all that we will give to you and yours is death and oblivion.’

‘Fool!’ Nezgoth snarled, stamping his foot and baring his teeth. He paused, thought hard for a second, glared at the two men, smiled a feral smile, and said, ‘But I like you. You are different. Come then, I will offer you one last proposal for I see you are a man who likes to drive a hard bargain. Give us all the little ones and we will let you and your friends depart in peace.’

‘And then follow us to Calabród I will warrant,’ Olwynn whispered. Nezgoth heard it and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why should you care?’ he asked them, genuinely perplexed.

‘We will find the city one day and we will have it anyway.’

‘We care, and it is because we care that we are set far above you and yours and the likes of you,’ Dagomir told him.

‘You have my offer!’ Nezgoth shouted, exasperation filling him with fury again.

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Dagomir chuckled and spat. ‘And you have heard me say all that I will in answer. I have nothing to offer such a great braggart and his followers but death! He unclipped his cloak at the neck and cast the heavy garment aside into the trees. To the hobbits, as he stood and glared down at the Thurak chieftain, he had all the appearance of one of the great knights of olden times they had only ever seen in drawings or in story-books; he wore armbands of mithril and his mail was black and on his surcoat was emblazoned the emblem of Gondor, a white blossoming tree under seven stars and a silver crown. Now he laughed and it was a cold sound that seemed to arise from up out of some deep warriors hell where some dread beast lurked waiting, and it was full of a dire warning and a threat. ‘Begone, Nezgoth the braggart! Else I shall forget to respect this parley and will come down there and send thee to thy doom!’

Nezgoth was trembling with rage and he turned without another sound and stalked back to his waiting warriors. Olwynn chuckled and commented lightly, ‘Well, I thought that went quite well.’

A deep murmur and snarling and shouted threats erupted from the Thurak ranks and Dagomir and Olwynn jumped down together from the earthen wall and took their stations at either end of the lines of the grim faced hobbits.

Thurak drummers banged their skins and gongs and trumpets sounded out and a loud roar rose up above the roof of the trees driving the screeching birds in panic into the air.

‘Ready your bows!’ Dagomir bellowed. The hobbits nocked arrows to the strings of the stout little Shire bows, hewn from the yew trees of the Old Forest, and Olwynn muttered grimly, ‘Here they come.’

Cuspin held Sting aloft. His eyes were wide, the pupils large, and he cried out: ‘Look!

Gaffer, look!’

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Sam looked and lo he saw with alarm that the sword blade was glowing with a pale blue fluorescent light. It was glinting brightest at the edges and it seemed to sing a low dolorous humming tune. It did not shine as fierce as Sam had seen it in times past, when Orcs were close, but it was still bright.

‘Be on your guard now Cuspin,’ Sam warned him, smiling reassurance at the young hobbit. ‘Perchance we are cursed and there are Orcs among the trees and we face them as well as this Thurak enemy. Two enemies for the price of one. Oh, is all we do cursed by fate Cuspin?’

‘Maybe the Orcs won’t be friends to the Thuraks and will help us without meaning to,’ Cuspin replied hopefully, a quaver in his voice.

Sam chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Such is to be hoped, Cuspin, but I don’t see fortune throwing that favour our way. Evil things tend to wallow in the same trough and I think if it is Orcs that are creeping about there then it is two enemies we face and not one.’

‘Well, whoever comes has Sting to deal with,’ Cuspin said stoutly and raised the sword, Sam smiled at him, but forlornly. Cuspin there before him, sword in hand, surrounded by enemies, Tickler and the Watch somewhere in the trees about to fight a battle; how has it happened?’ he thought bitterly, and then he cursed himself for an old fool. It was his fault, and yet he could not let Cuspin see that he had any self-doubt. ‘How I wish I had a flask of miruvor for us right now, or a cake or two of lembas. That’s what puts iron in the belly,’ he said.

Then they fell to a hushed silence as from far away in the trees came the ominous sounds of loud yelling and the unmistakable clamour of battle.

The Thurak warriors were hampered in their charge by the confining space of the clearing and the trees that hemmed them in on all sides. It was not only the warriors who charged but their rats also, fierce and hungry and shrieking and maddened with such a blood

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lust that they nipped and bit at everything about them as they came on. Many a Thurak warrior fell to their teeth and claws before they reached partway to their enemy and in all truth their addition to the fight was as much hindrance to them as help.

At Dagomir’s signal the hobbits loosed their arrows straight and true into the onrushing crowd. They did not have to take an aim for the mass of Thurak and rat was a solid wall of flesh and fur, and the hobbits loosed with a deadly mechanical rhythm, the kneeling front rank firing, then the standing rear rank, and so it went on over and over with a frightful precision.

The bows were singing and the attackers ranks shivered and the cries of death and hurt that rose was terrible, but the hobbits listened only to Dagomir’s commands: ‘Stand! Loose! Stand!

Loose!’

Still they came on, though their pace was reduced to a walk as they suffered the blows and curses of their captains and their sergeants, until they reached a point that was so close that the arrows could not do any further hurt. Then Dagomir pulled the hobbits back to the wall and they climbed upon it and took up their spears and their clubs and their little swords and axes. The Thuraks clambered up after them without pausing, breasting the wall easily and forcing it. Now the fight was hand to hand, a confusion of cutting and slashing and hacking and stabbing. Both sides pressed and both refused to give ground, and yet for all their superiority in numbers Dagomir noticed that the Thuraks were now less sure of their victory.

Only the rats were still filled with a mad rage, those of them that did not stop to rend and gnaw at corpses climbing up on one another’s backs to claw and tear and snarl. Dagomir paid them little heed, for terrible though they were they died easily, and he hewed a path for himself from the flank where he had been positioned to the foot of the wall where the hobbits were being pressed hardest. Olwynn cleaved the head of a hapless warrior and slashed another across the chest, splitting his cuiraiss into two pieces. He leapt up onto the wall and cut and hewed the enemy that were up there until not one was standing alive upon it and then he jumped down

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into the throng and made a space for himself with his deadly blade. The Bright Blade was a blur of speed as it rose and fell, whistling and thudding with a sickening whump! On heads and across shoulders and backs it fell, crushing and opening deep mortal gashes.

A fierce leader among the rats worried at a fallen wounded hobbit, tearing at his shoulder with yellow teeth and scrabbling at his chest with sharp claws, while its stricken victim’s screams of pain rose shrill and piercing above all other sounds. Olwynn saw and instantly sprang across the body of the foe he had just despatched and with a mighty blow he cut the rat in half spilling black steaming blood and gore to the forest floor. He kicked the twitching half body aside contemptuously and then turned sharply as Arnaud Took called out ‘Olwynn! Look out! Behind you!’

The Prince wheeled about to see the Thurak captain Chelatin grasp the wounded hobbit he had latterly rescued and pull him to a spot that was for a moment clear of fighters. He watched in horror as the Thurak chieftain exposed the hobbit’s neck and held up a knife.

Olwynn mouthed ‘no!’ but Chelatin ignored that and drew the blade across his victim’s throat and then with a great grin on his face he let the body fall. At the sight of that a great groan went up from the hobbits and they might have faltered had not Dagomir come hacking and slashing his way through the ranks of the enemy shouting for them to hold firm.

And yet it was not Dagomir who roused them to stand against the terrible enemy but Olwynn. A small moment was about to play itself out when two proud stern champions would meet to test one another and it would be that meeting would decide if the hobbits held their position or the Thuraks prevailed. There was a pause during which even the rats seemed to stop and stand still as stones.

Chelatin bent and pulled a battered trumpet from beside the body of the hobbit he had cruelly slain. He regarded it for a moment and then cast it away into the trees. He grinned malevolently and then pointed at Olwynn and grunted in a loud hissing snakelike voice: ‘Arg

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nona barlang gussamba! Arg!’ There was a deep murmur of approval from the ranks of his comrades as he pulled his battleaxe from behind his shoulder where it had nestled across his broad back. The meaning was clear to Olwynn and wordlessly he strode forward to where Chelatin stood poised and waiting.

They regarded one another for but a few brief seconds and then the battle of the champions was joined and their deadly dance of clashing and clanging blade and axe was fought out back and forth across the space behind the wall. Hack, slash, thrust, back and forth from wall to trees and back again, for many minutes, eyes locked, both fighters searching for an opening, seeking out a weakness. It seemed to go on forever but it was not long really.

Chelatin had never been bested by any man, and he had fought many of them, but never one like Olwynn Prince of Rohan, and the longer they went at it the less confident he was of the outcome. His eyes darted here and there to the faces of his comrades, but they were just blurs that he could barely focus upon, and though he would never ask for it, desperately he was seeking help, praying that someone would stab the man in the back for him. He was weary beyond belief and his voice could not form the words, and anyway his pride would not let him, and so he fell back before the fury of unremitting attacks which almost sent him to his knees.

Thus, suddenly, and in a weary stupor, and thinking he had the range for a last strike to his opponent’s neck, he lunged unwisely forward and was caught by a vicious blow from the blood-streaked sword that all but severed his shoulder. He sank to his knees hardly realising that he had and the axe slid from his limp fingers. A moment later the cares of this world were behind him as the man swung his sword in a wide arc and struck off his head.

Olwynn held the Thurak chieftain’s blood dripping head aloft in triumph and displayed it, and then he laughed harshly and contemptuously tossed it away into the trees just as Chelatin had tossed away the trumpet minutes before.

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The Thuraks groaned in despair and in silent impotent fury they drew away and retreated, and Nezgoth permitted it, for he knew that after a rest and some kicks in the backside they would return and finish the job. They grasped the collars of their rats and pulled them with them, the animals snarling and screeching in protest at being denied the carcasses they had so latterly been feeding upon.

The hobbits cheered and clambered up onto the wall and shook their fists at the retreating enemy. They shouted and jeered at them, but after a few moments the full horror of what they had come through entered upon them and they fell silent one by one and sank to their knees. They were exhausted and begrimed with blood and gore. Eight of their number were slain and nine had suffered grievous wounds, six so badly that they would play no further part in the battle.

The heaps of the enemy dead and the corpses of the many rats was scant compensation to the hobbits but Dagomir regarded them with deep satisfaction. Many of the bodies were pin-cushioned with arrows sticking out of them and many more were simply chopped into bits or had sustained terrible gashes and cuts. Still the Steward of Gondor had no more reason to suppose that they would survive the encounter, for he reckoned there were still at least nine hundred enemy warriors set to return, but at least he knew that the hobbits could fight and give a fair account of themselves.

After a minute only of rest the hobbits set to tending their wounded under the direction of Arnaud Took. They slaked their thirst with water from their flasks and then they cast themselves down behind the earthen wall where a space had been cleared of bodies. Many wept, sobbing quietly, and some clung together for comfort. They were consumed with a black despair, despite their small victory in holding the wall, and Olwynn felt his heart torn with pity for them, but Dagomir, true to his nature, was more pragmatic and he moved among them

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dragging them up by their collars and ordering: ‘come on, there is much to do. They will come back. Up! Up! Collect the arrows and the weapons.’

‘For pities sake give them to rest,’ Olwynn said with a great weary sigh.

Dagomir rounded on him and took him firmly by the elbow and led him to one side.

‘You should know better than that, Olwynn!’ he reproached him in a hiss. ‘We cannot rest.

The enemy will come again soon enough and we must be ready.’

‘They cannot stand again, not against a second charge.’ Olwynn indicated the hobbits as they lethargically set about following Dagomir’s orders, muttering amongst themselves. ‘I said one charge was all we had and that is what it has proven to be.’

‘Then we will die,’ Dagomir stated flatly, ‘we will all die.’

Olwynn held up the Bright Blade and told him, ‘That may be so, Dagomir, but I shall sell my life very dear.’

Tickler and Arnaud came and joined them. ‘And I will too,’ said Tickler, a grim look on his face, ‘for what it is worth.’

‘I will too,’ said Arnaud. He grinned. There was dried blood smeared on his face and caked in his hair and he looked for the entire world like some demon from out of the pit of hell.

‘Before today,’ he announced, ‘I did not think the blood o’ the Bullroarer and the Ringcompanion flowed in my veins, now I ain’t so certain.’

‘You have done well,’ Dagomir told him.

Olwynn clapped him on the back and grinned. ‘I should hate to see any of that blood Master Took, but I know what you say. I saw you wield that hatchet of yours.’

They laughed, but Dagomir was in no mood for thinking about anything save what was to come. ‘How are your people, captain?’ he said abruptly.

‘What he means is will they stand again?’ Olwynn added sourly.

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Tickler swallowed bile and fought back tears. He appreciated now how hard it was to be in command and he understood many things Agramor had told him that before had just been meaningless soldiers talk. He answered in a small voice. ‘They will stand, because they must.

They will stand because there is nowhere else to go and no one else to rely upon. They won’t let you down, but…’

‘Yes, Tickler,’ Dagomir prodded gently, ‘but what?’

‘Oh, sirs, we hobbits have never seen anything like this. It just ain’t something we have known, our folk all killed and cut up like. It is cruel and hard that we must learn war all of a sudden, but you need have no fear that we shall fail in our duty. We shan’t run away and if we are to be slain then we shall take some o’ them with us.’

‘They have learned well,’ Olwynn said.

‘The lads will face em off again,’ Arnaud stated confidently; ‘it has been a shock for them, especially seeing their friends fall, but they will be alright.’

Dagomir drew in a deep breath. ‘They will have to be,’ he said sternly. ‘If they break they will die. It is that simple. Break and we all die.’

Now the afternoon shadows were lengthening and dappling the forest floor deep and dark as the sun commenced to dip into the west and a light wind rustled the high branches of the firs. The boughs of the trees bent this way and that in the gentle breeze; brown and reddish green leaves stood out stiff, rubbing together like many cold cracked hands taking comfort in warmth.

There was a silence, for suddenly the dark and unknown forest, so close all about, made itself felt as a great brooding presence, full of secret purpose. But yet all seemed at peace, and even those sore wounded lay silent as the dead, until suddenly a volley of spears fell over or against the earthen wall as an announcement that the fight was shortly to be renewed.

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At this Dagomir sprang up onto the wall and strode along it, raising his voice in song as he walked:

‘See Gondor’s song, thou rising beam: The east bounded hills adorning, Where run the rivers red and stands the tall gates; Now freedom’s sun begins to gleam, And breaks the glorious morn over Morannon.

Remembered then the heroes of old, And those praised in songs of dead places, Midst danger of wounds and slaughter, Rises up on the horns of a fell prince’s helm, The folk of the fair lands ‘neath the crowns Of the White Tower in the face that looks to the east: Gondor’s green fields and soil it shall speak of, And the tyrant’s blood like rivers shall it flow!’

