Two figures clad in heavy winter-cloaks emerged, riding on ponies heading west along the North-South Road, surrounded by tall cliff walls and winter-brown woods of the Drúadan Forest. The rider in front had a very short and stout build and a long white beard. The figure riding behind the dwarf was a tall and slender woman of Gondor.
The pair had left Minas Tirith yesterday morning and camped at the edge of the forest through the night. The ride from Minas Tirith had been tiresome and Radawen’s night restless. It had been years since she had last slept outdoors. Roots and rocks had made it difficult to sleep on the hard, uneven ground, and she had kept stirring awake through the night, disturbed by fragments of nightmares seeping into her consciousness. The nightly forest had been full of strange and unsettling noises. Sometimes she had imagined seeing glowing eyes staring at her in the darkness.
Radawen yawned, stretched and rubbed her green eyes. She rubbed color into her cheeks and tucked some stray flocks of her long auburn hair under the hood. In the past she used to dye her hair to a bolder shade of fiery red color to shock the conservative and conventional society of Minas Tirith, but she had stopped doing that about a year ago, settling with her natural hair color. She still kept it unconvetionally long. When it was not tucked under her hood or gathered and tied up on her head it would reach all the way down to her hips. She was thirty-three years old but looked younger. She was strikingly good-looking but not exactly beauty contest material. Her six foot tall figure made her taller than even the average man of Gondor, and combined with her unusually long and thick eyebrows and slightly crooked front teeth it made her appearance too aggressive and intimidating for most men’s tastes. It did not help that she was outspoken and had opinions about women’s rights that were against the norm in the traditional and conservative Gondorian society.
But those rare men who were not intimidated by her height, appearance and strong will tended to find her unconventionally good looks irresistibly alluring. Delioron had been one of those men.
Radawen cursed and reached her hand towards the saddlebag. She fumbled it open to find a hairbrush.
Delioron had been in her nightmares last night for no apparent reason. She had not seen the man nor heard about him after he had pushed her away from his life two years ago. She had not thought about him in a long time. Radawen did not want to think about him anymore. She cursed again, out loud this time. The old dwarf in front of her turned on his saddle and gave her a quizzical look.
”Is something wrong?” he asked.
”No, I was just thinking out loud”, Radawen said. The dwarf nodded and turned to look at the road ahead. They continued riding in silence.
Radawen was annoyed with herself. Why was she now suddenly obsessing over Delioron’s memory? When they had first met more than two years ago in Imloth Melui, Radawen had believed he was a fellow scholar and a retired lore-master as she had slowly fallen for his endearingly clumsy attempts at seduction. But then she had learned that Delioron was in fact some kind of spy in the service of the throne of Gondor, a pretender who had been cynically toying with her feelings and using her to get his hands on Romenstar’s diary – Romenstar, the mysterious stranger in blue garbs who had come to Gondor from Rhûn carrying a secret everyone seemed to be interested in getting their hands on.
In the end it had not mattered. The seducer had fallen in his own trap, the pretender had fallen in love with his mark. And in the end Radawen had forgiven the man all his lies and betrayals. She had traveled with him into his home in the Cape of Belfalas. She had been willing to abandon her career and life in Minas Tirith, she had been willing to abandon everything to be with him. For a short period of time everything had seemed fine between them, but before long the man had closed himself off from her and turned distant and aloof. One morning Radawen had woken up to find herself alone in his big house, with no explanation or note explaining where he had gone to or why. She had waited for a week before she had understood that he was not coming back. That this was his way of breaking up with her – without words, without explanation of any kind. What a coward!
The rejection and the way it had been done had rankled her sense of self-worth, but at the same time she had not understood it. She had been sure Delioron had reciprocated her feelings. Even he would not have been able to feign that. So what then had been his issue? She had sensed a dark, cold reservoir of bitterness in his core that was suffocating all other emotions except his will to survive, slowly eating away his heart like poison.
To hell with him! If the man preferred to wallow in his own misery and reject every good thing that came his way, the loss was his and his alone! May his rotten soul find comfort among the precious shadows he so enjoyed lurking in! What in the world had possessed her to fall in love with such a cold-hearted bastard in the first place – a killer, a liar, a pretender and a manipulator?
Radawen realized she was angry. She pulled her hood down and pushed the hairbrush heavy-handedly through her long, straggly hair until the pain made her eyes well up with tears.
She had forgotten Delioron by going back to Minas Tirith and burying herself in her work as a scholar and a scribe in the Houses of Lore and the Old Archives. She had worked hard and resisted the temptation of thinking about him. And she had forgotten about him, or so she had thought. Up until now.
One chilly afternoon about a week ago Radawen had received a peculiar guest in the Houses of Lore. A scholar named Gúldil had ushered an old, white-bearded dwarf to Radawen’s table. Radawen could only stare; it had been a long time since she had last seen a dwarf in Minas Tirith.
”Hello, Radawen”, Gúldil had said. ”This is lore-master Gulim from the dwarven settlement of Zigil-jâbal in Ered Nimrais. He has come to Minas Tirith to find an expert in the history and lore of Durin’s Folk. If I recall rightly, dwarven lore falls under your purview, Radawen?”
