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A clear, cool twilight. The ruins of Fornost. Around the end of the Third Age.
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It had been a long trek, and Fingeleth's calves were crying out for rest as she approached the great stone ramp leading to the citadel – but even so, as she looked up towards the great gate, she could not help but smile and shake her head in wonder.
Fornost Erain – the ancient capital of Arthedain. At last! She had made it.
Despite gazing around upon the still monumental ruins, Fingeleth could not help but be a little pleased with herself at the same time. That woman at the inn in Trestlebridge, Evonne, had seemed convinced that she would never make it this far; had warned her seriously against going anywhere near Deadmen's Dyke - but Fingeleth had laughed it off. All this talk of hauntings sounded like mere superstition to her educated mind; the most dangerous thing she had seen on her trek overland from Celondim had been a solitary wolf, which melted into the forest as soon as it saw her.
Even so, when she had set out early the following morning, and observed the eerie mist lying thick over the Fields of Fornost, she could not help but wonder if there was not some truth in what Evonne had said. The Fields filled her with a strange sense of dread, the like of which she had seldom felt before – similar to when, in the dead of a black and silent night, she sometimes awoke in the midst of a nightmare, in the grip of a disproportionate terror.
Still, she had pressed on. The Greenway, surrounded by the strange mists on both sides, had been daunting at first; but, confident of the route from her long study of old maps of Arnor, she had refused to be intimidated and, at length, as the mists came to an end, was rewarded with her first view of Fornost.
Twin Orc encampments had stood on either side of the great arched entryway, but Evonne had warned Fingeleth to expect them – and Orcs, in any case, did not particularly scare her. They were a brutal race, she knew, and ferocious fighters – but she also believed them to be slow, lacking in guile, and as likely to be fighting among themselves as making trouble for the Free Peoples. All she had to do was stay out of sight – and she had felt such a rush of success as she stole silently past the entrances of both camps, and reached the ancient city.
If only her parents could see her now.
She would tell them all about it when she got back. They would be furious, of course – but they would have to admit that she could look after herself.
She had not said a word to them about her trip - left nothing but a cursory note on the dining table:
Going travelling. Might be a few weeks. Try not to worry too much.
In retrospect, they wouldn't have appreciated her flippancy. Maybe that had been the point. In her mind's eye she could see her father's disapproving shake of the head, her mother's stern hands on her hips. She felt a twinge of guilt.
She pushed away the thought. She was wasting the moment. She had made it all the way from Dol Amroth to Fornost – and she had done it all completely on her own. This was a victory! She should be savouring it.
Shouldering her pack, she began the final ascent up the great stone ramp to the citadel.
Behind her, a twig snapped.
Fingeleth's heart skipped a beat. She whipped around, her right hand flying to the dagger at her belt.
Stone pillars. Trees and grasses. A crow taking flight from a lower terrace.
Nothing.
Slowly, Fingeleth turned and continued her ascent up the ramp.
Silently, the band of Orcs closed in behind.
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Click here to read Part II: the Blogmal Orcs.