He stood tall and proud on the wall above them, where the others peeped out from its sides, and he was heedless of the whistling and falling darts that zipped all about him. Beneath his helm his eyes seemed to be shining and his face was bright and it glowed with life in that place of death, and in his hand was his long sword. It was a sight never to be forgotten by those who survived, and one they would tell their grandchildren on cold nights by a roaring spitting log fire.

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He bestrode the wall tall and proud and fell, his boots crunching on the grass stalks, and as he walked he raised his voice and spoke and in him they saw the pride of Boromir and Denethor and all the long line of the Stewards of Gondor.

‘At Helms Deep, long before any here were as much as a twinkle in the eye, did Éomer uncover and show Gúthwinë, and, yea, so too did Aragorn, Elessar, King, raise Andúril the Blade that was Broken. Tho’ all was lost yet Dunédain and Rohan together stood on the Deeping Wall and the west was filled with hope. And all here know the tales of old and what was won. And are we less? Are we not sons of our fathers? Does not the fire-blood of the Baggins flow through all of the Shire?’

‘Aye!’ the hobbits responded with a roar.

‘Then let not them over the wall! Let them not have the wall! Come up here beside me brothers! Remember the Shire and be proud! Hold the wall! Kill them on the wall!’

Sam heard them first, moving and skulking somewhere at their backs amongst the trees, furtive and hidden. They had been dispatched by the wily Nezgoth when it was clear the first assault upon the clearing was going to fail. There were thirty or so, all thirsting and eager for revenge and to be the one responsible for hammering in the backdoor of the defence.

Cuspin stood and waited nervously, Sting in hand, and Sam cast off his blanket and raised his bow, ready to fire. His limbs were aching and he felt light-headed, but he was resolved, despite feeling so very weak, that if he were destined to die that he would not go easy.

Briefly his thoughts were unfocussed and for a moment they returned to the Shire, almost in an abstract way, akin to an out of body experience; he could see himself down at Bywater Pool with Rosie and the children. The older ones were running about and splashing in the water, laughing and giggling and happy, and his grand-hobbits were toddling about here and there, playing tag in and out of the bushes or hiding behind big old hoary oak trees. The ever practical

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Elanor, young then, and Betsy were fussing with the large spread they were setting out for their picnic. Dear Rose was playing with little Falco, bouncing him on her knee, her deep laughing eyes dancing and alive with a reflection of the big yellow sun bright in their hazel deeps. He smiled to himself: Carefree days.

He sighed and whispered, without realising that he was speaking out loud: ‘It has been a good life, what with one thing and another and all things considered.’

‘Dad, are you okay?’ Cuspin asked him nervously, remembering once again his odd behaviour right at the start of all of this when they were on their way to Bree to see the Oracle and passing the Barrow Downs.

Sam chuckled. ‘Never you mind me, Cuspin my lad, I am just thinking out loud.’ There was a pause then in whose interval they heard, plain as anything, the crackling of dry twigs underfoot and the snapping of branches and rustling of leaves. Sam whispered: ‘You might want to follow Sting rather than trying to direct her. More in the way of giving her her head like. Always seemed to have a mind of its own, that sword.’

Cuspin nodded his head and opened his mouth to say something, but he had no time.

Suddenly from out of the trees the attack came upon them. Whooping and howling and waving clubs and axes above their heads the Thuraks charged.

Sam loosed an arrow and quickly, almost without thinking about it, just as he had been taught by Legolas the Elf so very long ago, he nocked a second arrow and let that fly too. One of the Thurak warriors fell at once with an arrow protruding from his throat, neat as though that was just what Sam had intended, and a second fell stone dead seconds afterwards, staggering five paces back with a shaft protruding obscenely from his chest. It was very satisfying to hear their cries and see them fall but Sam did not have time for a third shot for now the enemy were all about them, whooping and snarling, their eyes full of bloodlust, heedless of the plight of their fallen comrades.

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Cuspin, though he was unused to wielding a sword and much would prefer to be at home with a pen in his hand, followed Sam’s advice and left Sting to do the work. Peculiarly it did seem to take over direction of where it wanted to be, directing Cuspin’s arm rather than he directing it, tying the first Thurak to approach him near in knots before despatching him with a neat slash to the throat. It crashed down on the skull of the next and clove it in two and then with a backhand slash it sliced open the face of a third.

It was good and the hobbits had done well, better than Sam had expected, now though the fight was drawing to its inevitable close in the fading light as the Thurak warriors were too many and appeared to be everywhere about them. ‘Cerowynn!’ Sam called out desperately.

‘Cerowynn!’

Cuspin was slashing back and forth with Sting as five of the warriors circled him like lions about a wounded buffalo. At his back he could hear the distant discordant sounds of the main battle and from out of the corner of his eye he could perceive that Sam was in trouble.

He had cast aside the bow and seized up a flaming brand from the fire and was now trying to fend off the four warriors that were probing his defence.

What Cuspin did not see, and could not, for he was pre-occupied with his own desperate fight to stay alive, was the Thurak warlord Urlik rush upon Sam from behind and strike the old hobbit square in the middle of his back with a heavy wicked looking stub-ended mallet. The blow felled Sam at once and he toppled forward and fell face down on the forest floor. Urlik whooped and then cast the mallet to one side and with a snarl seized an axe from one of his fellows. He stood astride his fallen victim and raised the axe high, intent upon striking Sam’s head off to take as a trophy. There was a feral grin of triumph on his face as he tensed but the blow did not fall. Instead an arrow flashed out from the trees and punched into the Thurak’s chest with a thud, sending him reeling back to where he struck the trunk of a tree and slid

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slowly down the bole until he was sitting on the cool grass. He had a blank uncomprehending look upon his face and the axe slid from his fingers as the light of his life dimmed in his eyes.

Four further arrows came shrieking, fired impossibly fast, one after another, making it seem to the now terrified Thuraks that a whole company of archers must be hidden in the trees.

Four more fell dead, and then, as the survivors hesitated, standing in mute shock, Cerowynn bounded out from her hiding place amid the bushes, dark hair flying, eyes ablaze, sword in hand, crying ‘Gondor! Gondor!’, and at the sight of her the Thuraks turned about and fled away screaming in terror.

At the earthen wall the Thuraks pressed and the hobbits pushed back, so that the press became all and the winning of the wall the prize. But it was a prize the Thuraks knew they could not fail to win even if only by dint of numbers, for though they could not bring more of their soldiers to bear upon the wall than the width of the wall and the clearing would allow they had ten or twenty more to replace each one of their number who fell. All those at the rear need do was to shove and soon enough the weakening line of hobbits would be tumbled back and the day won.

On the flanks, at either end of the line, Dagomir at one side and Olwynn at the other, the fight was no less desperate. The stern Steward of Gondor and the fierce Prince of Rohan, for all their prowess, were mortal men and they were fast tiring as their swords rose and fell and dispensed bloody ruin and death. They were streaked with blood and gore and exhausted and surrounded on all sides by the piles of the enemy they had slain.

The only saving grace was that the Thuraks had not brought the rats with them into this attack. Thus it was a press of flesh on flesh, and after ten minutes, inexorably, the numbers began to tell as the hobbits wearied and were pushed to the very rear edge of the wall. Dagomir

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glanced up desperately once when he saw that one or two of them had in fact been pushed off the wall and he cried out: ‘Hold! Hold! Hold my brave lads!’

But they could not and as the minutes ticked by more and more of them were tumbled back and shoved off the wall, and yet just when it seemed to Dagomir and Olwynn that all was lost and all hope ended a miracle occurred that they could not possibly have foreseen or looked for; from the ranks of the enemy beyond the wall at the rear of the press there came such cries and wails of anguish that had not even been heard on that field of blood throughout all that dreadful battle.

Bloodied torn bodies of rats and Thuraks went flying through the air and the sounds of fearful snarling and growling echoed with the screeches and screams of anguish torn from the throats of creatures terrified out of their wits as they were set upon and slain by some unseen attacker. It was an attack that had come through the forest at the Thuraks backs and it was one, quite clearly, that was devastating for them, and it came came with a suddenness that was perplexing. The Thurak’s began to flee, to peel away and go flying off into the forest in every direction.

Loud voices yelling back and forth told a tale of this fresh enemy but it could not be perceived at once from the wall just what was happening at the far edge of the clearing, but whatever it was it was noisy and it was sufficient to turn the day and put the enemy to flight.

Soon the clearing was empty of Thurak and rat and only the dead remained before the wall. Dagomir and Olwynn and the hobbits came together then and stood leaning for support upon one another as they stared apprehensively into the gathering gloom. A silence descended and on the edge of the clearing suddenly their saviours could be seen under a last shaft of the dying sun as it speared across the world.

A few among their deliverers rose up on their hind legs to give them a better look, or perhaps that was their way of showing their triumph, and they raised their voices in a

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cacophonic rumble of snarls and growls that lasted for half a minute. Dagomir and Olwynn and the weary hobbits were astonished. There before them stood a company of a hundred or more great brown and black furred bears who, after their minute or so of roaring greeting, subsided to become a snuffling huddle of huge, broad-backed, red-clawed and red-snouted, grizzlies.

They were larger than normal bears, or so it seemed to Dagomir and Olwynn who were familiar with such creatures at home in Middle-Earth, but yet in the depths of their ancient eyes was a wisdom and a knowledge of the world such as few other such creatures could boast.

In the midst of this fearsome company, who had all gathered together in a mass, some of them sniffing at the bloody ground, others licking their paws, some seated relaxed upon their haunches, snorting and catching scents on the light breeze, there stood a man. He was tall and dressed in robes of brown and dull ruddy red that blended with his forest surroundings, and on his head he had a tall conical cap pulled low. He wore a long ochre cloak and a scarf and he had a long beard that was wispy and curled down to his waist, and his bushy eyebrows jutted out beyond the brim of his cap like two angry twigs set in the sides of his head. In one hand he bore a long gnarled staff and his other hand he ran over the heads of the bears that surrounded him, whispering to them and scratching behind their twitching ears.

Dagomir and Olwynn exchanged glances of wonder and astonishment and the tired hobbits slumped to their knees, giving thanks to be alive still. Olwynn shook his head and said, in a low whisper: ‘It doesn’t happen this way, not outside of a tale. Does it?’

‘I have seen a portrait in Minas Tirith,’ Dagomir said uncertainly. ‘But it can’t be.’

The man approached them then, in company with one of the bears, while the rest of the bear company, without giving a second glance to the ruination they had created in the clearing, and just as quickly as they had appeared, ambled off into the trees and were gone.

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The man and the bear came forward and instinctively the hobbits rose up and took a pace or two back so that Dagomir and Olwynn were before them. The man had a smile on his face but the bear was aloof and impassive as he settled down on his haunches, seeming to be disinterested almost.

‘We thank you, stranger,’ said Dagomir stiffly, and to the bear, a little uncertainly, ‘and you my friend, if you can understand me.’

The man chuckled. ‘Greetings to you Lord of Gondor,’ he said affably; ‘I am Radagast the Brown, who in another life and in other times is Aiwendil, most faithful servant of Yavanna the Fruitful. I am, as you have probably guessed already, of the Istari.’ He indicated the great ruddy furred bear, who was regarding those before him now with what Dagomir suspected was a hint of amusement in his eyes. ‘And this fine fellow is Baroinn, who is the Lord of the Beornings of the North, in the land that in their tongue is Garanswaald, and he can understand you very well young lord.’ The bear grunted a greeting and Dagomir noted that in his deep watery brown eyes there was reflected both intelligence and understanding; wisdom without friendship or hostility. It was a sort of a neutral look; compassionate but yet uncaring. Baroinn was a creature with long experience of man and his ways.

‘Are not the Beornings shape-shifters?’ Olwynn asked Radagast, recalling to his mind stories he had read as a child.

Radagast laughed and answered: ‘You are very direct Prince of Rohan. But wait a moment and I shall answer you, though I must be brief for our time together is short. It is true that the berserker warrior and chieftain of the Beornings who was first named Beorn was indeed a shape-shifter. His folk had long guarded the Ford of Carrock and the high passes in Rhovannion and they were renowned and will live long in the memory of Men, for Grimbeorn, who was the son of Beorn, marched with his people and the elves of Mirkwood and drove the enemy from that place. Baroinn and his folk are relatives of the Beornings who went west at

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the end of the First Age. It was said the trick of shape-shifting was achieved by the weaving of an ancient spell. If it was it has long been forgot here in the Western-Lands and Baroinn and his folk are as you see them now and it is how they always have been.’ Radagast laughed, but the sound of it was somehow hollow; ‘and if in the course of your journeys here on the western continent you chance to meet with one of the great bears do not take it as read that it will be one of Baroinn’s folk. His clan are few in numbers. Do not offer biscuits to strange bears.’

‘That is interesting,’ said Dagomir dryly, ‘and entertaining enough, after this slaughter, but I would rather hear about Gandalf the Wizard. If you are truly of the Istari then you must know something of him or where he may be found, if indeed he can be. Then there are those others from Middle-Earth we believe living in this city of Calabród. We would hear something of them also, if you know.’

Radagast stiffened and a grim and stern look passed across his face. His eyes wandered across the company, regarding the weary blood streaked and begrimed hobbits, and he let a pause fall before he spoke: ‘Do not presume that because you stand high in your own lands that you have any right to interrogate Radagast. I came here with Baroinn and his folk only just in time else I think that you and yours would have your heads separate from your bodies at this moment. If you would seek for answers then ask yourself first how it is that I knew that you would be here.

Gandalf is indeed returned and he it was advised me some would come, but I did not know who, or how many, or when, and Calabród does not have that intelligence either.’ He sighed and looked again at the expectant faces of the hobbits. ‘I am afraid, as usual, Gandalf has left things in a bit of a mess, but, that apart, it was not hard to track you once the season was turning and I was abroad. Besides, you have left wide paths from Mirabor and Perit and there has been

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much rumour flying in the lands you have crossed. Strangers from across the sea are not unknown, but you lot have hardly kept yourselves inconspicuous.’

‘Forgive me, Master Radagast,’ Dagomir said. ‘I meant no offence in seeking answers from you. It is my way sometimes.’

‘I take no offence. That is my way. Still, it is to be regretted that Gandalf has not prepared any of you better. That is sometimes his way; dreams and signs, indeed. Pah! What is he thinking of? The Master of Riddles. No, Dagomir of Gondor, I do not know where Gandalf is. I have not seen or heard from him for many weeks. It has caused much unrest in Calabród, for you yourselves have been slow in coming, and with Gandalf missing the Elves wonder why they have bothered to return. They sit kicking their heels in a city that will one day come under assault from the Thurak or the Enemy, or perhaps both, and they cannot keep hidden forever. They cannot go back along the Straight Road and so they have lost their immortality and in a world that belongs now to Men they find themselves without purpose.’

‘But why did they?’ Olwynn asked, shaking his head in wonder.

