Estarfin halted beside the bodies of the other Men. Dismounting briefly, he took up two half-filled water skins and a handful of gold coins from the corpses. He took a cautious sip from one water-skin then, with a look of unexpected surprise, drank a mouthful or two. He held the skin out to the others.
“It is fresh. I thought they would drink rancid water in these parts.”
Culufinnel rode up to take the water skin with a nod of ‘thanks’ and swallowed a little before passing it to Yrill. Estarfin mounted up again.
“Men cannot drink putrid water,” the Captain said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “They are weak and puny and will die.”
“No?” Estarfin looked doubtful. Men and putrid water went well together in his thoughts.
“No!” replied Culufinnel with an emphatic toss of his golden-red hair.
Estarfin nodded, having considered the notion that Men were too puny to survive, though he had long ago known of some men, loyal to Fingolfin at Barad Eithel, who were far from puny. It still made sense to him.
Having taken a couple of sips of her own, Yrill rode close to the dark Noldo, handing him back the remaining water. “There must be a few pure springs in this land,” she said. “The Angmarim are but Men who need to drink. Neither can they drink putrid water.”
“They will need water every day in this awful place. And even Orcs have to drink at times,” said the Captain. He sat upright in his saddle, his eyes on the dim horizon, as they passed by the remains of the small ruined fortress.
“Probably not in these salt-flats,” Yrill added. “Maybe further north?”
Estarfin was silent for a few minutes as he made his own observations. “We should keep watch for any pools or streams,” he said to them. “Angmar’s threat could be destroyed if they had no clean water left.” He continued to wonder silently on the threat in the north for a few moments, then returned his focus to the task at hand: to find Danel and Parnard. Was catching up with them always to be just beyond his grasp? The sense of failure, of hopeless despair returned like a heavy weight. He knew it would pass.
This land was very different from the winding dark ravines of the Ram Duath. If anything, it was too open and bright. Here, the white salt crystals lay everywhere, forming a gleaming crust over any marsh below, its light blinding their eyes. They rode as close to the jagged mountains as they could, taking all advantage of shadow rather than being visible to any and all on the heights. Indeed there were both Orc and Angmarim camps perched on some of the higher outcrops, with far more inhabitants than had appeared to be originally in the villages. They did not want to have to waste time fighting through them. Stealth was vital. At one turn there were six orc guards at the bottom of a ramp. The Elves dealt with them swiftly, ensuring they perished without sound. They hastened their step afterwards, though. When the slain Orcs were found, there would likely be pursuit by their companions.
Another two hours riding rewarded them in some ways. The sky turned more of a deep greenish blue colour, probably signifying dusk, and the temperature fell accordingly. There were three separate sets of hoof-prints on the sand nigh the Marsh, five horses by the look of it, travelling due North. Then the path became more visible, flat grey stones again. As the three turned to the new path, the high cliffs around them seemed to close in, and a thick dark fog descended. It was hard even for Elven eyes to make out what lay beyond.
They rode on very slowly, despite Orc yells becoming louder, and a thudding tread that sounded heavy enough to be a Troll or two giving pursuit.
“Trolls come down from the Mountains, I think…we cannot face them here.” Estarfin had turned in the saddle and was looking back at the deepening fog that would soon engulf them.
“Trolls - ?” the Captain said as he squinted through the mists. The thick fog distorted the sound. They could be easily ambushed.
“This place seems to draw all the worst to it,” Yrill observed, moving her mare, Talligan, onto what seemed to be a narrow, partly rotten wooden bridge. “Here, this bridge seems sound enough if the horses tread carefully, though I cannot see where it leads.”
Estarfin pointed at what he could see of the bridge, and Culufinnel nodded in agreement. “Go, go,” said the Captain, who did not wish to linger in the fog. “And keep close together.”
There was a muffled sound of their horses' hooves as they crossed what proved to be quite a short bridge over an impossibly deep crevasse. The wooden planks groaned a little at their weight, but held firm.
“No Trolls will cross this,” Yrill observed. “If they try, they will tumble into that bottomless pit.”
It brought some small comfort to them. The path on the far side led down an incline, and soon enough a dull white archway came into view, though more like the entrance to a noble’s tomb than a welcoming sign. It was the first clearly visible object they had seen since leaving the salt flats. Ahead all was dark, but no fog; there was a clear, cold darkness with many small and distant stars visible.
Estarfin looked up, breathing a sigh of relief. He murmured his thanks to Tintallë. She still kept watch?
“It looks more wholesome, but it feels… ” Yrill began, her voice hushed.
“Like this whole accursed land is evil?” Estarfin finished for her.
Yrill nodded, “We are being watched, of course.”
As they further descended the path, Yrill drew her bow, taking down two Wild Hounds who had been eyeing them hungrily from the edge of the path. But it was not just dogs she sensed.
Culufinnel pointed to the increasing number of pallid crumbling structures on each side of the path. “We are in a graveyard,” he informed his companions. “Those are the relics of dead Men, and, judging from the number of them, many lie buried on these hills.”
