Parnard peeked over the ridge and stared wide-eyed at the sight below him. A smell of blood lay sickening on the stagnation, a smell loved by the Glamhoth, but he did not notice it, as he was covered with stinking mud from head to foot.
His path to Amon Lanc led along a dry river bed for some distance, until the rain came pouring down with truly frightful force, and he and Swan-Hoof were almost washed away. The flooding rains were perilous, but not as much as the bog of thick, black mud that extended for a mile around. Swan-Hoof got stuck first, and when pushing her out, he sunk in the sticky mud up to his thighs, and was worried that he would be trapped himself; but using all his strength, he was able to haul himself on to drier land. At last they made it through the foul swamp, but alas! - this was not the end of his troubles! Near sunrise, a huge black viper glided out in front of them, its fangs dripping poison, and struck at his foot, but Swan-Hoof reared up before it bit, throwing Parnard hard to the ground. She brought her hooves down upon its head, crushing it before it could strike again, and so he narrowly escaped death, but his shoulder was wrenched out of joint from the fall. Later in the afternoon, while he tended to this injury, and fretted over his dwindling food and the scarcity of clean water, he heard a low rumbling and saw a faint, ruddy light glowing far to the south. He thought that the forest was on fire from a lightning-strike, and so he set out on foot, climbing far up a mountain until the slope was so steep that his face was set to the rock, but he pushed on, slowly, because his wound irked him, and crested the mountain just as dusk was setting.
And there below him was the horde, and every one of it was doing some foul and grotesque thing. Some were swarming over the carcass of a huge bear, like flies on a dead dog, and they were brutally hacking away at it with heavy iron swords that were barbed at the tips. The evil East wind rose, fanning the bonfire into flames, and black figures crouched before it, tearing off hunks of flesh with their sharp teeth. The blood leaked down to the murky river. There small, cruel eyes floated in the water, watching and waiting. A flock of carrion birds descended from the darkening sky and made a great whirring. Three times they circled the valley before alighting upon the branches of a dead pine overlooking the camp. A few of the bolder ones flew down to snatch a morsel from the claws of the creatures, and one bird was grabbed and its head bitten off. The large wildcats were drawn to the smell; but they did not come near the fires, and only prowled around in the darkest shadows. Their angry snarls told of their impatient hunger.
Far worse to the elf’s ears was a terrible noise of rough voices: a harsh gurgling sound, a mockery of singing, and it was how they greeted the night. They sang in the language of the Black Land, which Parnard did not understand, but it sounded of crushing, and squeezing, and hating forever all living things, and the very light itself. He saw dripping snouts lifted up into a defiant howling, and crude drums stretched from the skins of monstrous, unknown creatures boomed their terrible reply: what he had imagined to be thunder. The cacophony swelled up to his vantage place in a deafening roar. He plugged his ears with his fingers, and the mountain trembled under his knees.
Suddenly, the raging din silenced and died away in distant echoes. All was silent and still in the vale below. Parnard felt a peculiar, uneasy feeling wash over him. Something was very wrong! He shivered; it had become colder than ice on the mountain. What can be colder than ice? he wondered. The orcs were standing as mute and motionless as statues. Perhaps they were wondering the same thing. Then the horde turned, as if guided by some invisible hand, and looked up to where he crouched. The blood pounded loudly in his ears and he was never more terrified in his life.
For the spirit of the Necromancer was abroad, and it was coming swiftly towards him. A shadow blotted out the stars overhead, and a thin, wailing cry screamed out. Parnard’s heart sank in despair; he cowered under his cloak, and knew that he was altogether overmatched. It seemed a long time before he could command his limbs to move: they had become weak and watery, and his will wavered as the flame of a guttering candle. Yet he was able to gain the mastery of himself, and he sprang to his feet, and broke into a mad flight down the mountainside, almost losing his footing on the stones and plunging head-over-heels, but he made it safely to the bottom to where Swan-Hoof waited. He leapt upon her back crying: Run, run, a Death is nigh! For he did not know what the fell thing was, this deathly evil, and there was no word in his people’s language to name the Nazgûl, Ring-wraith, one of the Nine, the Úlairi.
Swan-Hoof ran until the sweat lathered up and her breath gave out, and then she fell underneath him. Then nothing Parnard could do or say would get her to move, and she lay there exhausted and panting, and looked up at him with sad, accusing eyes. He was stricken with grief at seeing her distress, and the realization that he had submitted the poor beast to so much suffering made him forget his terror. He poured the last of the water into his cupped palm for her to drink, and with a little time and rest, he was able to coax her to her feet, and guide her slowly and carefully through the dark woods, darting many a nervous glance over his aching shoulder, and startling at every snap of a twig.