Radagast shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why did they what?’

‘Why have they forsaken Aman for Arda without knowing why?’

Radagast looked puzzled by the question. ‘Gandalf asked it of them,’ he answered simply, as though it was entirely obvious and the question a foolish one. ‘They have a conscience and they feel themselves partly to blame if Sauron lurks still in the world. For myself I have little care for the doings of Men or Elves, or for that matter Hobbits.’ He paused and frowned and a bitter memory tugged at the corner of his mind; he it was on the eve of the Ring War who was duped by Saruman into leading Gandalf to his long imprisonment at the Tower of Orthanc. In those days he was too heedless of his position and his purpose in the world and he was thoughtless in giving his loyalty to one that he knew had betrayed their cause.

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He owed Gandalf, though he would never admit that to any, but nevertheless Gandalf demanded payment and Radagast had no choice but to oblige the wily old fox.

He spread his hands and managed a small smile. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘I am for all that, Istari, and for better or worse I am bound to his cause.’

‘And what cause would that be? For I confess that I do not know what it may be, other than that I have sworn to get Sam Gamgee of the Shire to the city of Calabród.’

‘Master Gamgee is safe?’ Radagast asked suddenly.

‘Aye,’ Olwynn answered with a hint of pride in his voice, ‘he is a half mile back and well protected.’

‘Good, very good,’ Radagast said. His brow was knitted in thought and he managed, for the first time since he had entered the clearing, Dagomir thought, a genuine smile. ‘If the hobbit is delivered to the city then you will have completed a task even Gandalf doubted would be achieved.’

‘And I will be very glad to have been a part of it,’ Dagomir told him frankly, ‘but I would like to know a little of what the cause is that has brought me here and what it concerns.

I know nothing save that all say that Sauron the Dark Lord is not vanquished as we thought but lives and is preparing again for war.’

Radagast chuckled and leaned on his staff. ‘The hobbits are almost dead on their feet and need an hour of rest and you do not look much better,’ he answered lightly, ‘and I would give the information you ask, but there is no time, Lord of Gondor. You have the blood of the Stewards flowing in your veins and the Prince of Rohan has the ancient blood of Thengels tribe in his. You are mighty warriors, but even you can be overcome and, as I am very glad to hear, you have kept Sam Gamgee free from hurt. Now you must finish the job and go. Without pause. At once!’

‘The Thuraks will return then?’ Olwynn muttered.

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‘They will return,’ Radagast agreed. ‘They do not give up easily and if the war party you fought was led by Nezgoth -’ ‘It was.’

‘Well then, there will be at least one more Nargyl close at hand. You may have minutes or it may be hours but be assured that they will return here.’

‘All that I will say to you as plain as I know it is that Sauron is indeed loose upon the world again. He rebuilds his power far away in the south and he makes it greater than ever it was. There are things that we do not see and cannot yet perceive of His purpose and so we rely upon Gandalf for guidance, for he was the first to discover something of it and he it is who understands all that is afoot. He says we must have Sam Gamgee and so we must, but now I think that it is even deadlier this game that we play. Gandalf is missing. He went out on an errand of his own many weeks ago and he has not returned. He is not dead, that I can say for certain sure, for I would know it, but I think that now only the hobbit has the power to find him. So he above all others must reach the city.’

Dagomir looked up at the darkening sky to where the first star was winking down upon the clearing. It all seemed so simple when it was wrapped up in words, but yet as he stood there, surrounded by frightened weary hobbits and with the smell of death rich in his nostrils, Calabród seemed just as far away as ever it had.

‘How will we find the city?’ Olwynn asked abruptly, cutting across his friends thoughts.

He was dismayed because it seemed to him that the state of Radagast’s knowledge of things was little better than their own.

Radagast placed a hand on the great bears head. ‘Baroinn here will lead you,’ he answered. ‘Listen to him and take guidance from him. Without his counsel you will not find the city, though it may with luck find you. But go, and go quickly. As weary as you are. Go!’

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The old Istari smiled a gloomy smile at them, then he bent and whispered in Baroinn’s ear, then he straightened and said, ‘Farewell to you,’ and turned and started to walk quickly away.

‘Radagast!’ Dagomir exclaimed.

‘Follow Baroinn’s counsel,’ Radagast called back over his shoulder. He did not look back and after a minute he vanished into the trees to the south and was gone.

Tickler regarded the enemy dead, rats and Thuraks heaped and piled everywhere, perhaps two hundred of them. ‘Should we bury them?’ he asked; ‘or burn them perhaps?’

Olwynn gazed with contempt at the bodies and then beyond to where already at the edge of the clearing gray shapes were slinking among the trees. They were barely discernible save for the glinting of their eyes and so far as the Prince of Rohan was concerned they were a welcome sight. ‘Let them rot!’ he answered curtly.

Dagomir added: ‘We will leave them to the crows and the vultures and the wolf and any other wild animal of the woods who may wish to partake of the feast.’

The hobbits gathered in and tended their wounded and munched biscuits and drank the last of the water in their flasks. It was a victory they had won but it was not a victory in which they could rejoice. Besides anything else, they were hobbits and hobbits simply did not rejoice in death. Death, in any form, and coming to any creature, friendly or hostile, vile or comely, was a concept they found distasteful and frightening.

They were a silent withdrawn group waiting for Dagomir’s next orders when Cerowynn burst forth from the trees. She was panting from having run hard. In her arms she bore Sam, whose arms hung loose, and behind her trailed Cuspin, tears flowing down his cheeks.

‘Dagomir! Oh, Dagomir!’ Cerowynn wailed. ‘Sam is sore hurt.’ And at the sight and sound of her the hobbits wailed also and when they espied Sam, lying in her arms as though he

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was slain, they bared their breasts and tore at their hair and set to loudly sobbing as they crowded around.

Olwynn stood still as a statue on the earthen wall unable to move a muscle. He felt physically sick to his stomach. Radagast had made it quite plain that Sam was needed, nay was crucial, if there was to be any hope for the future of the cause, whatever the cause might ultimately be. And anyway he and Dagomir and Cerowynn had sworn to get him to Calabród and that was as far ahead as they had looked. They could not even manage that it seemed. He hung his head and bit his lip and whispered, ‘Oh no, Sam, no. Not you. Of us all, not you.’

Gently they laid Sam down on the cool earth. His face was ashen white, the pallor of death, and his breathing was ragged and shallow, but he was not dead. The hobbits slumped in a circle about him and Cerowynn cradled his head in her lap and wept with the others. He was the reason that they were there and each and every one of them knew it. They were a wretched and broken crew then and as they sat weeping and ringing their hands the dispassionate Baroinn regarded them with faint curiosity. The great bear could not see how it was possible that such a little creature as the stricken hobbit could be of such consequence. Ah well, he thought to himself, I will let them have a few minutes to grieve but then we must be away.

Olwynn spotted a sharp movement suddenly and, instinctively almost, he leapt from the wall to intercept Tickler Gamgee as he hurled himself towards Cuspin. There was a murderous look in Tickler’s eyes and Olwynn held him tight at the shoulders, blocking him from going forward.

‘Get out of my way!’ Tickler thundered between sobs. But Olwynn would not let him pass, so he stood back and instead pointed and jabbed a finger angrily. ‘You! Cuspin Longthorn! You was supposed to be looking out for him! This is all your fault!’

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‘What could I do?’ Cuspin sobbed. ‘There was only me an’ the gaffer an’ Cerowynn there an’ there were dozens o’ them. What do you expect, Tickler Gamgee? If you hadn’t come we might have slipped through without no trouble! It is your fault, not mine.’

Even though Tickler knew that wasn’t true, the prospect it might be gave him pause. It was a pause of seconds only, for when he looked down at his father’s face and thought that he might lose him any minute right there on the grass he had to blame someone and that someone was Cuspin. ‘You should be lying there and not him!’ he yelled bitterly.

Olwynn held onto the young hobbit and in their grief and anger they scarce noticed Dagomir kneel down beside Cerowynn and Sam, a curious look on his face. He looked into Cerowynn’s limpid eyes and a smile came upon his lips. She whispered, ‘What?’, and Dagomir answered in a quiet voice: ‘Take off Sam’s jacket and his waistcoat. Let us see this wound that hath not yet killed him. I remember the old tales and I have a notion.’

Cerowynn obeyed and gently removed the jacket and the waistcoat and held Sam close against her breast while Dagomir sliced his shirt up the back with his dagger. Then he held the two pieces apart and when he looked his eyes widened and he gasped and then laughed loudly.

‘Look!’ he exclaimed joyfully. ‘Look! All of you!’

He took Sam in his arms and held him where they could all see the corselet of mithril that he wore next to his skin. They could plainly see the flattened part of the metal rings where the mallet had struck but they could see also that Sam was breathing and, ragged though that breathing was, they knew that he would not die.

‘Mithril,’ Cerowynn chuckled and clapped her hands together. ‘I had thought it a dead hobbit that I carried, but now I see that there is very much more to him and his kind than many would think. Cunning old Sam.’ ‘Mithril,’ Dagomir told them, fixing Tickler with an icy glare, ‘mithril. The very gift that Bilbo Baggins won from Smaug the Dragon so long ago and which saved the life of the

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Ringbearer in Moria. More precious than gold or jewels and prized above all other armours.

See, see, look, it can be beaten like copper and polished like glass and yet it is harder than tempered steel. Olwynn told you, Tickler, Sam can look after himself. You do Cuspin an injustice.’

Tickler looked shamefaced and he gave a grudging apology to his stepbrother and they shook hands.

Sam stirred in Dagomir’s arms and his eyes opened blearily and he looked up into the Steward’s face. ‘Boromir?’ he whispered.

‘No, Sam, not Boromir,’ Dagomir smiled and answered him gently in a soft voice; ‘it is I, Dagomir.’

Sam smiled. ‘Of course, I remember now.’

Tickler rushed to his side and knelt down to hug him. ‘Dad! Dad!’ He exclaimed loudly. ‘Oh, dad, you are alive. Thank heaven.’

Cuspin knelt at his other side and Sam held on to them both. ‘Yes, boys,’ he said, surprised to notice that, despite knowing so well their respective temperaments, that of the two it was his natural born son who was being the more histrionic and emotional. ‘I am bruised,’ he told them, wincing at the pain, ‘and I do not think I will be able to walk for a while, but I’m alive.’

‘Good enough for now,’ said a deep bass voice, at which all eyes turned to regard Baroinn, who sniffed at the air, ‘but we must be gone and away from this place as soon as we can.’

Sam shook his head and decided not to ask questions just then and Olwynn cast a glance in Dagomir and Cerowynn’s direction. Cerowynn was less able to contain her astonishment and curiosity: ‘Dag?’ she whispered.

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‘I will explain all later,’ he whispered back. ‘Friend Baroinn,’ he said loudly, and handed Sam over to Cerowynn’s care, ‘we have not slept or eaten for many days. May we not rest a while?’

The great bear shook his head and his nose twitched furiously and his ears flicked.

When next he spoke his mouth opened wide and his sharp teeth glowed in the moonlight. It was clear he was uncomfortable with the language of Men and did not like to speak it.

However, it was a testament to the high esteem in which his folk held Radagast that he spoke at all: ‘Nezgoth will come back and he will bring many with him. Besides, Elf city shifts away at nightfall. That is her protection. By night she cannot be seen. Maybe she moves fifty mile and we have a longer journey. Maybe not find her at all. Maybe Nezgoth catches us.

Must be there before night comes tomorrow.’

Dagomir smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you Baroinn,’ he said, ‘I understand. We will prepare.’

The sky was dark and the stars were high overhead. Somehow they had survived and had come beyond hope. Twelve of their company were slain and many were wounded, some sorely, and they had no time for rest or to eat more than dried beef and biscuits, but yet they stoically prepared themselves to go on.

The dead they buried in a deep hole which they then piled high with stones so that wandering animals would not disturb their rest. They set the broken Watch Horn that poor Fred Hogbin had blown so proudly on a branch that overhung the burial mound and ever after that place passed into legend and became known as the Cairn of the Little Giants.

Tickler recited the names of all who had fallen, each one in turn, so that the world would not forget them, and the hobbits, as was their custom, collected many wild flowers and placed

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them all about the cairn. Olwynn said, sombrely: ‘May the power of silence devour their vices and the wind and the grass not forget them.’ And then Dagomir lifted his voice in song:

‘There look upon our friends at the seat of stone, The second table high and rich before the throne Of Him blessed who knows the mind of all things; King of the shades and Prince of the Dreamers, Who alone in the hall where all must finally pass, At the last when the time for judgement is nigh, There my brothers when the mallorn leaves are falling, Waits in the silent cavern of the death of each day: At rest upon high Cerin Amroth in blessed Lothlórien We shall meet again as good and happy friends should; And only now in this brief passing time, like Mallos, We will be one, and then will be no more forever, till The long Riders come home from the Hall of Awaiting; Upon the summons of Ilúvatar at the eve of Worlds End, And those our friends cruelly smote on untimely fields, This their final epiphany: silent sorrow in empty boats; This their final tribute; silent sorrow in empty boats.’

Then they gathered up their fallen comrades gear and placed the wounded on the backs of ponies, and Cerowynn took Sam with her upon Iallóras back and held him as she had for so many of the long miles they had already travelled together. There was a gap of some leagues

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between the woods and the hills and it was wet terrain that was lush and verdant, and when they came to the edge of it and the trees were at their backs Baroinn told them: ‘We will travel in the night hours. You may ride but do not go too fast. Stay behind me and follow me close.’

They went on then through the long night. All was silent and there was no sound or sign of any living thing. The night was barred with long clouds floating on a chill wind, and under that cold moon for many hours they followed the bear lord through the meads and the river lands. Often the grass was so high that it reached above the knees of the riders, and Baroinn’s huge back ahead and their steeds seemed to be swimming in a grey-green sea. They came upon many hidden pools, and broad acres of sedge waving above wet and treacherous bogs, and then, just before the dawn, from far away in their wake they heard the harsh sounds of many horns and the howling of wolf-packs.

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Chapter 10

CALABRĂ“D

By the time that the dawn creased the sky in streamers of orange and crimson fire, with purple shadows lengthening before their small column, and a bright glow rimmed the looming jagged spiky-rocked crests of the hills, they left the wetlands behind them and entered into the belly of a narrow gorge that twisted through scarred and crumbling screes.

Baroinn hurried them on mercilessly, refusing to allow any to lag behind. He ignored the grumbling and protestations of the hobbits and the groans of the wounded, and soon they were lost amid a welter of rolling undulating upland slopes.

The sun was high, but the air here was cold and the morning was waning when they emerged out of the hills and tumbled into a wide valley of pleasant little farms, well tilled fields and grassy meadows, woods and small fast flowing burns. They did not know it but that valley was the last homely place in the west before the onset of the vast endless plains of the Khush stretched away beyond sight.

