As Yrill and Captain Culufinnel continued their pursuit, he asked again, “You are certain this is the correct way? We have wasted enough time.”
Having seen what he was capable of in Kheledûl, Yrill trusted the wood-elf far more than she had. He was a most capable soldier who sought after his captured brother. She would do her utmost to aid him, as well as aid Estarfin in his search for his betrothed. “There is a path north, but it is very difficult; narrow and twisting, and with frequent rockfalls. If I knew it to be clear it would be the path to take. But I cannot know. And, as you say, time being of the essence, the path through the Barandalf is the surer one; there are no ‘bad lands’ that way - some wild animals, yes, but we can easily avoid those. Perhaps we will accost some brigands? We can ride over or around them. Annúminas itself, however, is another matter.”
The Captain looked curious as he set his mount’s pace to match hers. A mixed canter and gallop would see the horses covering most ground in the shortest time. “I know little of that place,” he said.
“It is the old City of the Kings of Arnor. The Men of Númenor ruled there and in Gondor. But that was many years past. The city fell into ruin earlier in this age: too many Men, too many Rangers of the North were lost in the war of the Last Alliance, and their numbers never returned. In recent years it has become a hold for wandering grave robbers and plain brigands. There are also rumours of Men of Angmar being sighted, on occasion, though what the Witch King wants with the place, save its location, is unknown.”
“I see. So the brigands are taking them to a fortress? It sounds as if there could be a crowd awaiting us, and we might see more of a struggle than we had with those Dourhands,” he mused.
The two Elves crossed through the gate to Yondershire, maintaining as swift a pace as was wise as they travelled along the Eastway.
“There, and certain parts of the Breeland is likely where the trouble comes from,” Yrill said as she pushed her dark hair from her face in order to see better.
“But there are only two of us: we may find ourselves overwhelmed by greater numbers,” said Culufinnel, his voice expressionless, as if he were merely commenting upon the weather.
Yrill laughed softly and turned to face the skeptical captain. “Do not underestimate our ability. And Lord Estarfin will soon be back among us again. If only you knew. He is not invincible of course, but when I was young and lived in Eregion, Lady Danel would sometimes tell accounts of what he did; his smithing, as well as his military prowess; what he did at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, amongst other places, and other exploits. If he is motivated to do so, he can bring down a legion! And believe me, he is motivated to do just that.”
“Then why did he leave us?”
“He sought his own path, thinking it faster. Swift is his mare on level ground. He will discover his error and rejoin us. Or, if he forces his way through, we shall catch up with him.”
What the captain thought of that, he said nothing, a strange expression in his somber green eyes as they rode on, past Tighfield, and past wooded Nobottle, where the path turned northeast. Fortunately, the hour was so early that they encountered no one except for a solitary Bounder on the path through the woods to the Old Links.
“A good early morning to you,” Yrill said to him with a polite smile. The green and brown garbed Hobbit stood transfixed in disbelief as they passed by.
The occasional bear, wild boar and shaggy wolf kept a distance, knowing these were not folk to attack, then they were out onto more rolling hills. A stone bridge over a small stream carried them out of The Shire. Despite the lateness of the year, many leaves still clung to the branches, the grass was verdant and glimmering from a recent rain storm, and the very air seemed to crackle with energy and vibrancy.
“Another storm nearby?” Yrill ventured. “But we have reached Oatbarton, and will ride through it in a few minutes.”
“How far to Evendim?” asked the captain as he scanned the leaden skies.
“A couple of hours at most. There is one more village before we reach the lake’s beach. We shall travel slower on those soft sands.”
They continued towards the water, planning to give the horses a short rest once out of sight of the village. Then they were atop a green hill with a good view all round. And there, waiting for them, was Estarfin.
The tall Noldo leaned forward in his saddle. “What kept you?”
Yrill was about to ask what unknown path Estarfin had discovered, but it mattered more where they were going than where they had been. She noticed he still looked grim, but he appeared more ‘controlled’?, as if his time alone had given him a chance to think over what had transpired. She noticed a small smile on Culufinnel’s face as he explained his ‘delay’.
“We planned to rest the horses a short while before journeying to Annúminas. We left Ceuro with Filignil to recover. It was a minor injury.”
Estarfin nodded. “No more than a few minutes rest: we cannot know how far ahead they are.”
The three elves dismounted, taking the time to gaze around at their surroundings. The soft gold of the morning was tinged with a steel grey hue that allowed shafts of light to illuminate many of the wooded areas. In the distance they could just make out the ruins of the Tower of Arthabel, the oddly brownish river, and pale golden sands they must soon cross. Each drunk a little from their water skins as their horses were watered and rested. It would have been quite the pleasant outing, had the situation been different, and the storm-clouds were not bearing down so ominously.
Yrill pointed at a sudden movement in the long grass. “Spiders hereabouts carry poison,” she told them.
“Waste not your arrows,” said Estarfin. “There will be many more. We ride on.”
