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Valandil inspected the fire trench one last time.
We must not burn ourselves to death, he thought,
sprinkling the spirits, which Camthalion had found amongst the
murdered humans, over the kindling then touching his torch to
the alcohol-soaked twigs.
The wood caught quickly, and an angry sheet of flame was soon
rushing up the stone wall.
Valandil took his place in the line of archers, immediately in
front of Wilawen and the child. Come soon, whoever you are. Come
before the flames die down. Come whilst my warriors are still
fresh…
…
Half past ten
“Oh, gwendithen…” Legolas smiled affectionately
at the little woman. “I cannot ask you to—”
“You are not asking, Legolas,” said Hentmirë,
firmly, “I am telling. Gimli and I will not let you
go alone.” She turned to the still slightly dazed dwarf for
confirmation. “Will we, Gimli?” The dwarf shook his
head.
“Can you swim?” asked Legolas.
“Like a fish,” replied Hentmirë. “Well, really
more like a cork, but I will manage.”
“No. It is too dangerous, gwendithen.”
“Only when you think about it,” said Hentmirë,
firmly. “But I have found that if you just do something,
the danger seems to disappear.”
Legolas smiled. “And you will follow me, anyway.”
“We both will,” said Gimli. He knocked back the remainder
of his ale and slammed his tankard down with a flourish.
The elf conceded defeat. “I want to be at The Aelvorn by
dawn,” he said, “which means we leave before three.
We cannot take much with us—and nothing that will weigh us
down—Gimli, I think you must leave your armour behind—”
“But, surely,” said Hentmirë, “we need to
sink to the bottom?”
“What makes you say that, gwendithen?”
“The djinn said that Eowyn was beyond the water… Does
that not mean past the bottom?”
“I have no idea, gwendithen. I will simply jump in and hope
that whatever currents swept her away will take me in the same
direction.”
…
Lord Fingolfin’s chambers
“I apologise, my lord,” said Legolas, “for disturbing
you at this hour.”
Fingolfin waved the apology aside. “I was not resting,”
he said. “Berryn and I are searching for information about
The Aelvorn.”
“I thought you would be.”
“Come in.”
Fingolfin’s chambers—really little more than an enormous
study—were normally kept very tidy but, tonight, they looked
as though a whirlwind had ripped through them, knocking books
and papers from the shelves and throwing them into a rough circle
on the floor. Legolas nodded to the young man sitting at the centre
of the chaos.
“I am so sorry, my lord,” said Berryn. “If I had
taken better care of her—”
Legolas held up his hand. “You carry no blame, Berryn,”
he said. “I know that Eowyn persuaded you to take her there.
And I am sure that whatever happened to her,” he smiled sadly,
“will have been the result of her own curiosity.” He
gestured towards the papers. “I plan to enter The Aelvorn
in a few hours. Have you found anything that might assist me?”
Fingolfin and Berryn exchanged glances. “We have, my lord,”
said the man. “But we do not know whether we can believe
it.”
…
“So you are saying that the crack definitely exists?”
said Legolas.
“Yes, my lord.” Berryn spread out one of his maps.
“It starts here, just north of Emyn Arnen, and runs along
here as series of caves. It virtually disappears here…”
He traced his finger south west, in a great curve. “But then
it slices through the Divor Rocks, runs along the edge of the
Doro Lanthron hills, disappears again until it crosses The Aelvorn,
and ends about here.” He pointed to an area some fifty miles
to the south.
“And are all of those places associated with the
legend?”
“We do not know,” said Fingolfin. “The people
of the various regions have different attitudes—some faithfully
record such stories, others dismiss them as mere superstition.”
“How do I pass through?” asked Legolas. “Assuming
that the stories are at least partially true, what do I have to
do to cross from this Middle Earth to the next?”
“In every account I have read,” said Fingolfin, “the
protagonist has fallen into the water by accident.”
Legolas sighed. “Then that is what I must do… Somehow.”
…
21st day of Cerveth
One o’clock in the morning
At first, Valandil thought it was smoke—one thin column
of black smoke rising behind the wall of fire—and then another—and
another—and then too many to keep count. And, quickly, each
column broadened, and grew arms and legs, and a shock of white
hair, and, worst of all, a pair of fire-coal red eyes…
“Shoot!” cried Valandil.