“Something foul, lies or lurks ahead,” Estarfin seemed more his usual self again, more alert and on guard. It was almost as if the closeness of further and darker danger was honing his warrior spirit. “But what need have we to fear the dead?”
It was then they first heard the wailing.
Tilting his head to the sound, Estarfin slowed Norlomë and took firm hold of his spear. “Who exactly are buried here in such numbers,” he asked in a whisper, suspecting the answer.
“Men,” said Yrill. “Before this land was the Witch-King’s, it belonged to Rhudaur. The Men were descendants of Numenor, though there have been tribes of Hillmen here from the earliest times. Some would have served the Witch-King.” She, too, now tilted her head. “Red-eyed hounds on a trail after something?”
“And what could that be in a place like this besides old bones? These graves are many centuries old,” said Culufinnel, then pointed at a pale orange glow in the eastern sky. “Is that the dawn?”
The others looked in the direction indicated. Both sighed. “Something keeps the darkness away,” Yrill commented. “The light may turn green, but at least we shall have light.” The Huntress turned Talligan’s head towards the wailing. “Wild hounds...and there is their prey.”
A short distance ahead, almost invisible against the grey and black, were five dusty red-eyed yammering barrow-hounds, trying to climb up a rock face to a ledge where a small figure, wrapped in a torn green cloak, huddled.
The three Elves charged immediately, two spears and three arrows impaling the hounds, who screamed and curled up, trying to bite the horses legs but with no avail.
Estarfin rode close to the ledge, and looked up at the figure. “Why are you so far North, Mistress Halfling?”, for a Halfling it clearly was.
Yrill bent to reclaim her arrows and Culufinnel silently wiped his spear on the dusty earth. She then looked up with some concern and said, “Shire Lass, you are far from home. Are you hurt? I cannot help but notice you favour your right leg when you try to move. Are you injured?”
But the Halfling was looking at Estarfin. She had a pretty face; although grubby and bruised, it lit up with a smile. She rubbed at her left hip with her hand as if it pained her. “I know you,” she blurted out, her voice cracking. “Lord Estarfin?”
The Captain looked at the Noldo with surprise before offering one of his waterskins to the hobbit and introducing himself. “Captain Culufinnel of Celondim, Mistress Halfling,”
“I am Estarfin, the others are friends. Who are you? Your face is somewhat familiar.” said Estarfin. He remained mounted on his horse, but regarded the lass with more kindness than usual when encountering others.
“Henepa, sir. I am Henepa, Tavern Keep of the ‘Bent Elbow,’ in Tighfield.” She took a few sips of water, her voice easing slightly, then continued. “I was captured, out me own bed. And me friend, Guy, he be taken too. “ She took a few more sips. “Them wicked Men take us as hostages, ter keep the Lord and the Lady from escaping. Them it was who hurt me leg. I think it be pulled out of its socket right enough.”
“The Men? Do you mean those Breelanders and the two Southerners?” asked Culufinnel.
“I thought he left me here ter die, but he do the right thing.” Henepa took a few more sips, then wiped the opening and handed the water skin back. She struggled to the edge of the ledge and the rocks she had used to climb up.
“Where have Lady Danel and Lord Parnard been taken?” the Noldo asked, firmly but gently. Moving his mare forward, he dismounted to help Henepa off her ledge, watching closely as she almost stumbled, and steadied her.
She held onto his arm to keep her balance. “I can’t rightly say, Lord Estarfin. They left me here about four hours ago. That Magan said I was unfit ter present ter Lady Zairaphel.” Henepa raised her head and stuck out her chin defiantly. She was fit to present to any. “But I think he left me hoping yer would find me.”
Estarfin waved his free hand. The Men mattered not. “ Which way did they ride? Were the Lady or Lord hurt?”
“How many Men?” interrupted Culufinnel.
Henepa could see the worry in the elves’ eyes and understood. Her needs could wait.
“Two Southerners, Two Breemen an’ the Lord and Lady,” she said to Culufinnel.
Culufinnel and Estarfin exchanged glances.
“Only four Men?” the Captain said. “Are you certain?”
Henepa actually managed a small smile, though it was followed by a grimace of pain. “We started off with twenty-four but the Men, they turn on each other and some kill others and some of them wander away an not return. The Men from Bree, that is.”
“Why?” Estarfin did not understand.
“I can’t rightly answer yer, but the High Lord, him say it was yerself still protecting him and the Lady. I heard him tell her, when we was in them long ravines. An’ she nodded and smiled. An’ fer that matter, both of em be the worse fer the journey, but not hurt.”
Estarfin shook his head. “I forged their swords. But they did not hold them.”
Henepa sighed. “But them who did the killing held ‘em. At one point them said it were the High Lord who smote many down, but it wasn’t. Them Men were disagreeing from the first yer friends were caught.” She paused. “Sorry ter disturb yer, but would any one happen ter have something ter eat. I be famished.”