Before Radawen had managed to say anything, the old dwarf had grabbed her hand and squeezed it enthusiastically. ”I need to find someone who knows about Thráin II and what happened to him! I have stunning news, stunning! Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
Radawen had responded to the handshake but cast a quizzical glance at Gúldil. Gúldil had shrugged and grinned apologetically. The scholars and lore-masters at the Houses of Lore were used to frequent visits from all sorts of crazies, and by all accounts lore-master Gulim seemed like he too had a screw loose and a marble missing. On the other hand it was very rare to get dwarven visitors in the Houses of Lore, so no matter what the old dwarf had to say, it was well worth listening to.
”Oh, mistress Radawen”, Gulim blurted out. ”I know that you think of me as some crazy old fool who is about to tell you a fanciful story, and that is true, isn’t it? But please, hear me out, for I have ridden a long way to meet you, and if my story doesn’t interest you, you can send me straight back to Zigil-jâbal!”
Radawen had smiled then, sincerely and unexpectedly, and led the old dwarf into a small secluded alcove. There she had listened with fascination as Gulim had told her about a letter that had arrived in Zigil-jâbal a few weeks ago, carried by a raven – a letter supposedly written by none other than Thráin II himself, a legendary King of Durin’s Folk who had disappeared almost 170 years earlier during an expedition to the Lonely Mountain.
”Thráin?” Radawen had asked incredulously. ”Had he survived to this day, he would now be – what? – over 350 years old? Do dwarves really live that long?”
Gulim hesitated for a moment. ”I have never known anyone who did, but Durin’s line could live longer than usual. Durin himself reached 500 years! I say it’s possible!”
”And who did this raven bring the letter to? You personally? Did you see the raven?”
”No, the letter was brought to Glunri – you wouldn’t know him, but he is an advisor to Lord Naíf. If he said a raven brought it, then I have no reason to cast doubt on his words.”
”Do you have the letter with you? Can I see it?”
Gulim stiffened. ”You wouldn’t understand it. It’s written in Khuzdul.”
Radawen knew that dwarves jealously guarded their secret language and refused to speak it in the presence of other races. ”Just show it to me, please”, she said. ”I just want to see it. I’m not going to try and decipher it.”
Reluctanly Gulim reached in his pocket and dug up a folded peace of parchment. The old lore-master unfolded the letter and held it up for Radawen to see. She was able to confirm that the letter had been written in Khuzdul language and as such, she could not read it. Radawen nodded, and Gulim folded the letter and put it away.
”What does it say?” she asked.
”Thráin tells what happened to him after he left Ered Luin in 2841. He was captured by orcs in Mirkwood and brought to the fortress of Dol Guldur, where Sauron tortured him and took his Ring of Power away from him. Years later he was brought to Mordor, and there he has survived in captivity to this day. Recently Thráin found an unexpected ally in Mordor, and together they will attempt to escape from Mordor this winter, unless they already have. They will go through the Dead Marshes and Emyn Muil and hide in the ruins of Amon Hen. Thráin and his friend are in grave danger and seek sanctuary in Minas Tirith. That’s why he wants someone educated in the lore of Durin’s Folk to come there and help them get to Gondor.”
”Who is this mysterious ally?”
”A man of Mordor; an overseer in Sauron’s dungeons in Barad-dûr”, Gulim said. ”That is why Thráin wants a wise and scholarly person from Minas Tirith to escort them out of Amon Hen. Thráin owes this man his life and freedom, but a man from Mordor, a traitor to Sauron himself, has no friends anywhere, no place to hide or escape to. Thráin writes that he has something very important to tell that he can only reveal to Steward Denethor personally, and he wants a safe passage for himself and his helper to the Tower of Ecthelion.”
”So you want me to… what? Travel to Amon Hen with you?”
”Precisely, mistress Radawen, precisely!” Gulim enthused. ”Thráin writes that whatever secret he holds has great importance to the very future of Gondor and the Free Peoples! And to think that Thráin II, believed dead for so long, might have actually survived as a prisoner in the dungeons of Barad-dûr… what kind of scholar would miss an opportunity to witness an event that will change the course of history of the Middle-Earth?”
”But what if it’s a hoax?”
”What kind of dwarf would cook up a hoax like that, and for what reason?” Gulim fumed. ”For the letter was unquestionably written by a dwarf, and one very knowledgeable about Thráin II and his history! Even if it is a hoax, we have a duty to go there and see it for ourselves! It will be a difficult journey and a dangerous one, but if we take a shortcut we can make it in a week, maybe a week and a half! We should travel along the North-South Road through the Drúadan Forest to the Beacon Hills and Firien Wood. From there we can turn north to the Mouths of Entwash, cross the river and follow it straight to the Falls of Rauros and Amon Hen, saving a few days by avoiding going all the way to Rohan. And we can return the same way with Thráin and his companion!”
