It was late afternoon as the sun began to wane across Eriador when Duramarth arrived back at his camp. He flung his pack of tools, came down from his mare and landed heartily onto the smooth earth around the smoldering campfire.
Usually, the man was sore and weary from prospecting but not today. Today there was a glimmer of excitement in his eyes not seen since before he had left his homeland of Gondor.
Something had happened from that long journey over the White Mountains, into Rohan and up the North-South Road; something that had a profound effect on him, and not for the better. By the time he had emerged from the Vale of Andrath, the Man of Gondor's noble determination was replaced by a visage of doom. That dark cloud had remained for the last two summers. Today however, was different. Today Duramarth moved with purpose.
*******
It had all started the previous afternoon on the south end of Bree when he had been approached by the woman donning hunting garb; cloaked in the green of the forest. Her colors not unlike those worn by the Rangers of the South. The woman was very young in comparison to his own age and quite small especially beside a Man of Gondor. Yet she displayed a bold confidence that impressed him.
“Are you the Prospector?” the woman asked. With slight hesitation he replied “I am. And you are?”
“My name is Sybri and I have an urgent message from My Lady. She requires some of your more unique services” the woman answered as she offered up the man a piece of folded parchment.
From her tone and the sense of urgency in her voice she seemed to know exactly who the Prospector was or rather, what he once was. In the last two summers since he had arrived in Bree the Man of Gondor's presence had gone mostly unnoticed so this certainly warranted his attention.
He unfolded the parchment. On it was a brief note in the language of Men but clearly written by an Elven hand. It read:
“Prospector, I have a matter of utmost urgency that requires your immediate attention. Please give my messenger a time and place of your choosing and I will meet you there.
~Lady Alkawen”
Sybri looked to the weathered Man of Gondor. “My Lady needs you Prospector. Will you heed the call?”
*******
Duramarth kicked off his mud caked boots and quickly changed out of his soiled rags. He then began washing his underarms and face in a basin of cool water. Glancing up at the fading sun and realizing the hour drew near he darted into his tent. He sat on the ground, pulled a key from the chain around his neck and used it to rake the dirt until he found the edges of a submerged chest. Identifying the keyhole, he forced the excess dirt out with a heavy breath, inserted the key and unlocked the box; heaving the large lid backwards. Once the chest was open the Prospector's movement eased and he began to breathe in smooth cadence.
Inside the chest was a breastplate made of leather; the front of which was lined with six small throwing knives. To its right he lifted a pair well worn boots and and set them aside; they were of elven-make and dyed a dark olive with a pair of gloves to match. Underneath where the boots had lay were a pair of leggings sewn of a soft, walnut colored hide; and beneath the leggings, a dark brown cloak fashioned from thick fabric and wolf pets.
The man pulled the folded raiments from the strongbox and put them on the ground. Then, reaching forward for one last item, he produced a dark leather belt fastened with a large iron buckle. The buckle was emblazoned with the image of two crossed daggers laid over the White Tree of Gondor. On each side of the belt hung two leather scabbards housing two very real twin iron daggers.
Duramarth gazed thoughtfully at the iron buckle for a brief moment. Then turning his gaze west he whispered the words, "We look towards Númenor that was, and beyond to Elvenhome that is, and to that which is beyond Elvenhome and will ever be."
When Duramarth emerged from the tent he had shed his guise of the Prospector now wearing the vesture of his true occupation.“When the First of the Children of Ilúvatar asks for your help you would do well to heed the call,” he thought as he climbed atop his horse. Twilight was fast approaching and the hour of the meeting with Lady Alkawen was near.
Duramarth has seen much suffering over the years and the darkness was cropping up in the most unlikely of places.“Can she be trusted? I suppose we'll see,” he answered his own thought as rode toward the northern entrance to the Barrow-Downs, to the place of meeting...