The farmers of the valley supplied the Khanite tribesmen and the Thurak Nargyls with a varied produce that they raised from the dark fertile earth of their fields. Fields watered by the icy fast flowing streams that tumbled down from the glacial hills, and it was this richness of produce that saved them from the violent depredations visited upon so many of their neighbours in the wider world. Anriel it was called by the men of Up-Verni; Peligos it was to the folk who dwelt on the los emmis muil; Duradal they called it in far Mithrimnon; it was Harpatak to the wandering tribes folk of the Khush; Yrrsgyl to the Thuraks.

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Baroinn knew the valley by another name; a name that was, in the tongue of his people, a cursed name. He knew the place well, for once, a long time before, he and some of his people had dwelt in the surrounding hills, but he was not a welcome sight to the people who lived and made their homes there. Once not so very long ago they had hunted the great bears for sport, and Baroinn knew that the whitened skull of one of his closest and dearest was an ornament above a fireplace in an inn on the Widderton Road. Even in these days, as he he knew only too well, bear claws were sold as talismen on the market stalls at Fennyburn.

Beyond the edge of the valley as they passed along a road that ran like a spear through fields of corn and rye, potato and turnip, carrot and cabbage, the harvesters stopped what they were about and turned to regard them. Baroinn ignored the curious and frightened faces of the people. In the distance could just be discerned the white walls of a great city and he recognised that it was Calabród. It glimmered and shimmered and was hazy and indistinct under the noonday sun, but it was there, perhaps five leagues distant, and their hearts were cheered when it was espied and they forced exhausted limbs to go on. Baroinn sniffed the air with deep satisfaction and gave what might have been a laugh and then he cried out, ‘Calabród!’

‘Lord Baroinn,’ Dagomir ventured hopefully, for it seemed to him a pleasant and peaceful land they passed through, ‘may we not halt and take refreshment before we enter the city? It will not shift away before nightfall you said, and the company is very weary.’

One of the hobbits, who had espied an inn beside a watermill beside a not too distant riverbank where the water glistened cool and inviting, who normally would never have opened his mouth and spoken, asked: ‘Can we not go there? I don’t want to meet folk with all this dust an’ muck on my face an’ in my hair.’

‘We have not slept properly for days,’ Olwynn added.

Horns sounded then, calling from different places all about and across the valley. It was clear that a hue and cry had been set up and that they were the cause.

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‘Cannot stop,’ Baroinn answered them curtly. ‘The valley folk will not understand you travel with me. We must be on! Onward! Onward!

They hastened on then under the threat of the trumpeting calls that sounded on the still air from what seemed everywhere about them; past a thicket of neatly trimmed trees and coppices they went, and through a village where old men shook their fists at them and mothers hustled their children to safety indoors, until they emerged onto a dusty grassy fringe that marked the eastern edge of the valley. Then they skirted the Minver Wood and crossed over the Cricklepit Bridge and came within sight of the gates of the city, and there they were met by a company of elves.

They came riding down a dusty track towards them, singing a song of welcome and with the light of the sun shining in their hair. The horses they were mounted upon were the descendants of sires bred in Rhovannion and taken to the Undying Lands at the time of the migration. They were proud lively beasts caparisoned in silver and green and the riders sat erect upon them, like living statues, and in their left hands each bore a long spear from whose spiked point fluttered a long banner. The emblem upon the banners was that of a red sun above three waving blue lines on a silver background, and this bespoke these elves as being of Imladris, which in the common tongue is Rivendell. None among the weary company that tumbled out of the Anriel Valley recognised the emblem save for Sam and Baroinn, but all could plainly see that these elves were of the noblest and the fairest and some gasped in wonder whilst others just stared in awe.

Cerowynn felt a stirring deep within her and she recognised the emotions that were tugging at her as feelings of kinship. ‘Are they of my mother’s folk?’ she whispered to Sam. Sam chuckled. ‘Oh, yes,’ he told her in a voice that could not disguise the happiness he was now feeling. After all the hardship they had known in these past weeks at last he was

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there at Calabród and back among the Elves. ‘They are indeed, Cerowynn. I recognise some of their faces. Well, I must say, this is a turn up for the book and no mistake.’

The leader of the Elves was very tall, a giant of myth it seemed to the hobbits. His hair was like woven silver and his face was fair as a beautiful maidens. He wore a silken gray tunic that had a greenish tint to it and he regarded them with cool green eyes the colour of his shirt.

This was Menegrim, who was of the Sindar; he was very long-lived and had once dwelt in Menegroth; he had been a companion of Elwë Singollo before he was lost in the wood of Nan Elmoth, and he had fought and won renown for himself in the War of the Jewels. He raised a gauntleted hand in welcome and said: ‘Greetings to you, Samwise Ring Companion. Greetings Lords of Gondor and Rohan.

Greetings noble brave hobbits of the Shire. Greetings Cerowynn, fruit of our precious Evenstar. And you, Baroinn, you have our thanks for this. My sister and Ûlgrim have taken many of our folk to scour the northern passage for you. We have watched and feared for you these two days.’ He let his eyes rove about and then a deep frown etched his brow. ‘Where is Radagast? He asked in a low voice.

‘Menegrim,’ Baroinn replied wearily as he settled down upon his haunches, his tongue snaking out to seize at some moisture on his lip, ‘it is good to see you. Radagast bids me tell you he has word from the birds. The news is bad. He has gone away a spying to the south.’

‘We too have had news in the city,’ Menegrim said coldly. ‘Radagast should not have gone. Not alone.’ ‘‘Tis his way,’ Baroinn said stiffly. He turned his large baleful eyes to the hobbits and for the first time they seemed to contain a measure of emotion, a deep sadness. He grunted and snuffled and rose up to stand. ‘These are sore pressed. They need food and sleep and their injured need your attention. Do not concern thyself with Radagast.’

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‘And what of you my friend? Calabród has not seen you these many weeks. You look very tired.’

‘I will not tarry, Menegrim,’ Baroinn answered, ignoring the question and stretching himself to his full height so that he towered above even the Elves. ‘Feluk people will come and in the dark days ahead my own folk will need me. Besides I do not want my teeth offered for sale in their marketplace.’

Menegrim looked beyond to the valley and listened for a moment to the continuing calls of the horns. ‘We can protect you,’ he said.

The bear shook his great head. ‘No, you have more to think about now.’

‘How will you go? I do not think the Feluk will return to their homes much before the new day’s sun tomorrow.’

‘I will go to the south hills where the ancient Cúrt menhirs stand. Feluk fears to go there.’ He fell to all fours then and called his farewells briefly and ambled off into the south.

‘Ilàin murt sï a lora,’ Menegrim whispered. Then he added loudly: ‘Dagomir Elendili, you and yours have been sorely handled. Come with us to Calabród. The lady awaits you.’

They followed the Elves along the old dry wagon track that led out onto the plain and the city and as they went Dagomir could not resist asking Menegrim: ‘How is it that Calabród knows so much of us? How do you know my name, for example?’

Menegrim chuckled merrily and pointed to the sky where the birds darted back and forth, frolicking and playing games as it seemed on the warm thermals they found in the china blue heavens. ‘They are our friends and they have a long and loving memory of Radagast the Brown.’

The Elf-city Calabród was the last place of Elven magic ever known in the lands of the mortal world. The city was a marvel of glittering white, of many high towers and minarets

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hewn from pure Sirnak rock: the houses and the mansions were made from Falurii stone, inlaid here and there with precious gemstones; emeralds, diamonds, rubies, ambergrist, topaz, and hard Elfstone. They gleamed and shone as they caught the rays of the sun and in the evenings they twinkled like the stars of heaven. Waterfalls cascaded down the faces of sculpted rock walls, hewn in the images of dead heroes and long-vanished creatures, and bridges spanned small gurgling watercourses that limned gold and silver studded cobbled streets.

The company passed between black iron-banded gates beneath a great granite archway under the watchful gaze of the many cloaked guards who lined the walls. The hobbits had never seen anything like this and they were awed and open mouthed. Even Cerowynn and Dagomir and Olwynn were stunned by the splendour that met their eyes everywhere they looked, and they were used to the spleandours of Minas Tirith and Minas Anor.

Up through the streets they were led towards a many turreted lofty place that was the centre and focal point of the city. It reared high overhead on an artificial hill that was blanketed with villas and lush gardens and as they made their way to it many bright faced Elven folk came out from their houses and waved to them.

Sam could not help but notice that, unlike it was at Rivendell and Lothlórien, both of which sang with the voices of children, here there was not a child to be seen. What was more alarming for him was that the elves were all armed, not a one of them without a sword or a dagger at his or her belt. He whispered this to Cerowynn, pointing it out.

‘I do not know them as you do Sam, but is it so unusual when there is the threat of war?’ she whispered back.

‘Perhaps not,’ he sighed, ‘but it is not how I like to see them when they are in the comfort of their own home. And I have noticed another strange thing; these folk are of all types. There is Nandor and Laiquendi, and Sindar and Falathrim. There are many Noldor. I

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doubt the world has seen such a gathering since the time the children of Eru were awoken first by the mere Cuivénen. This is indeed a wonder.’

‘What’s that about Quendi?’ a small voice called out.

Sam laughed and turned to see Cuspin manoeuvring his pony beside big Iallorá. ‘You will learn much here, Cuspin,’ he told the young hobbit, ‘but you aren’t going to hear it from me this time. If you want to know anything, ask one of the elves.’

Cerowynn smiled as she listened to them, but then a shiver like icy rivulets went running down her spine as a sweet gentle voice entered uninvited into her mind and spoke to her: ‘Cerowynn, kinswoman, daughter to Arwen Undomiel ap Elrond. Here is the bane of the Eldalië, and our guilt. We are gathered here all together, as Sam surmises, as we have never before stood. You are welcome daughter. Welcome.’

‘Are you alright?’ Sam whispered to her in a concerned voice.

‘Yes,’ she replied uncertainly. ‘I thought I heard… No, I am fine, Sam, just very weary.’

Sam grinned knowingly but made no further conversation as they continued up through the streets, the tired animal’s hooves echoing loudly on the cobbles.

After what seemed an age the long column came up to the great palace Ystardyl at the heart of the mighty city. They entered upon a wide piazza of pink and yellow stone paved and edged with tall pillars and twisting columns, and there they left the horses and ponies in the care of waiting grooms. The injured were tenderly borne away to have their hurts ministered to in Duinlia, the “place of healing”. Sam would not let them take him there, despite the aches and bruises in his limbs and the slight feverishness that he felt still, and he ascended into the palace up the crystal staircase on his own two feet, leaning upon Cerowynn’s arm for support.

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They were led along long corridors lit by hidden lamps and phosphorescent pools set into the walls, and at length they entered into a large hall where there were many mirrors and high columns that stretched up to a vaulted hammer-beam roof. The pillars were decorated with runes and figures and magic symbols and on them was a painted record of histories and events long forgotten by the world. Tapestries of fire gold and crimson hung on the walls between the tall multi-coloured glass windows, and from somewhere unseen the tinkling sounds of falling water soothed the senses with its gentle symphony.

A host of Elves awaited them here and in their midst stood a very tall and golden haired lady, her tresses tumbling about slender milky white shoulders, her face lit radiant by many lamps whose light seemed drawn to her. She was clad all in white and she was grave and beautiful as a marble statue and upon her there was no sign of age, save in the depths of her eyes; for they were keen as lances in the starlight, and profound, wells of deep memory, yet now filled with a cruel sadness. She smiled and her eyes turned upon Sam and her thoughts entered his head, just as he knew that they would, and just as they had that first time he had met her in Lothlórien. It was a converse intended for him alone and no other could share it: ‘Welcome, dear Sam. We are pleased to see you. How do you?’

Sam smiled back at her and his thoughts entered her mind. ‘Galadriel vanimelda, namórië! I ain’t so well as when we last met, lady. I am old and tired and all bashed about.’

‘You have become the scholar then, I hear, in your old age, and the High Language comes easy to thy tongue. A long time ago it was we supped from the cup of parting, dear Sam, and I did not think to see you again. Yet this is not a time for scholarly matters but one when again the smallest are called upon to do great deeds.’

‘Lady, there are no longer any great deeds in me, if ever there was. I am bruised all over and I am old and weary. Scholaring is all I am up to these days. Truth is I have been carried half way across this continent by Cerowynn.’

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‘You will feel better when you are rested.’

‘I feel much better now I see you and for being back among elves, which I had thought would never be so again. I cannot roll back the passage of the years, no matter how I would wish it, so perhaps old Sam ought to have been left where he was in his quiet slumber.’

‘Ah, yes, and so it would have been, dear Sam, and thy rest would have remained undisturbed, but for that evil that has returned to threaten the peace of the world. But that is a thing we will speak more of later, when we are alone. Be comforted in the knowledge that the matter would needs be very weighty indeed to bring the Elf folk back into the mortal spheres, and though nevermore will the Silverlode and the Nimrodel see the Silvan people and never will Galadriel and Celeborn gaze upon Cerin Amroth, still we are here.’

Then, and it was as if a moment only went by, Sam woke from what seemed a dream and heard courteous greetings and welcoming words, and he saw Galadriel and her great granddaughter Cerowynn embrace. He heard Cerowynn speak: ‘I do not have my mother in me in all ways, for my father is Aragorn and he is a man.’

She laughed a merry carefree laugh. ‘But I suspect there is something of the Ranger in me for I have had a wander-lust since I was but a little girl.’

Galadriel laughed too. ‘The Arwen I knew would be loath to see such a treasure of her own making wander far from her sight.’ Then she turned her eyes upon Sam and she smiled and politely enquired, as though she were addressing him for the first time: ‘Are you well, Master Samwise?’

Sam felt light-headed and a little groggy after the rigours of the journey and this waking dream that he felt himself a part of. He leaned against Olwynn for support and the prince gave him a worried look and whispered: ‘Sam?’ ‘I am fine,’ Sam mumbled back; ‘I am just a little fatigued.’

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‘And what of these evil times you speak of, lady,’ Sam heard Dagomir speak as though from a great distance, and, for the umpteenth time since they had met in the Kinderlorn, he was reminded of his grandfather Boromir.

Galadriel raised a slim hand and it seemed a brighter light bathed the room and her laughter fell like drops of water in a cool brook. ‘Peace, Dagomir of Gondor,’ she said. ‘Eat and rest first, for you have been hard used these past days, and then we shall meet together and hold council.’

Their voices drifted off into some other place in time, and Sam fancied he could hear a gentle choir echoing from faraway. Water fell under a fountain and he smelled perfumed incense on the warm air. Then, without knowing that he did, he closed his eyes and let himself fall and as he did so many hands reached out to support him.