Gulim’s story had indeed been a fanciful one and the dwarven lore-master an eccentric individual to say the least, but he had managed to arouse Radawen’s curiosity. She had begun her research by delving into the old tomes about Durin’s Folk and dwarven lore in the Houses of Lore and the Old Archives. She had been accompanied by the old lore-master Gulim, who had enthusiastically sponged every bit of knowledge the libraries and archives of Minas Tirith had about his kin. In turn he educated Radawen about the life and history of Zigil-jâbal, a dwarven settlement few in Gondor even knew existed. After a week’s research Radawen had decided that the trip to Amon Hen was well worth the risks involved and agreed to accompany Gulim there.
And here they were. Radawen and Gulim had started the second day of their journey after an uncomfortable night outdoors, and they had reached the Drúadan Forest. Radawen was nervous, for she had heard many unsettling stories about the forest, which was believed to be haunted by the people of Gondor and Rohan alike. It was not wise to stray far from the main road.
It had begun raining. The rain was beating the old, dilapidated road. The weather was very cold, and the freezing rain created glazes of ice on the ground and on the trees.
Neither of them saw or heard any signs of danger. Suddenly Gulim just fell off his pony and crashed heavily on the road.
Radawen just stared at the sight for a few seconds, unable to comprehend what had happened: Gulim lying on the crumbling road, froth foaming from his mouth, eyes bulging from their sockets in a face that was quickly turning black. Then she saw the shaft of a black arrow jutting from Gulim’s thigh. Radawen quickly jumped off Rohiril’s back and scampered into the bushes on the side of the road. Her eyes darted from the cliffs to the woods on the other side of the road, trying to discern any movement. An ambush! Where were they? How many? Gulim’s rattling screams were horrible to hear.
Radawen saw no movement anywhere. Were they waiting for her to come out of the bushes, arrows nocked and aimed at her direction? The small dagger she had on her belt seemed like a paltry weapon against bows and poisoned arrows. What had she been thinking when she had agreed to accompany Gulim on this fool’s errand? A whole company of Dol Amroth’s fully armed swan-knights would have hesitated entering the Drúadan Forest, and she had agreed to do it with a batty old dwarf, armed only with a damned letter-opener! What idiots they both were!
After a few moments she could not bear to listen to Gulim’s death rattles any longer. She had to try and help him! Like a cat she leaped out of the bushes, expecting to feel the sting of arrows at any moment. She grabbed the old dwarf by his cloak and dragged him into the bushes as fast as she could. The ponies just stood on the road, flicking their tails nervously but otherwise seemingly unaware of any danger. Radawen was panting heavily when she had managed to pull Gulim into the cover of the bushes. She had seen no movement from the cliffs and dark woods on the other side of the road.
Gulim had stopped rattling. Just one look at the dwarf’s blackened, frothy face told Radawen that it was too late to help him. Gulim was dead, and his death had been horrifying. Whoever had shot the arrow had either not been very good with a bow or deliberately aimed low so that Gulim would not die instantly, but instead painfully perish to the effects of whatever hideous poison the arrow had been laced with. Radawen had never seen anything like it before. She did not dare to touch the arrow in Gulim’s leg, but the ugly yet utilitarian design of the shaft made her instantly think of orc arrows.
Orcs in the Drúadan Forest? But why had they not attacked Radawen? Even if it was just one orc lurking in those woods, it would not have hesitated to attack a solitary unarmed woman on the road. But as time passed and nothing happened it became clear that for whatever reason someone or something had decided to just kill Gulim with a poisoned arrow and then slink back into the woods, not bothering with killing Radawen and looting the corpses. That was very peculiar behavior for any orc or brigand Radawen had ever heard of.
Radawen spent the rest of the day burying the remains of the poor old lore-master in the Drúadan Forest. When she was finished she felt cold and tired. For the first time since the case of the Blue Wizard in Imloth Melui two years earlier Radawen was scared.
What should she do now? The only sensible thing would have been returning to Minas Tirith and forgetting about the whole thing. She would have needed a retinue of at least ten men-at-arms for such a journey. But she realized she could not have that. Denethor would not spare any soldiers to pursue fanciful ravings of an addled old dwarf from some distant settlement in the White Mountains. Gondor could not afford to spare soldiers for fool’s errands. And Radawen did not have enough coin to pay even a single guard to escort her on such a journey in the unlikely event she would manage to find someone willing to do it for money.
No, it was either going back and abandoning the quest for the missing dwarven king or continuing on the quest alone. It was getting dark. Radawen decided to sleep on it and make up her mind in the morning.
’What kind of scholar would miss an opportunity to witness an event that will change the course of history of the Middle-Earth?’ Gulim had said to her. And: ’We have a duty to go there and see it for ourselves!’ The words plagued Radawen’s mind. Giving up now would have felt like a betrayal to everything she had ever believed in and stood for. It would have felt like cowardice. Somehow she felt like she owed it to Gulim to carry on. And yet, continuing on the road alone would have been pure madness by anyone’s reckoning.
Radawen smiled at herself sourly as she scoured the nearby woods to find branches dry enough to be used as firewood. Perhaps she did not even need to bother with the decision after all. There was a very real possibility that whoever had killed Gulim was still lurking somewhere nearby. Perhaps he or it was just toying with her, like a cat toys with a mouse before killing it.
Perhaps she would never wake up to greet another day.