His archers responded but the volley passed harmlessly through
the wraiths, who were still too insubstantial to feel its sting.
“Hold!” he shouted, raising his hand and waiting until
the creatures seemed more solid, then, “SHOOT! SHOOT NOW!
SHOOT AT WILL!”
Some of the invaders, shocked by the fire and by the rain of
arrows, immediately slipped back into the rock—though one
failed, screaming piteously when his head and arm remained trapped
outside. Valandil loosed an arrow, and put him out of his misery.
Others howled, and writhed in agony, caught in the denser patches
of flame—they were easy targets.
But many—too many—passed through the fire unharmed
and advanced on the elves in a solid line, simultaneously raising
their small hand crossbows.
“We cannot pierce their armour,” cried Camthalion.
“Aim for the head and the hands!” shouted Valandil,
and another volley of elven arrows whistled across the divide,
dropping three of the invading warriors and slowing the rest.
“Again!” cried Valandil—but the enemy was suddenly
enveloped in a strange cloud of darkness, and only the click of
mechanical triggers warned the elves that their foes had shot
their poisoned darts.
“Agh!” Camthalion pulled a quarrel from his shoulder
and threw it to the ground. “Numb…” he gasped,
and slumped to his knees.
To the right and left, Valandil saw other warriors fall—“Stop
those crossbows,” he roared. And his elves shot blindly into
the dark.
“Camthalion is alive!” cried Wilawen, at Valandil’s
feet. “It is a drug, not a poison…”
Of course, thought Valandil, they like to use swords for the
kill. “Keep them back!” he ordered. “Send them
back into the flames!”
His archers shot faster, falling into a rapid rhythm that seemed
to be holding the unseen invaders at bay, and, here and there,
holes appeared in the unnatural blackness. But on the right flank,
where the elves had taken most casualties, one dark warrior suddenly
seized command, calling out orders—or threats—in a strange,
guttural language, and several soldiers emerged from the cloud,
swords drawn, and charged the elven line.
“Do not let them lure you away,” shouted Valandil,
“stay in position—protect the civilians!” The elven
line drew back, forcing the invaders to follow, and—though
the elves lacked their enemies’ extraordinary armour—their
superior size soon seemed to be carrying the sword fight. Meanwhile,
elven archers to the left and centre were opening up more and
more holes in the strange darkness.
Valandil started to feel confident…
Then a wail of terror pierced the air behind him as the child
broke free and ran, screaming, towards the enemy, and Wilawen—his
astonishing Wilawen—ducked beneath his arm, and followed
her.
“No, meleth nín!” he cried. “Wilawen!”
Something thudded against his chest.
And, suddenly, his arms and legs would no longer obey him and—as
his head drooped—he noticed a tiny crossbow bolt embedded
in his jerkin.
It can only be a scratch…
He sank to the ground.
And through rapidly clouding eyes he saw—as if in dumb-show—one
of the warriors raise his sword to strike Wilawen—another
rush forward, knock his comrade away, and help her to her feet—and
then another push her protector aside and drag her, by the hair,
into the last shred of darkness…
…
Two o’clock
Haldir could smell burning.
He reined in his horse and fell back to where the Captain of
the Night Watch was trying to hurry the cart drivers along the
bumpy trail. “How many men can you spare me?” he asked.
“Trouble?”
“Fire.”
“Leave me five—and I will need a guide.”
Haldir placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head. “Thank
you. Rumil will stay with you. Good luck, Captain.”
Moments later the March Warden was galloping down the trail to
Eryn Laeg, followed by Orophin, ten Night Watchmen, and the Reeve’s
son, bringing up the rear on his feisty little pony.
…
Half past two
‘Our’ Eryn Carantaur
“One last thing, my lords,” said Legolas, pausing with
his hand on Arod’s back. “Eowyn and I promised Haldir
that we would watch over Cyllien whilst he was away…”
“Leave it with me, my lord,” said Caranthir.
“I do not believe I have ever told you—either of you,”
said Legolas, turning back to his counsellors, “how much
I value your friendship and rely on your advice—the entire
colony relies on you.” He held out his hand to Fingolfin,
human-fashion. “If I should not return—”
“Of course you will return,” said Caranthir.