He dreamed, but now his dreams were untroubled by the darkness that had haunted him for so long. In this dream he perceived Galadriel, as he knew her once long ago and faraway.

She was in a ship on the Anduin, standing in the prow, and the ship was one of the great swan ships. Water rippled on either side of the white breast beneath its curving neck. The beak shone like burnished gold and its eyes glinted like jet set in yellow stone.

It was a moment caught in time, like a shaft of sunlight spearing through thin summer clouds; Galadriel, tall and white clad, with a circlet of golden flowers in her hair, and in her hand a harp, upon which she played as she sang. Sad and sweet was the sound of her voice in the cool, crisp clean air:

‘I sang of leaves of gold and leaves of gold there grew: Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.

Beyond the sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,

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And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden tree.

Beneath the stars of ever-eve in Eldamar it shone, In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.

There long the golden leaves have gown upon the branching years, While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fell the Elven-tears.

O Lorien! The winter comes, the bare and leafless day; The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away.

O Lorien! Too long have I dwelt upon this hither shore And in a fading crown have twined the golden Elanor.

But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me?

What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a sea?’

Then Sam saw himself standing in a wide verdant meadow amidst swaying blood red poppies. He was beside the Water beneath the Rushey Bog and at his side was his dear Rose.

They stood together in that sea of poppies that rose above their knees and gently tickled their legs with their wind-backed dance. If outside his dream he could have laughed then he would have, for the Sam of the dream looked young and awkward and hanging from the corner of his mouth was a long stalk of grass that he was chewing upon in an absent-minded way.

He looked away at the distant trees of the Bindbole, where they stood out dark and stark against the sky, and he said: ‘Race to the white post.’

Rose held up a slender white hand. Butterflies danced in the air and big fat black and yellow banded bumble-bees buzzed from flower-head to flower-head. She laughed and answered: ‘No you don’t Sam Gamgee. If we are to have a race it has to be for summat.’

Sam gazed into the deep wells of her beautiful dark eyes and he longed to reach out and place his hand upon her long lustrous hair and stroke it. How he wished he had the courage to

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make her his own, or the foolhardiness to try. Her soft red lips beckoned a kiss, but he could not, he dared not. Instead, almost too quickly, he blurted out, ‘A kiss’, and thus betrayed his deepest desire.

She regarded him warily for a moment, weighing his chances of winning. ‘Against?’ she responded cheekily, not at all coy about it.

He felt his cheeks flush crimson as he answered, sensing that he was falling into a trap but unable to pull back from the brink. ‘Anything.’

‘Anything?’

‘Anything.’

‘Right then, Sam Gamgee. If I win you must give me them bangers and squibs that Gandalf gave your pal Frodo Baggins and he gave to you. And don’t you go lying on me, cos’ I know you has ‘em.

Sam could not tear his eyes from the soft red lips, so that after a few seconds he found himself muttering, with a deep sigh, and, a tut tut, ‘I agree.’ Before even the race commenced he felt a pang of regret, for he had been saving the fireworks for a special occasion.

Rose spat on her hand and held it out; Sam spat on his hand and thrust it into hers and they shook. Then he crouched and said: ‘One, two -’ ‘Wait!’ she called out, and pointed at something away over his shoulder: ‘What’s that there?’ And when Sam turned his head to look she gave him a mighty push that sent him sprawling and tumbling down head over heels among the poppies. All he saw as he came up, spitting grass, was her back as she went haring off across the meadow towards the hole in the hedge and the road beyond, laughing and shrieking at the top of her voice.

The dream faded, but almost at once the scene repeated itself and he was once more back in the meadow. This time though she did not push him over and the race went on. He could hear her running steps clattering on the road behind him and as he reached and touched

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the milestone and turned he suddenly realised that she was so close on his heels she would not be able to stop herself. Sure enough she clattered into him and together they fell, landing half in and half out of the wet nettle choked ditch beside the milestone. In a tangle of arms and legs, drenched and stung, they laughed hysterically, until Sam fell suddenly silent and pursed his lips and leaned forward. Rose closed her eyes and inclined her head and Sam’s heart quickened impossibly and a last thought screamed into the forefront of his mind; it was really going to happen, at long last. Then, as his image of Rosie evaporated and was lost, he heard a voice calling to him, pulling him back ‘Sam! Sam!’ He opened his eyes and looked up and into the wise wide blue eyes of an Elf and he managed to whisper groggily: ‘Five minutes more was all was needed.’ Then the face of the Elf came into sharp focus as he returned to the waking world and with a grin and a great cry of ‘Haldir!’ he threw his arms about the Elf’s neck and for many minutes they embraced and then sat and regarded one another before talking.

Haldir told Sam all about how it was that Elves were returned to the mortal spheres; he explained that once Gandalf discovered that Sauron was not really destroyed and that the Ring was not consumed in the fires of Mount Doom, and though much diminished, was still a potent force for evil, he had sought council with the Valar. He was given permission to return to the Man World with anyone who would follow, and although he spoke of many things and journeyed far and wide seeking the help of old friends, in the end what it came down to with the Elves was their conscience. Some could not abandon the world, but many more would not give up an immortal life for the sake of Man, and those that did return to build Calabród and support Gandalf did so knowing that the spans of their years of life was now not much more than that of three long lived Men. Galadriel weaved a spell of protection using the enchanted ring Nenya, but even that was now limited in its power and the spell would not last forever.

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Sam, by way of return, told Haldir of the life he had lived until the dreams came to afflict him; and of his visit to consult with Anadriel the Oracle and the tale of his and Cuspin’s journey across the sea to find the city.

‘That will make a fine tale one day,’ said Haldir, ‘and I think that it will go down well in the Shire lore.’

‘Well now, that’s almost worth believing,’ Sam replied, ‘and some of my grand-hobbits might appreciate it if ever any of us get back to Hobbiton to tell them about it. I don’t know about you, Haldir, but I don’t regret making the journey that I have, even though it has led to the loss of some good solid hobbit lads; but I don’t rightly see how anything can be achieved without old Gandalf beside us to point the way. Mercy me, we don’t even know what it is that we face.’

‘Since we do not, as you rightly say, know the extent of the danger there is little point in falling into despair,’ Haldir pointed out reasonably.

Sam grinned at that and dragged his shoulders off the bed with a groan and swung his feet to the cool marble tiled floor.

‘That was a bad bruise you received in the fight with the Thuraks, but it will heal soon enough. I have applied a poultice of athela. There are many others who have received worse than that in payment for their first encounter with the Thurak.’ Haldir picked up Sam’s mithril coat and regarded it fondly for a moment.

‘It was mithril that saved me,’ Sam told him. ‘Just as once it saved Frodo.’

Haldir nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘The mail is marvellously light,’ he said. ‘It is a wonder, and more wonder that it is made by such as dwarves.’ He smiled a little smile and placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and an earnest look came into his eyes. ‘I have thought of you often since our return to the world. My heart is glad to know that you possess such a treasure as this. Do not lay it aside, even in sleep, not unless you are in some place that you

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know is safe and unassailable. Here we are safe, but, still, these are not the talans of Lothlórien.’

‘Why, Haldir,’ Sam said, ‘you are serious for one who has just renewed a friendship.’

‘Ah, Sam, do not jest. I think that you are more important than you think.’

‘Perhaps, but then during the War we all had a part to play and I cannot say which was the most important, or even if there was such a role to be played by any one of us. Gandalf is a wily fox and he is wont to raise up even the lowest so that none feel themselves lesser than any other.’

Haldir thought about that for a moment and then grinned. ‘That is true,’ he said, ‘but then I think we would have known about it had the Thuraks slain you.’

‘And these Thuraks,’ said Sam, deftly changing the subject, ‘I would know something of them. Are they Orc, or Dwarf, or are they some ancient race found only on the Westernlands?’

‘Yrrch! Not Erusën. Orc indeed, they are descendants of the Mllô-hai clan that fled across the ocean long ago. They are mostly now remembered only in Forochel, and with bitterness for that is where they did many evil things among the gentle Lossoth. But here now Sam, what is this? Questions, questions, always questions. I see now where young Cuspin gets it from.’

‘Cuspin!’ Sam exclaimed.

‘Peace, peace there,’ Haldir said with a chuckle; ‘all your companions are well cared for. Now, see there, I have brought food for you. Eat and prepare yourself and I shall return presently and take you to our lady, for that is my appointed duty. I am now the Warden of Ystárdyl.’

Sam took his time eating and bathing, revelling in the luxury of it all, and then he dressed himself in the gray silken gown that Haldir had laid out for him. He waited patiently

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until the Warden returned to collect him and then they made their way together along wide cool corridors. Moonlight shone bright through the windows they passed and a song, melancholy and piercing, echoed out across the rooftops and the balconies and the tiered gardens of the city, and sweet night birds called in the trees.

Galadriel awaited him in a private chamber. It was a circular room in which the boughs of great trees thrust themselves through the walls and crept up and round in a wild tangle; they were laden with yellow flowers that were blessed and did not fade, and it was a remembrance of Lothlórien. Hanging lanterns cast a soft glow that was muted and a warm breeze wafted in from some hidden flue. The roof was open to the sky and the black endless void was profound and there like jewels sunk in the deep shone glinting stars.

She wore her habitual white and on her brow was a circlet woven from the same yellow flowers that decorated the branches. She smiled warmly when Sam entered and enquired politely: ‘Are you well rested, Sam? Is your hunger sated? Well do I remember what ravenous appetites you hobbits possess?’

‘Yes, lady,’ Sam replied. ‘I am well fed and marvellous rested. It seems for the first time in so long a while I can scarce remember any other time.’

She looked him up and down and nodded her approval. ‘The Lady Reiná made that gown. I am glad indeed it fits you so well.’ Then she turned to Haldir and told him, ‘You have done well. Be so good as to summon those we have agreed upon to the council hall. I have some matters to discuss with Master Samwise first and then we will join you.’

Haldir bowed and when the door had closed at his back Galadriel led Sam to a couch and they sat down close together. She took Sam’s hand in hers and regarded him for a moment before speaking: ‘You have changed in some ways Sam. Subtle changes I doubt are much noticed by those you know well. You are older and wiser, but in many respects you are still

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the same old Sam of the Shire who came to Lórien frightened and missing Bagshot Row and his little house. Do you remember when you looked into my mirror?’

‘I remember,’ Sam answered grimly. He was wary and apprehensive at the direction she was leading their conversation. ‘But for all that I am very glad to be able to say that you have not changed at all, for in that surely there is hope.’

‘Hope?’ she answered a little sourly, her eyes never leaving his, a kind if not pitying look in them; ‘Perhaps. It may be so. All that the matter needs now to unlock its secrets is Gandalf.’ She mused and sighed. ‘Hope, Sam, perhaps, indeed. Gandalf said that you would come and that we should do nothing until you did. If hope there is I think it lies with you.’

‘Gandalf!’ Sam gasped out loud. ‘Where is he? I would hear something of what is wanted of us and I do not count it as haste that I do.’

‘Gandalf is in the West somewhere,’ Galadriel answered him, speaking very slowly, as though suddenly such talk was a burden, ‘but we do not know where he is. He went off on a mission of his own and we have seen nor heard nothing since. As to the things that must be done that is what we will discuss at the council, for it concerns more than just we two.’

Sam regarded her cautiously for a moment, his senses warning him that there was something she was holding back, something that she was not revealing. He was only too well aware of how inscrutable she could be and when next he spoke his voice was grave and solemn and she could plainly see that he was, as was often his way, suspicious.

‘Galadriel,’ he said, ‘I am sorely grieved in heart and soul. We have buried some good lads back in that wood beyond the hills and before that there was a stable lad murdered on the Plains. Children really. I would like to know what for, really, if nothing else.’

‘I know, Sam,’ she sighed, ‘and I cannot blame you for that.’

‘Hang it all!’ he spluttered abruptly, louder than he intended. ‘I am too old for this Galadriel. I should be back home in Bag End. What on earth is that silly old sausage Gandalf

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thinking? Cerowynn has carried me halfway across these lands and some good boys have died in keeping me alive. Me! A useless old fool who did nothing but get in the way when things got hot. Did she tell you that? Did Cerowynn tell you?’

Galadriel stroked his hand and her touch soothed him. ‘Sam, dear gentle hobbit, once before, long ago by your reckoning, in Lórien, I gave gifts to help you and Frodo in the Ring Quest. And I gave you a small gift for yourself, because of what you saw in my mirror.’

Sam’s mind journeyed back across the years, swimming in the river of time; she had given the Ring Companions gifts, each according to the ordering of his heart and for all an Elven cloak and a satchel filled with that wondrous food, lembas, the waybread without which, if the truth be known, he and Frodo would not have survived to reach Mount Doom. There was the phial of Galadriel, that mysterious magical light source that had lighted the dark places in Mordor and helped him to defeat the giant spider Shelob; and too there was an especial gift for him alone, and he remembered her words to him when she handed it to him: “For you little gardener and lover of trees I have only a small gift. Here is set G for Galadriel, but it may also stand for garden in your tongue. In this box there is earth from my orchard, and such blessing as Galadriel has still to bestow upon it. It will not keep you on your road, or defend you against any peril; but if you keep it and see your home again at last, then perhaps it may reward you. Though you should find all barren and laid waste, there will be few gardens in Middle-earth that will bloom like your garden, if you sprinkle this earth.

Then you may remember Galadriel, and catch a glimpse of Lórien, that you have seen only in our winter. For our spring and summer are gone by, and they will never be seen again save in memory.’ And that little gift of earth was the most prized gift, saving the birth of his little one’s, he had ever received, for that was what healed the Shire after the depredations wrought upon it by Saruman.

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‘I remember,’ he whispered in a little voice. ‘And I have made good use of it in undoing the hurt that was worked by Sharkey and his crew upon the Shire.’

‘I have another gift for you, if you would have it.’

‘I would be honoured to have Galadriel’s gift. You must know that.’

She laughed and squeezed his hand. ‘Do not be too hasty, Sam, for you may consider it more curse than gift.’

‘What is it?’

‘I shall not tell you all at once. It may be that it will not have the effect we desire, or any effect at all upon you. In any event, without Gandalf, it may be meaningless.’

‘And Frodo,’ Sam said quickly. ‘I have come far from my home for Frodo too. I’ll not turn back or away from anything if I can help my Mister Frodo.’

‘I would not expect anything less of you, Sam.’ She paused, and then added in a soft voice, ‘Frodo is gone.’

Sam stiffened upon hearing this and his head swam. He swallowed hard and forced himself to ask the next question: ‘Is he -’ ‘Dead? No, no, he is not slain so far as we know.’ Galadriel said this swiftly. She was aware of how deep his feelings for his old master ran. ‘At least we do not think that he is.