So they headed on, down to the small village of Dwaling. The path descended quite steeply, towards a grand old oak tree, but also led around the village rather than into the sleepy hamlet. Just a dozen yards more and they were on the edge of the Barandalf. An expansive sweep of stars greeted them, bordered by tall dark firs.
Estarfin looked up for a moment, and Yrill thought she could see the struggle, the guilt of his delay, in his eyes. Though the capture of Danel pained her, she could hardly imagine how it affected him. “Lord Estarfin,” she whispered, breaking into his thoughts. “I was planning on crossing the sands and heading to Tinnudir.”
He turned swiftly to look at her, his eyes wide with amazement. “We ride to ask for the counsel of Men?”
“They are not Men but Rangers, Lord: Elf-friends.” At these words Estarfin’s expression grew dark, as threatening as the storm-clouds above, and told her she was treading on shaky ground.
“We need them not.”
“Lord, I would ask them if they have seen aught - that is all. We shall rest a distance away from them,” she explained.
Estarfin shrugged.
Culufinnel wore the same somber mien and said nothing. Perhaps he wondered if Estarfin would even slay Rangers.
The tall grass and dry sands of the Barandalf made for more tiring travel for the horses, and the elves were forced to slow their mounts’ pace. Nonetheless, they made progress alongside the Baranduin, and past the ruins of several white buildings. At the point where the sun was completely hidden behind the clouds, they neared the High Kings Crossing. Estarfin rode straight over. Yrill called out to a Ranger guard, “Have you seen any other Elves hereabouts?” to which the guard shook his head in answer. Onwards yet again, up a winding path, and past the expansive ruin of what had once been a marble mansion, they found a few brigands, and swiftly dispatched them.
Captain Culufinnel upended one of the brigand’s coin pouches. Gold coins and a tarnished garnet and silver necklace spilled onto the ground. “Grave robbers,” he declared.
“Poor craftsmanship,” Estarfin commented as he cleaned his bloody spear. “Those necklaces were made by no elf.”
Then, as the wind gathered force and the rain began to fall, they saw the tower of Tinnudir Keep, and rode down the incline to Tinnudir itself. Estarfin remained some distance behind, frowning, looking tired and hungry, as Yrill and the captain raised the hoods of their cloaks and rode forth.
“Hail,” said Culufinnel to the sentries, holding his hand aloft in greeting. “I am Captain Culufinnel of Celondim. We seek a Dwarven boat, manned by Men, with unmarked sails heading north: have you seen any such vessel?”
“We search for two elves, our friends,” interjected Yrill, “a woman with noble bearing and long red hair, and a man dark of hair, with sharp features and a quick tongue. We think they may have sailed from the port of Kheledûl with those who hold them captive.” Yrill looked around the small camp at several dark-haired Men garbed in drab green. She could sense the weight of Estarfin’s thought from a distance, his will firm of purpose, deadly? She heard Norlomë’s hooves pawing the ground. The horse was as restless as her master, she realized.
“Do you think we would see captive Elves and not intervene if we could?” The dour expression on the Man’s face changed into a rueful smile. A rare one, Yrill thought, as the lines on his face settled back into their original serious expression. He, too had raised his hood, and drawn his cloak about him. He glanced back a moment to the shelter of the Keep.
The few Rangers outside spoke briefly among themselves. None had seen anything of the sort.
“If they travel by ship they may have docked in Annúminas, or on one of the islands nearby,” said one of the Men. “I would say look there, but large is the bandit camp, and many men of dark purpose are drawn there. We shall keep watch, of course, but cannot spare any men to investigate. The waters of the river Lûne do not mingle with Lake Evendim. That river there,” he said, pointing to the nearby brown-coloured channel of water, “is the Baranduin, the Brandywine, not the Lûne. Naturally, it would be the Lûne River if they sailed from the Dourhand Port.”
In confusion Yrill said, “I thought both rivers fed the Lake?”
“Nay, Lady,” said the Ranger. “The Lûne flows north into Forochel, but it does draw close on the west side of yonder mountains. There are passes, treacherous to the unwary traveler, but accessible by foot.”
The Elves gave their thanks and turned away.
“Come back! You are welcome at the shelter of our camp!” they called after them. “We do not have much, save a good fire, and soup and bread, but you are welcome to share it.”
Yrill only shook her head in reply. She could not say, ‘then we shall bring death amongst you, for one of our number cannot tell friend from foe, because to him all Men are alike.’ They returned to Estarfin with the news, or lack thereof.
“We camp in the ruins on the far side of the bridge for a short time so that the horses may rest, then we investigate,” said the old Noldo in Quenya. “There may be many in Annûminas, but they are only Men. They shall not stop us. But I would ride away from this place, swiftly.”
Culufinnel and Yrill gave vague nods, mounting their horses, and glanced at each other. Then Yrill coughed politely and said, “Lord Estarfin, please forgive my lack of tutelage, but I do not understand Quenya, save a few words.”
“Speak plainly so that all may understand. Let us discuss this in Silvan,” suggested Culufinnel.