“I will certainly do my utmost,” said Legolas. “But
should it not prove possible, my lords, I will at least know that
Eryn Carantaur is in safe keeping.” He shook Caranthir’s
hand. “Oh—” he smiled, drawing a sealed parchment
from inside his jerkin, “one final thing! This is
for my father: it explains what I am doing. If you would—”
“It will go by messenger, immediately, my lord,” said
Caranthir. “Take care; and bring her back to us.”
“I shall do my best, my lord.” Legolas swung himself
up onto Arod’s back. “Ready?” he asked.
Gimli, already mounted behind him, grunted; Hentmirë, on
her stout little pony, nodded; and Berryn, on one of Caranthir’s
mares, replied, “Yes, my lord.”
“Then let us go.” And with a final salute to Lord Fingolfin
and Lord Caranthir, Legolas led his three companions out of the
city.
…
Haldir stared at the elves lying in the centre of the stone alcove.
“Valandil? Camthalion? Dead?”
“No!” Dínendal quickly assured him, “no,
just drugged. We have no fatalities, a few sword wounds, but they—”
“Thank the Valar!”
“I have no idea how long Valandil will sleep,” said
the healer, “and he does not know—”
“The boy says it lasts twelve hours.”
“Twelve hours on me, it may be different for an elf,”
called Arador. He knelt beside one of the fallen enemy. “Come
and look, sir!”
Haldir shot Dínendal an exasperated glance. “How
many of them did we kill?” he asked, joining the boy.
“They left seven dead,” said Dínendal, “—if
you count the one caught in the stone—but they have taken—”
“Just look,” cried the boy, pulling back the
cloak covering the creature’s head.
Haldir looked, expecting a monster. But the face was extraordinarily
handsome, with delicate, angular features, ebony-black skin and
sharply pointed ears. “Valar,” he said, “he is
an elf!”
“Of a sort,” agreed the boy. “A dark elf. They
call themselves ‘drow’, apparently.” He replaced
the cloak. “Their women are said to be even more beautiful,
and much deadlier than the men. They kill their own husbands—like
female spiders!”
Haldir suddenly scanned the stone alcove. “Dínendal,”
he said, “where is Wilawen?”
…
Half past five
The Aelvorn
Legolas stared at the circle of black water—shining like
a mirror—with its strange stone lip, and its empty grass
verge. “It is as though the Forest is afraid to get too close.”
He dropped from Arod and walked to the edge of the rocky funnel.
“Where was she standing?” he asked.
“About where you are, my lord,” said Berryn, dismounting.
Legolas crouched and lightly brushed his hand over the grass.
“Nothing…”
“My back was turned,” said Berryn. “So she may
have gone closer without my knowing—she may have gone onto
the rock itself.”
The elf stepped over the lip and into the funnel.
“Be careful, my dear,” said Hentmirë coming up
behind him, “it does not look safe.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Legolas chuckled. “We
are here to throw ourselves into the water, gwendithen,”
he said, over his shoulder. “So I do not think I need to
be—”
His expression suddenly froze as the stones shifted beneath him
and, instinctively, he threw up both arms to maintain his balance.
But Hentmirë, just as instinctively, lunged for him, lost
her own footing—and tumbled them both down the rocky slope
and into the waiting waters.
…
Gimli blinked.
He could swear that the lake, like a living thing, had reached
up to catch his two friends, and that—although they had
broken its surface without a sound—the inky splash, like
a great hand, had then seized the helpless Berryn, and
dragged him down after them.
The dwarf blinked again.
All three. Taken.
With a furious roar he threw himself from Arod’s back, drew
his axe, and charged down the stone funnel, launching himself
into the black pit.
…
The water was thick, and so silent that Gimli could hear his
own heartbeat.
He felt the lake twitch around him, then heave and heave again,
as though trying to cough him from its throat.
But the dwarf would have none of that.
Stunning the gullet with a swing of his axe, he rolled onto his
belly and stretched himself full length, kicking his powerful
legs to propel himself downwards. Faster and faster he went, following
his outstretched axe, deeper and deeper, shuddering when a corpse-like
face briefly loomed before him—Legolas!—as he
shot towards a pale saucer of light.
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