There have been rumours. He went at Gandalf’s bidding into the south and he took with him a strong company of our folk. He was seeking for a thing that Gandalf deemed important to us. It is a palantir, one of the seeing stones. Gandalf desired that we should gain possession of it. He has been away these many months.’

‘A palantir,’ Sam mused, ‘here, in the Western-Lands?’

‘Alas! It was given by Aragorn into the care of our folk, for after the War he would not have it in Gondor. He would not entrust it to any other hands, but the proof of my folk’s

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fallibility at the end lies in my telling you that somehow in the passage we lost it. Gandalf thought that he knew where it was being kept, and that is why Frodo went off after it.’

‘Ach!’ Sam blurted out. ‘I thought when you all sailed away from Mithlond with Cirdar you were going to some magic eternal land where my dear Frodo could live in peace and have nothing more serious to worry about than getting enough ink for his pen. It’s not right, Galadriel. T’aint! The great turning to little folk like us all the time when things get a bit sticky. Frodo deserved a rest after what he endured and it just ain’t right Gandalf putting on him again like this.’

She patted his hand and stood up. ‘I cannot agree more, Sam,’ she told him gently, ‘but we cannot choose where we hide our lives in times of crises. Come you now, let us see if our council will throw up any answers. I am glad that we have had this little time to talk but the main part of what I have to say should be heard by all. I will tell you about the gift I would give you after we have met with the others. For now there are hard decisions to be made and much to be debated and we must not let ourselves blunder down the wrong path.’ And saying that she took him by the hand and gently led him away to the Hall of Crystals.

The Hall was wide and oval shaped and the walls were encrusted with sharp edged gleaming crystals. The lofty roof was hung with stalagmites that glittered and tinkled like wind chimes set on a Tillvil balcony. It was a wondrous place that only an Elf mind could have devised and the wind that wafted in through the big square open windows was caught in muslin filters and cooled so that always a gentle breeze ruffled at the tapestries and the curtains.

A round table of willow wood was set with fruit and cheese and bread and jugs of water and wine. Waiting for them and already seated at this table was Dagomir and Olwynn and Cerowynn all together in a huddle, then the Elves; there was Haldir and Menegrim and Ûlgrim and many others, and sitting apart from them but obviously an Elf there was a scowling dark

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faced dark eyed lord who introduced himself as Fëanor. Sam was a little taken aback by this for he remembered that, if this was the same Fëanor, he was a figure almost of legend. It was him the Aldudēnië said was responsible for the Darkening of Valinor; perhaps he was, but he was also, Sam knew, the genius who created those same palantiri and the Silmarils that were the cause of as much of the worlds sorrow as its beauty.

There too at the table was an Elf that Sam recognised as being one of those who had been with Gildor Inglorion when he and his party met the Ring Companions when they were fleeing the Shire before the Black Riders. He laughed loudly when he saw Sam and said: ‘By Elbereth Samwise Hamfast’s son I am glad to see that the stars have shone upon you and brought our roads together once again.’

‘And I praise the day that brings me to Calabród,’ Sam answered in return.

Also at the table was Tickler, with Arnaud Took beside him, and at their side was a tall knight of noble stern countenance. He was introduced to them as Brangildas of the Anugai and, though Sam did not know it, he was the very man who had rendered such valuable assistance to the companions when they were threatened by Jherzy in the Dragon of the North at Skarlsdag.

Galadriel and Sam took their appointed places at the table; Galadriel sat upon the high seat which was once Celeborn’s, that Sindar prince of Doriath who famously destroyed Sauron’s stronghold at Dol Guldur and who was her husband; and Sam took the seat next to Tickler.

Much to the great delight of the hobbits, and the amusement of those others there gathered, all save the angry looking Fëanor, attendants brought clay pipes for the hobbits and pouches that bulged with pipe-weed. While Sam and Tickler and Arnaud busied themselves with charging their pipes and lighting up Galadriel coughed to clear her throat and opened the council:

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‘Well known is the love the Shire folk have for the nicotiana. I am told this weed is very close in taste to your own Longbottom variety.’

‘South Farthing Blue!’ Arnaud Took exclaimed in delight, between seizing great puffs and exhaling clouds of wispy gray.

‘Very similar indeed,’ Sam agreed appreciatively.

‘It is passable good,’ Tickler added.

Fëanor scoffed: ‘and you say that these halflings are important to what we do, Altariel?’

Galadriel cast a sharp look in the scowling Elf Lord’s direction. ‘Do not be too hasty in thy judgement of them, Fëanor. It was Halflings who sat and dangled their feet over the lip of Orodruin and smoked their pipes while they did it.’

Sam thought to himself that was not entirely true, but he did not say anything. He considered the best policy was one of wait and see, particularly where this hostile Elf Lord was concerned. After all, he reasoned, he was only interested in finding and rescuing Frodo and Gandalf and anything else thereafter, so far as he was concerned, could wait for another time.

‘Pah! What is Orodruin to me?’ retorted Fëanor derisively; ‘It was Gandalf himself instructed me in their history, and poor and pitifully short I found it. Pointless too, if indeed it is so that the Dark Lord is not vanquished. And as for those of our people who stayed till the last, Altariel, why they could not even keep hold on a simple palantiri.’

‘Then let us debate of these matters,’ Galadriel suggested, smiling sweetly as she did so.

Fëanor subsided, but kept the dark angry look upon his face, and while Galadriel spoke the three hobbits puffed contentedly without any concern upon their pipes.

‘Before we throw the floor open to all and debate together in council, I will tell you what we already know concerning the evil that is feared loose upon the world. We have reports

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of many lands in the south that lie under a black hand. Two powers have raised towers in the twin lands of Caffirod and Hador, or perhaps it is but one power, His. ‘Strange wild creatures that were not before known to the folk of the West are roving at large over wide areas. We have sent envoys to our neighbours and we learn that they too fear the reports that come to them from out of the South, for there are many fierce and warlike peoples who dwell there and it is said these peoples are banding together in a great alliance.

‘And too for many long years there have been signs and portents there to be read by those who had understanding. We know that in the lands of the Khanite tribesmen, who are the most numerous of all the folk of the Western-Lands, there are many Shamans who have unwittingly fallen under the sway of the Dark Lord. We know this to be true for Brangildas is a prince amongst his own people and he has heard that secret and most abominated of His names spoken in ceremonies.’

‘I was there, lady, and I saw with these eyes when he was destroyed and dispersed like a mist on the wind,’ Sam said, a little lamely. He felt that he had to say something in defence of the great achievements of the Ring Companions: ‘At least,’ he added after a moment, ‘I think he was.’

‘Yes, Sam, you were there at Mount Doom and you saw what you saw. You were there when the Black Gate opened and when the Field of Cormallen ran sticky with the blood of the enemy. Yes, indeed, you were there. But Sauron was not destroyed as you believe he was.’

At the hearing of this a gasp rose in the hall, even though it was for this very reason most of them were there, for no one had yet said with certainty that which all had hoped was not really so: that Sauron the Dark Lord was not destroyed and his evil was abroad again.

Galadriel let a whisper rise and fall and then she continued: ‘He did not fall and the Ring was not destroyed. Oh, it went into the fires to be sure, but you did not tarry long enough Sam to be sure of it. The events that followed were sign enough for you that it was gone. So,

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when you carried your Mister Frodo out onto the Sammath Naur you assumed that the Ring was destroyed and with it Sauron.’

‘That is true enough,’ Sam agreed.

‘It was Gollum Smeagol undid the good work of you and Frodo, for though he desired it more than life itself even he could not hold onto it when he fell and it slipped from his grasp, just as it had all those years earlier when he lost it to the hobbit Bilbo Baggins in the black Orcmines deep under the Misty Mountains. The fires were so fierce that as they tumbled down a blast of hot air rushed up from below and the Ring was blown onto a ledge. There it melted and seeped into cracks in the rock, running down in molten rivulets that suffused and became one with the hard black obsidian of which the ledge was composed. The rock had been there for a very long time and it was almost as though it had been waiting for at the very instant when it became one with the Ring it cried out to Him. Oh, but he was cunning. In that moment when his doom seemed so very certain and was imminent he heard the cry and he rushed his essence by secret paths to the chamber where rock and ring waited. His black heart knew then that he would live on and that this defeat was but a passing moment in his long history. He made himself one with rock and ring and then, with his strength renewed by the fusion, just as he had done to us at Dol Guldur when he played the role of the Necromancer, he sent out many false and shadowing visions that led Gandalf and the Captains of the West to believe him cast down and his armies destroyed. They were deceived. And if he could he would have done more and he might have wrought great harm upon our cause and smote back at our force, but in fusing his essence with Rock and Ring his terrible power broke the obsidian into five black pieces.

This fragmenting of the rock rendered him temporarily powerless and he could do nothing to influence the battle that broke his strength on Middle-earth.

‘Yet, he did not despair for he knew that very deep in the bowels of Mount Doom there were great tunnels and caverns and runnels that ran away under Mordor and beneath Ithilien

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and Lebennin. These tunnels did not stop where the land did but went on, running beneath the Bay of Belfalas and under the Great Sea to this continent in the West. He knew that he was beaten but he was remorseless as he opened the tunnels and led so many of his evil followers as could follow out to their escape; wargs there were, and whole regiments of Orcs, wolves and trolls, half-men, black-skinned warriors from Harad and Khand, Uruk legions untouched. And the Nazgûl were there too. We thought them all destroyed but they were not. Once more we have been deceived.’

There was a minute of stunned silence before Dagomir’s voice rang out clear and loud.

‘That is quite a tale, madam, and if it is true then it explains much of the dreams and portents that have been descried on Middle-earth. But if it is true and the enemy have hidden themselves away in these lands then they have achieved it with some skill. Where have they been all this time? Where did they emerge from the tunnels?’

‘There are mountains in the southern lands of Ankabarra and Hador that are as lofty as any you will find on Middle-earth. It was in the mountains they came up. The reports we have speak of a power that holds sway from the banks of the swift flowing Earn at Caffirod to the wild lands of Orongalld. These are southern lands protected behind a screen of mountains.’

‘But,’ Dagomir persisted, ‘I do not understand. How do you know all of this? And if the Ring is melted and its power is diminished, as you say, even if He does gain territory here why should that be any of our concern? Are there not men enough in these lands to face him off?’

Galadriel fixed Dagomir with a look for a moment and Sam knew exactly what she was thinking: she was thinking how like his grandfather he was. Then after a moment she smiled and answered him. ‘We learn much from studying the reports brought to us by our neighbours.

Some are friends now. And each night the Tindómerel sings across the rooftops of the city, bringing news. You call it the nightingale, Lord Dagomir. Then, of course, when he was in

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our midst, Gandalf discovered much. But we did not return to fight for this land or that, or for all of them together for that matter, and it is not why you have come. We are here because of the great bonds and ties of love and friendship that hold us fast. The Dark Lord’s power is incomplete, which even though it is strong still especially now that he is joined with the riven Ring, there is something missing for him. It is a thing that he desires above everything else, just as once he desired the Ring.’

‘And it is not the Palantir he desires,’ Fëanor said with cold certainty; ‘though it is true, so far as can be ascertained, he and his servants desire that too. It leads me to the conclusion that the Palantiri is not in the hands of any that are friend to him. So far as I am concerned I am very glad that stone of my making is not the principal desire of Sauron for it is only a fools pang of guilt has brought me and mine back here.’

‘Guilt? Fëanor feels guilt?’ Galadriel raised her eyebrows as she uttered her response.

‘Guilt, yes. Why not?’

‘How so?’ Cerowynn interrupted, a tone of annoyance in her voice. ‘You speak as though the rest of us were of little consequence and to our hobbit friends you are openly hostile.

My mother has told me about you. She called you the “Smith”, but she did not have any kind words for you.’

Fëanor smiled a little secret smile and replied: ‘Ah, now there, lady, you have me at a disadvantage. Who is your mother? And who is she to speak thus of me?’

Cerowynn cast a sideways glance in Galadriel’s direction before answering. ‘My mother is named Arwen, who is also Undomiel, and she is the daughter of Elrond and Celebrian of Rivendell. I think that says enough of why it is that she may speak of any as she will, if what she has to say be the truth.’

‘Hah! And did she tell you Fëanor was renowned for his might in skill of word and of hand? Or that he was more learned in lore than any of his brethren? Or that in his heart his

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spirit burned as flame? Did she tell you that Fëanor was thought of as our“spirit of fire” or that no other creature alive could have created the Silmarils? Did she tell you any of that?’

‘She told me that the “Darkening” was of your doing and that it was you led the first slaying of Elf by Elf. That is no thing to be proud of.’

Tickler and Arnaud exchanged worried glances: this falling out between those who ought to be friends was unsettling for them, particularly after all the fine stories about Elves they had read in the books. Arnaud raised his eyebrows, which was a characteristic of his that indicated disapproval, and the gesture seemed to galvanise Tickler.

‘Lawks, dad!’ he spluttered, ‘I don’t know why you have bothered to come here. They don’t do nothing but fight among themselves and in my book that makes ‘em worse than useless. Or at least next to.’

There were quite a few chuckles raised by this outburst but the laughter died when Haldir raised a slim hand and spoke: ‘You are right, Master Tickler Gamgee. Of course you are right. You have your sire’s blunt head-on approach when it comes to such matters, but you wrong the Lord Fëanor. History often will differ from the facts and sometimes the truth is the first casualty of the historian’s pen.’

‘Why, even the lore of the stones is now largely forgotten,’ Menegrim added.

‘Master Tickler is right about one thing,’ Galadriel said in a stern voice; ‘there is nothing to be gained from squabbling among friends.’

Fëanor smiled and nodded his head and Cerowynn flushed crimson and looked abashed.

After a pause Galadriel continued: ‘Gandalf discovered that wretched creature Gollum hiding out in the Forest of Damant, for though that poor tormented thing was terribly burned when he fell down into the fires at Mount Doom, incredibly he once more survived. Gandalf, it must be said, was only abroad at the behest of Radagast, and he only detained Gollum long enough to question him. What

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Gandalf learned took him to Tiriel first and then soon enough to all the places of the Blessed Land where he found friends. I shall be brief in this part for it is of no importance to the why’s and the wherefores of this thing. It will suffice to say that his words were of sufficient force to bring many back with him and from out of what motive is of no matter. Some came alone of their own will, such as Frodo Baggins, and some came because they would not surrender their loyalty to a lord they had served for so long they could scarce remember when their oaths of loyalty were first given. That is how it is for Fëanor and his Noldor guard and Menegrim’s Urlanders.’

Sam was stunned to learn that his old nemesis Gollum survived, but he said nothing though Galadriel flashed him a look. She went on: ‘But there were many who would not come. They refused to give up the Blessed Lands.

Even my own beloved Celeborn questioned why we should come back. He told me: ‘“The Change in the World means that if we go we can never return again and that is harsher than anything I can contemplate.” Elrond went farther: ‘“It is a world of Men now. Let them have all the pain if they are to reap all the harvests. Why, if Isildur had destroyed the Ring when the chance was his how much suffering would be saved? No, I for one will not be returning.” But it was perhaps Amdir who put the dissenter’s case best. He told Gandalf: ‘“I will not go, for I at least understand the mortal world. It is full up with hope and ideals and good intentions.

But I shall not go in pursuit of an intention that is little more than a false and forlorn vainglorious hope.”

‘Yet for all that, I like to think that those of us who have come back have that at least that we can cling to. Hope, I mean.’

Fëanor snorted at that. He was clearly irritated for he was drumming his fingers rhythmically on the tabletop, but equally clear was how he was holding himself in check. ‘You stick with your hope, lady, and see if it will survive another half-year,’ he said caustically;

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Fëanor did not come back for any of these creatures that swarm upon the world like vermin on a mangy dog’s back. I came back for that same reason that had me chase Melkor across half a world. Galadriel comes to me with Mithrandir, who I scarce knew and still don’t, and they tell me one of my stones might be the cause of a great mischief in the world. Fëanor knows well enough what his sin is and where his obligations lie and though me and mine cannot ever return again to the home of the Valar, yet we came. Here we are and here we will stay. I tell you this now, though, and I bid you take note, when we have recovered the stone our debt is paid and we will do nothing more. All the signs forbore the doom of Calabród is drawing nigh, yet I will not allow myself nor mine to be drawn into that darkness with the rest.’

Sam puffed on his pipe and thought about that. ‘Then it is true, you cannot go back,’ he said after a moment.

‘The Straight Road is closed, halfling,’ said Fëanor coldly. ‘Do you not listen?’

Sam smiled and patted his son’s knee in reassurance for the younger hobbits were growing restive and angry with the Elf and his surly and antagonistic attitude.

Galadriel turned kindly eyes upon the hobbits. ‘No,’ she said with a sigh, ‘we cannot now leave this world and we are doomed in time to share that fate which ultimately overcomes all men. But, oh Fëanor, there is still so much in life that is left to us, if we wish it to be so.

Look you now, you say that you are concerned for the palantir; Brangildas knows something of that.’

Brangildas eyed Fëanor coldly for a moment before he raised his voice to speak: ‘I do not know the nature of this thing, or if it is a thing of power or value, but I am of these lands and I have more in the way of knowledge concerning it than any here.

‘I will not take up time with telling you anything of my people for our history is long and it is oftimes a depressing litany of wars and treachery. We are a very ancient people and we are divided into many clans, more than three hundred. We wander the Khanite steppes at

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will for we are a nomadic people, owing allegiance to no man save our own chiefs and ruling all the land we walk beneath the Sun and the Moon.

‘In the north of the Khush there dwells a fierce tribe of raiders and reivers. They make their pastures about the ruins of the City of Skulls and their yurts are all but permanent. They call themselves the Yasagai and their wars have brought them the overlordship of many of their neighbours. Their chief is a cruel merciless tyrant called Hurio Six Fingers. He is one that we say revels in the chuwam nar lish, which in the common tongue means long raid. In the season before last he led his warriors on a long raid across the wide Raban. They crossed the Great Road and went deep into Uralis. Even for Hurio this was a major enterprise, but the Yasagai did not stop even when they rode over the garrison at Temboi. Their column sliced deep, going as far as the Forest of Damant. They slew many and took much plunder and captured slaves by the thousand, and it took a great battle and terrible slaughter on both sides before Gwerfyll stopped them and drove them back. It was not long after the Yasagai returned to their own lands the rumours began of Hurio bringing back with him a great prize. It is said it is a thing that lets Hurio and his shaman commune direct with Cthulthu.’

Some there let out a gasp and a quiet murmuring passed through the hall for a minute, but it was only Cerowynn who said anything: ‘Cthulthu,’ she said, a deep frown furrowing her brow; ‘I dreamed I heard that name when we were in Skarlsdag. I took it to be an evil portent for in my dream I saw a great black rook falling upon some poor creature in an open field.’

‘Cthulthu was once of our people, Galadriel explained, smiling graciously and nodding in Brangildas’ direction. ‘He was Noldor and he was first to be named Golug by the Goblin folk, though later they found they had no reason to hate him. He allowed that he should be corrupted by Morgoth and he allied himself with him and betrayed his own. He fought on the side of darkness when Morgoth made war upon the Valar and was in the ranks of the host commanded by Gothmog.’ At the hearing of that name Fëanor growled and hawked and spat

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on his hand and made a sign to ward off evil, but Galadriel made a point of ignoring him and continued without pause: ‘Cthulthu wandered in places and did things that bent him beyond any help his kin might have been able to render to him even had he willed it. In time his corruption became complete so that no longer was he the “fair”, save to the eyes of him that made him, for whom his twisted body and scarred mind was a thing of perfect beauty.

‘And his deeds are known to us all, save the hobbits and Brangildas. At the Battle of Unnumbered Tears he betrayed Fingol to his death and Hurin to terrible torture and imprisonment on a crag of Thangorodrim. After that, in contemplation of what he knew he had done, there must have been some semblance of his old self remaining somewhere deep within him, some dim glimmer of conscience, for he tried to repent, so far as his fallen mind could manage it. He journeyed to the Deathless Lands but he so offended the sight of Manwë that he was driven away, for Manwë pitied him when he saw him and would not kill something that once had been so beautiful. So for a long time he made his dwelling amidst the ancient nomads of the Khanite Khush, in places remembered in the lore of the tribesmen as Leithien.

‘Yet it might have been that Manwë still would have forgiven him had it not been for the terrible harm that had been wrought upon the minds of the creatures that the Gods so loved and favoured. Melkor poured his poisons of Cthulthu in their ears and sowed hatred of him in their hearts. Morgoth Bauglir, mighty and accursed, the Power of Terror and of Hate, planted in the hearts of Elves and Men a seed that would not die and could not be healed even by the Gods; and ever and anon till these days it continues to sprout anew and it bears dark fruit that, though it be confined to the Khanite, is cancer enough upon the world.

‘It came to pass that Cthulthu could not sustain a mortal form and so he passed into the memory of the tribal peoples as a God, a black and terrible God that came to them and came upon them in the deeps of their nightmares. He is a greedy God and he is a God with allies.

After centuries, during the bloody years of which suckled babes uncounted were fed to the

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sacrificial fires, Sûr, whom the foul folk call Thû, came in the likeness of a great horse. The tribal folk named the horse Maeras, though they did not know why they chose that name, and when it appeared, running like a fast wind across the grassy steppes, it was seen by all at the same instant and all knew at once and together what it portended. The shaman went out then and commenced to preach a message of deliverance and they prophesied the return of Morgoth and a day when the Khanite would rule the world. Only Morgoth did not come in person. He came as a spirit and as a shadow upon the mind and the heart, he came as sickness, he came as loss, he came as the hand of death, for he was shut away in the prison the Gods had made for him beyond the Walls of the World and his power was fey. Then Manwë perceived that Cthulthu still moved upon the face of the land in service to his dark master and Manwë was angered. He raised Grond the Mace and Cthulthu was dragged away to the nether-world, where now he lies trapped in blackness.’

Fëanor snorted and hooted a laugh. ‘I had wondered where he had gone skulking off to.’ He stood and raised a mailed fist, bunched. ‘If I had him under this hand there is nothing that would save that traitor! Nothing! Manwë was soft.’

‘Sit you down,’ Galadriel said wearily. ‘This is a council, Fëanor.’

The Elf Lord glowered at Brangildas for a moment. He did not smile as the young Khanite prince defiantly returned his stare and after a tense moment he sat back down again abruptly.

‘Better,’ said Galadriel, as though she were addressing a naughty child. ‘Now, where does that leaves us? We know that Sauron is not destroyed and that he is establishing a power base in the south. His evil breed’s evil and we know that Sûr, whom the Orcs call Thû is none other than Sauron as he was known in ancient times. We are here and there is no cure for that.

So, we must think on how we can defeat him for if he wins he will surely go back to Middleearth. He will not stay here for his black desire has always been to rule the world from Mordor.’

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‘And what of Gandalf then?’ Sam asked pointedly. ‘Is there anything that we can achieve without his guidance?’

‘We know not wither Gandalf has gone. We have searched, Sam, trust me we have searched. His dream-sending indicates that he lives still, for in you it is very strong, but it might be that he lies under restraint or has lost the power to act according to his own will. It might even be that this is some new and diabolical trick of the enemy. Gandalf may be slain.’

‘I do not think so,’ Sam said firmly. ‘He came to me when I was at the forest of the Kinderlorn and again when I was lying in a fever at Skarlsdag.’

‘The point, as I see it,’ Dagomir interrupted, ‘is that what we have on our hands is a war. That is a fact, if all that we have heard is so, but I fail to see how it has anything to do with our being here. This war would have fallen on these lands anyway. I cannot speak for Olwynn or Cerowynn but I am pledged to the cause of Sam Gamgee, whatever that cause might turn out to be, and that is the promise I have made my king. But I confess, lady, I am no nearer to discovering what the cause is.’

‘No, that is true,’ Olwynn said after a moments thought. ‘I am of a similar mind. I will not forsake Sam either, even if I die ignorant of the reason why.’

‘Nor will I abandon him,’ Cerowynn added quickly, at which Tickler and Arnaud piped up, stating they would remain by his side too, which made Sam blush and beam with pride.

‘Well now,’ said Galadriel, ‘that would seem to be unanimous. And it is not to be argued with. Yet, I know better than most what sacrifice is demanded in these days. When I went to Celeborn and sought to persuade him that he should return with us he said he would not. He told me: ‘“I will not come Galadriel and if, in you going from here it should be that I lose you it would be no different if I lost you, or you me, to illness or some other mortal death, even old age, or any of the cruel and capricious afflictions of that place. Let us choose to do our duty willingly, as a free folk, or choose not to, for the end result of both choices is the same.

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We would be forced one day to be parted forever, and, if then you should find a way to seek for me my love do so in some high place. There, that small gentle wind that you feel cool and caressing upon your flushed brow, that will be my lips seeking you out across the mists of time.” My heart is sorely charged for loss of my Celeborn.

‘But you ask me what is the nature of our cause Lord Dagomir. I answer you most frankly, other than the most general cause that comes with opposition to Sauron and all those things that are of him, I do not know. I think for that answer we must wait for Sam, for if he cannot divine what is to be done during the waking hours then perhaps only the world of dreams will provide the answer.’

‘And while we wait to discover the answer perhaps we should send another party to seek for Frodo and Nolumir and the rest,’ Haldir said.

‘And lose yet more of our number?’ Menegrim scoffed. ‘We are few enough as it is and we cannot afford more losses while the city lies under threat from a Thurak army that hunts us day and night. No! Menegrim says no!’

‘And I say yes! And a thousand times yes!’ a new voice called out loud and clear. All eyes turned to see a tall fair-haired and keen-eyed elven prince standing by the open doors. He was noble and proud, travel-stained and begrimed with dust, straight-backed and stern-eyed.

In his hand he held a longbow made of white wood and a quiver that bulged with goose quilled arrows and from beneath his weather worn cloak jutted the pommel of his sword.

At once and at sight of him Sam jumped to his feet and rushed to the newcomer and they embraced, the Elf almost lifting Sam from his feet. ‘Legolas! Legolas!’ Sam cried out in his joy.

‘Sam Gamgee, lord of the Shire.’ Legolas laughed loud. ‘What joy! What joy! To see such a dear friend once more, and better for seeing that you are hale and hearty, if a little

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weathered around the chops. And what is this that I see? You brought some Shire folk to keep you company.’

Sam took Legolas by the hand and led him to the table and there he made the introductions.

Legolas gazed at Tickler’s face for some seconds, seeking for signs of

similarities between father and son.

‘Legolas Greenleaf,’ Galadriel addressed him formally, ‘we are well met under the stars.’

‘Well met Galadriel, daughter of Eärwen. How do you?’

‘Well enough. And how does Ithilien?’

Legolas’ face darkened, his brow furrowed, and his handsome features grew stern.

‘Ithilien is gone to war, under the King’s white tree standard’ he told her in a morbid tone, ‘or else following Gimli son of Gloin into the darkest part of Mordor. His folk have all vanished into the tunnels beneath the fires of Orodruin. They went at the command of mad King Baldur.’

An attendant came behind Legolas carrying a chair and he set it beside Sam. Legolas sat down and placed his bow and quiver on the tabletop. ‘I have come following a dream that I had,’ he explained, ‘for with Gimli gone Ithilien is an empty place for me.’

‘You dreamt of Gandalf too?’ Sam whispered in a low voice.

Legolas nodded his head slowly, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Indeed. But it is not Gandalf concerns me. When I came through that door did I hear you right you will not seek for Frodo?’

‘Frodo took a sizeable company with him when he went to the south and not a one has returned,’ Galadriel answered.

‘We love Frodo Baggins, but we cannot afford more losses Legolas Greenleaf,’ Menegrim added.

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Legolas snorted. ‘I do not know what it is that you do here, when all thought our folk living in peace for all time in the Blessed Lands, but I for one will not abandon the Ringbearer.

I did that once and I will not do it again. If you have no proof he is slain then Legolas will seek him out, alone if needs be, and I will not rest until I find him or learn what has become of him.

That will be Legolas’ quest.’

‘That is your own free choice, Legolas Greenleaf,’ Galadriel told him smoothly, ‘for you are free to follow your heart as you will. But did you hear anything of what we discussed in council?’

‘I heard. From the door.’

‘Then you must know that the fear Menegrim holds for the city is real. Nenya’s power is fading swiftly and she dies a little more with the rising of each new day’s sun. When I no longer have Nenya the city will not be hidden from mortal eyes by night. We will no longer be able to shift away. Then they will come in their angry hordes with their battering rams and their sieging engines. We lament the loss of Frodo but we have weightier matters to consider.’

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat but he kept his silence. Only Legolas would not let the matter of Frodo lie. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a minute and then smiled a smile that did not suggest there was any humour or warmth behind it. ‘Nevertheless,’ he persisted, ‘I will not leave Frodo. I have lost Gimli as it seems and I will not let the same happen to Frodo if I can help it.’ Then, for the first time he noticed Cerowynn and it seemed he was struck by a sudden physical bolt that pierced his body. He was forced to draw in a deep draught of breath and it was though he was suddenly seeing the living world for the first time, like a naked newborn babe opening its eyes upon reality. His bright blue eyes fastened upon her, locking with her large dark hazel eyes. She stared back at him defiantly, her eyebrows arching up for a moment, and it seemed she scowled but Sam noticed a faint smile that fleeted at her lips.

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‘So, where does all of this leave us? Fëanor grumbled impatiently. ‘The hour is grown late and Galadriel has said naught that was not already largely known.’

Legolas frowned and dragged his eyes away from Cerowynn for a moment. ‘I do not know you sir,’ he said stiffly to Fëanor.

Fëanor grinned. ‘I am Fëanor, who was Curufinwe.’

‘I thought you dead.’

‘I thought I was dead,’ Fëanor laughed. ‘Eressëa can be so very boring when it is penal and not purgatorial. Forever is a very long time, Legolas Greenleaf.’ Galadriel shook her head and cast a disapproving glance in Fëanor’s direction but he ignored it and went on: ‘the histories tell that I am slain, so much is true. It was said the terrible Gothmog of Angband cast me down, and many there are who take pleasure in thinking it so, but I was not slain. They say that Fëanor was foolish, for after Dagor-os Giliath they saw him go forth upon Bladorion in too soon and rash pursuit. They said they saw him wreathed in fire and that afterwards his sons bore him away to die. That was not so. I wore an amulet at my throat. It was a stone of my own making, a Robill, and the flames of the Balrogs did me no hurt. Only my mind suffered and was for a time wounded, and when that hurt was healed, after Morgoth hung my Maidros in the hell-wrought steel above Thangorodrim’s loftiest of crags, I lost heart and went into exile. I was happy to let the histories read as they would. I hid myself away from the world and shunned life itself, that much is true. But dead? No sir, not dead. Far from it.’

Legolas shrugged his shoulders. ‘That tale of yours would likely find willing ears in Minas Tirith but it adds nothing to enlighten me, and is of little concern to me. Everyone has a story to tell, whether tragic or full with happiness. All that I will say to this council is that Legolas is resolved. I will not forsake Frodo.’

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‘There were many friends went out with Frodo,’ Galadriel said sharply. ‘You have no monopoly on grief, Legolas Greenleaf, and though your loyalty be admirable as your great love it is no greater than that harboured by many another here gathered.

‘Aye, that is true,’ Menegrim agreed in a sad voice; ‘we have seen the last I think of many that came here with us and we can ill afford to lose them; Glorfindel of the Yellow Harp, Erestor, Ilóder, Nolumir, and many more too numerous to name.’

‘What Menegrim says,’ the cheery faced Ûlgrim added, ‘is that it is foolish to risk more of our spears in chasing what might not after all be the main chance. Sad though is the contemplation of losing Frodo Baggins.’

Legolas sighed deeply. He would not let anything sway him or prevent him from going in search of Frodo, and Galadriel could see that, and he made no reply. After a few seconds of silence he looked at Cerowynn.

Cerowynn looked at Legolas.

Haldir, ever the diplomat, who had learned well from Elrond at Rivendell, now spoke: ‘Fëanor is right. The hour is late and for all our talk we still know little more than we did when we commenced this council. The Enemy has withstood the loss of his Ring and the loss of his fortress in Mordor. His purpose is clear, as it has ever been since the days the world was first made round, but his immediate plans we cannot see. We know only that his shadow is creeping forth and laps upon the edge of many places. For many Atropos hath already cut the thread.’

A bell rang out clear and sonorous. Haldir paused for a moment to listen. ‘The midnight bell,’ he said, yawning. ‘It is late and we can do nothing but wait and see what our waiting will bring.’

‘Wise words, Haldir,’ said Galadriel. ‘Let us meet again when there is something to be said.’

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Then the council ended and the hall quickly emptied of everyone save Legolas and Cerowynn, who lingered behind only half knowing why they did.

They stood at opposite ends of the long table and regarded one another with some degree of wariness, each sizing the other up. At length, after a nervous pause of what seemed many minutes, but which was really only a few brief seconds, Cerowynn broke the silence: ‘It is rude to stare.’

‘Forgive me, lady, I did not know that I was.’

‘Manners, Lord Legolas. You did not stare so at me when last we met.’

Legolas frowned. He racked his memory. ‘We have met?’

‘When I was a small child I saw you,’ she told him.

Legolas looked thoroughly puzzled. He edged his way around the table, coming closer to her, but she matched him going in the opposite direction. ‘Me? You met me?’ He asked in a low voice. ‘Where did you lady?’

‘I was a little girl when my mother desired to see the lost places of her people. We went to Los Gaellynt in Ithilien and you held a banquet for us beneath a tree that blossomed gold. And I sat on your knee.’

Legolas chuckled and gasped. ‘Laurinque that tree. Why, even Gimli loves them. I remember! You are Cerowynn. Lady, how you have grown.’

She laughed. ‘You could not tempt me to your knee with candy strands now, Lord Legolas. Well, not so easy.’

‘You were an imp,’ he laughed.

‘And how you do stare,’ she told him. ‘Where are your manners sir?’

‘Forgive me, Cerowynn, I am helpless in the sight of such beauty. For many a long year I shared a home with your mother in Rivendell and I was bound with oaths of fealty to

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Elrond and Celebrian. They were my lord and lady, and indeed Galadriel herself is your greatgrandmother.’

His words changed the atmosphere between them for a moment. ‘She has barely even acknowledged me,’ Cerowynn said bitterly; ‘a body would scarce know we are kin.’

‘There is a heavy burden thrust upon her once again,’ Legolas told her, ‘but I have known her for a very long time and I tell you she sees you and there is love in her eyes when she regards you.’ As he spoke Legolas could not prevent himself from gazing deep into the dark pools of her eyes and from looking with longing upon her beautiful face. He whispered: ‘She has known so much loss and sadness and it is perchance her way of shielding herself from further hurt.’

She smiled at him then and bit her lip and a look of pure mischief flitted into her eyes.

It was a look that honest Legolas missed. ‘How you do stare, Legolas,’ she said, almost in a whisper.

He shivered, and then he laughed. ‘Oh, beautiful lady, it is difficult. I cannot help myself. I see Aragorn and Arwen in you: I see the Hornburg and the Passes of the Dead: I see Mindolluin and fair Amon Obel; I see again Pelargir and the bridge at Khazad-dûm. I see in your eyes the cool rushing waters of the Loudwater, and the high mist shrouded peaks of the mountains about Imladris. I see in you Cerowynn every moment of my life and all that I have ever loved.’ All of this came from Legolas in a rush of words unbidden and he was breathless and his head swam as he stood watching for a reaction from her.

‘Well now,’ she said slowly and very deliberately, ‘that was quite a mouthful Master Legolas.’

That caused them to fall silent for they knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that something momentous in their lives had just occurred, and Cerowynn, despite everything

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within her screaming ‘no!’ found herself helpless to prevent herself from staring back at the fair face of the famous Elf. They moved three paces each towards one another and when they were quite close Cerowynn broke the spell that lay between them. ‘There are many gardens here in Calabród,’ she said; ‘we can walk them together, and talk, if you wish, of Middle-earth and the folk we know. If you wish it.’

They went together to one of the many tiered gardens of the city, passing along the corridors together in silence, their shoulders almost but not quite touching, their breath mingling. Cerowynn took him to a garden she had discovered earlier in the day, where there were many lovely trees all shadowed together, elm and ash, sitka spruce and hornbeam, rowan and laurinque, birch and beech and sycamore, and many others, some that were found only on Middle-earth and were brought to Calabród as seeds or saplings. And there were many scented plants and flowers growing in great profusion in that garden; avens and ground ivy, cinquefoil and sweet woodruff, and the healing plant Asëa Aranion, which in the language of Men is kingsfoil. And too there was Galenas and many another of the healing plants gifted to the world by Estë the Healer.

And as they walked in the gardens and listened to the sweet songs of the Kirinki and the Lómelindi, where they flew above and played amidst the high branches, Legolas gathered Mallos, the “gold snow”, whose bloom never faded, and to it he added Lissum and Simbelmynë, which in the tongue of Men is Evermind, and pretty pink Protea, which he then wove into a garland that he presented to Cerowynn.

High overhead on a balcony Galadriel and Sam stood together. They looked down upon Legolas and Cerowynn where they walked side by side in the garden. Cerowynn may have felt that Galadriel shared little kinship with her but that was not so. Indeed, albeit secretly,

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Galadriel was so attentive of her kinswoman that she alone noticed the little furtive looks passing between Cerowynn and Legolas in the hall earlier.

‘They make for a good looking couple,’ Sam remarked wistfully. ‘I remember when me and my Rose were like that.’

Galadriel smiled. ‘Sam Gamgee, you are a complex creature. But I agree with you, there is indeed something there. And it has happened in the wink of an eye.’

‘In the midst of all this madness,’ Sam chuckled, ‘love can still take root and blossom.’

‘That is the nature of life, Sam.’ Galadriel sighed, then abruptly she turned to Sam and asked him: ‘Now, and just as important, are you willing to accept my gift?’

‘You know that I trust you in all things. Command me.’

‘Oh no, Sam, it is not that simple. Your acceptance must be freely given.’

‘Oh, bother!’ Sam retorted. ‘I had a feeling it would come down to this sort of business again. It is my responsibility, is it?’

‘All you need do is accept the cup and drink of the potion I give you and that will be that.’

Sam snorted. ‘The last time I heard that it cost me five gold Gondor coins and I had to take Lissua. And I don’t approve of neither.’

‘Do not fear, Sam,’ Galadriel said gently, placing a hand upon his shoulder, ‘there is nothing like that.’

Sam thought about this for a moment and then that stubborn and suspicious side to his nature rose within him. He looked up at her face and she could see that despite his smile there was a frown on his forehead.

‘I will take your potion lady,’ he said, ‘if you will answer two questions for me, for I confess they have me puzzled.’

‘You may ask me and if I can answer I will,’ Galadriel responded warily.

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Sam added without pause: ‘What is going on between you and that feller Fëanor? I mean, I know he is the antagonistic sort, any fool can see that, but there is something angry twixt him and you. Seems to me there is yet something outstanding waiting to be resolved.’

A dark veil descended across Galadriel’s face just as it had that far off day in Lothlórien when Frodo offered her the One Ring. She folded her arms across her breast and regarded him shrewdly.

‘I know that you do not trust him,’ she said, ‘but that should not be allowed to cloud your judgement in any dealings you may have with him. I will not answer your question myself for that would not be fair to Fëanor. Instead I give you leave to speak with Haldir. Is that enough for you my inquisitive hobbit?’

‘It is enough, lady, if you will answer then my second question.’

‘Then ask it of me,’ Galadriel said with a chuckle, ‘for I can guess at it.’

‘Anadriel the Oracle,’ Sam said, ‘I have been told that Mîm was her sire, but the histories say that he was the last of his folk.’

‘She made an impression on you then.’

‘I am just curious,’ Sam replied airily, and then said more firmly, ‘or perhaps I am more than that. There are just so many blamed inconsistencies in the lores. Take Fëanor as an example: Whole world thought he was dead.’

‘It matters little,’ Galadriel told him, ‘whether the lore or the history is true or no. Who will there be left behind to remember us? But I will tell you anyway of your Anadriel. Her father was Mîm. He was the last king of the Noegyth Nibin, or the Petty Dwarves as they are most commonly referred to and known on Middle-earth. They were a poor doomed folk who inhabited the cold forest lands that ran beside the River Narog and delved halls at Amon Rúdh and Nulukkizdîn. They were the sort of folk who were unlovely to look upon and were much

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misunderstood and so were largely shunned, although the Sindar almost hunted them to extinction.

‘Years passed and this miserable folk dwindled through being hunted and falling prey to disease until there came a time that only Mîm and his two sons remained. Mîm’s two sons, Ibun and Khîm, were slain in a fight with Orcs and he wandered for a while mad and alone until he found sanctuary with the Sindar outcast Sílam of the golden hair. They were an odd couple to be sure but they got on well enough, being outcasts together, and they dwelt for a time under the sun in a rude cabin at Taur-en-Faroth. They were happy for a while and they beget a maid-child, but the Orcs came back and Sílam, as any mother would, died in defence of her child. Mîm knew he could not raise the child alone without Sílam and so he gave her into the care of the Sindar of Nan-Tathren.’

‘And that child was Anadriel?’

‘Yes, the child was Anadriel. She grew and she thrived amongst the Sindar but she was never one of them. Still, they did not deprive her of anything and in due time she inherited Nauglomír, as was her right, and through it she became Vilocârni, the Dreamweaver. She was to be neither of the Elf race nor still less was she Dwarf and certainly she could never be considered of the race of Men. She assumed a destiny that it was said would have been reserved for her mother, to act as a guide when the Time of Change came around again, and she has never shirked that responsibility. This is what she does at Bree.’

Sam yawned. He was very tired but he was also curious still. ‘And what happened to Mîm?’ he asked her.

‘Mîm?’ she laughed. ‘Poor old Mîm fell in with one of the great heroes. I would tell you all about him if you did not look so very tired, but his story is long and is of no importance, save that you are curious, Sam. But as to his end the Tale of Grief relates how Mîm led Turin Turambar and his followers into the ancient Dwarf delvings of Amon-Rûdh, where they found

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shelter in his house, Bar-en-Danwedh. Turin and his Men were hiding out with Mîm and they thought themselves safe, but Mîm was captured by Orcs and saved his own life by betraying Turin and his band. So the Orcs made a surprise attack and slaughtered the outlaws. But Mîm won his freedom to no purpose, for though he lived to amass a great dragon hoard that Glaurung left behind in ruined Nargothrond, it happened that Turin’s father, the warrior called Húrin, came to Mîm’s door. With a single blow Húrin slew Mîm in vengeance and so ended the life of the Petty-dwarf, the last to live within the Circles of the World.

‘Thank you,’ Sam said; ‘that explains much that had been a puzzle to me. But now I am very tired and I think that I must sleep.’

‘Then come to me in the morning, Sam, and you shall have Galadriel’s gift.’

‘Alas, lady, I think that I will have to have a few sharp words with my lad first and that Arnaud Took. I have had no opportunity to sit down with them and though they have no business to be here, and for certain they ought never to have brung the Watch, yet I have to speak to them.’

‘It will be difficult.’

‘I know the families o’ them lads we have left buried in the cold ground on the other side o’ the hills. There will be a lot of weeping in the Shire such as my folk have not known for many a long year. And besides which, lady, I would have the remainder of the Watch go home. Them that’s left have young eyes that have not had a chance to see anything of life and there is still much under the sun that is a joy.’

‘Very well then, Sam,’ Galadriel said, ‘tomorrow you must speak with Tickler and spend a little time with your folk and then you will come to me: at night, when Eärendil Evening Starr is high in the sky.’

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Then Sam left her and when he was gone Galadriel gazed down over her balcony to where Legolas and Cerowynn still walked in the garden, and, despite her deep misgivings, she smiled.

HERE ENDS BOOK 1 OF THE RETURN OF SAURON

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