Three days later, the small company appointed to guard the seeds of the Sacred Trees set out at last from Isengard and took the road. Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Denethor and Gimli the Dwarf made up that fellowship.
Before they departed, Kaen Eowenríel spoke to them. "I foretell a war soon to come, one to rival the Last Alliance. It will decide whether Middle-earth shall know peace or torment in the long years ahead.
"This time I cannot lead you myself. I must ride to warn the kingdoms and then return to the North to make long and thorough preparations for the coming war.
"The hope of the Calaquendi is entrusted now to you. Whatever happens, you must place these seeds of the Sacred Trees into their hands."
The five bowed low before him. Gandalf said, "We will defend these seeds with our lives. Even if it costs us all our strength, we will see them take root and sprout in the three new realms."
Their eyes were unwavering. In each of them there was the calm, hard light of one who has already counted his life as forfeit.
Saruman stepped forward then, holding out an ancient map to Aragorn. "This will aid you," he said. "May you return in safety."
So the Expedition of the Sacred Trees set forth, bearing with them the blessings of many hearts.
The folk of Isengard had prepared for them ample stores of dried food and water, and three steeds of great endurance. Legolas refused a horse, for the feet of an Elf are lighter than any hoof, and he would travel ahead on the road, scouting the country and watching for danger.
Gimli was ill suited to riding at all, so he promptly claimed the great pack-basket strapped behind Aragorn's saddle. He piled his warhammer and spare axes around himself and grumbled without ceasing, "Riding is still better than stumping along on my own legs."
They followed the River Isen southward. The sound of running water was the first music of their journey. The river shone like molten silver beneath the moon, reeds standing thick along its banks, whispering softly whenever the wind slid through.
From time to time Legolas vanished into those reeds. When he returned, it was with a handful of fresh berries or with quiet news that the way ahead was still clear and safe.
...
After about half a month Aragorn spread out the old map Saruman had given them. The edges of the parchment were yellowed with age, and ink lines traced the hills and rivers of the land of Enedhwaith.
Gandalf's pipe glowed fitfully at his side, embers painting flickers of red across the wrinkles of his face.
"We go on following the Isen south," Gandalf said, running a finger along the blue curve of the river. "It will lead us into the heart of Enedhwaith. The camp of the Vanyar Elves should lie somewhere here. They are followers of the stars. Their watch-fires will always be set toward the densest of the constellations."
Legolas crouched beside the map and tapped a small mark where thorns had been drawn. "Here lies the territory of the wild Dunlendings. After the falls and quakes in the Misty Mountains, they moved out onto the plain. They do not welcome strangers."
Gimli paced back and forth with his warhammer across his shoulder, mail clinking as he walked. "Let it be wild Men or Orcs," he snorted, "any who dare block the road will get their skulls tested by my axe."
Aragorn's hand came down on the center of the map. "It is a seven days' journey. For three days we follow the riverbank, on the fourth we must pass through the Gap of Stone-teeth. The ground there is steep and narrow. That will be the likeliest place for an ambush."
He looked to Gandalf. "Can you sense how the darkness moves?"
Gandalf paused with the pipe-stem at his lips. Smoke curled before his eyes as he thought, then he answered, "Sauron's gaze has reached beyond the Misty Mountains, yet he does not know our path exactly. Still, his wandering shadows are already sniffing over the wild like starving wolves. We must be through the pass before they gather."
So they rose once more and moved on.
...
"Can the Vanyar truly speak with the stars?" On the third evening, Denethor sat beside the campfire, staring into the thick night as he put the question.
His armour was spattered with dried mud; compared with the day he had left Minas Tirith, there was now a touch of a Ranger's weariness about him.
Gandalf prodded the coals with a branch. "Among all the Elven kindreds, they stand nearest to the Valar. Reverence for the Ainur is in their very blood. Ingwion's father could understand the speech of the wind. The guidance of the stars is a small thing beside that."
Gimli gnawed noisily on a hard loaf. "My father Glóin always said Elves love nothing better than to stare at the stars," he said thickly. "Better to have a good furnace-fire like folk of the Dwarves."
"That is because your mines are dug so deep you seldom see the true light," Legolas answered lightly as he stepped back from the trees, two rabbits dangling from his hands. His eyes were grave, though. "Ten miles ahead lies the Gap of Stone-teeth. There are shadows moving upon the cliff walls on either side, and not a few."
Aragorn sprang to his feet, the last trace of drowsiness gone from his gaze. "What kind?" he asked sharply.
"Orcs from the White Mountains," Denethor said, his face darkening. "Those creatures have raided the western borders of Gondor for years. I did not think they would turn their greed toward us so soon."
Gandalf's face grew grim. "It seems Sauron's claws have come swifter than we reckoned. We must go through the pass by night. Under the moon's light we will force our way."
...
Near midnight, the wind in the Gap of Stone-teeth carried a biting chill. The cliffs on either hand rose like the fangs of some colossal beast, squeezing the sky into a narrow crack overhead.
Aragorn and Denethor gripped their sword-hilts. Gimli tumbled out of the pack-basket, spinning his warhammer once in his hand, while Legolas stood ready with his longbow and three arrows already nocked to the string.
"Lighten your tread," Aragorn whispered. "Pray they do not mark us."
The five hugged the cliff-face as they went. Now and then loose stones shifted beneath their boots with a betraying clatter. They had almost reached the narrowest part of the defile when a long, dreadful howl of a wolf split the night sky.
"Wargs," Gimli growled, lifting his hammer.
High above, along the ridge of the rock, countless green eyes flared into life. At once came the harsh cries of Orcs and the thin shriek of arrows tearing the air.
Legolas moved swifter than sound. His three silver arrows flew in one breath and each found its mark in the throat of an Orc.
"Run!" Gandalf cried. His staff swept up, and a blue flash of power struck the cliffside. Rock broke and tumbled down in a crashing fall, scattering the foremost of the foe and slowing their charge.
The five companions plunged down the sloping floor of the pass. Behind them rose the furious howls of the Wargs and the curses of Orcs.
Denethor loosed a shaft back over his shoulder and saw a hill-man pitch backward with it in his chest. But more black shapes were already pouring from the rocks to either side.
"At least two hundred," Legolas called, running and shooting, the humming of his bowstring like a swarm of bees. "They have closed the way behind us."
Suddenly Aragorn veered toward the right, where a narrow goat-path wound up the slope, half hidden by brambles. "This way," he shouted.
He hacked through the thorns with his sword, Denethor following close on his heels.
Gimli brought up the rear, guarding their retreat. He hurled one of his axes straight at a leaping Warg. The blade buried itself in the beast's skull, and it tumbled down the slope with a dying scream.
At the end of the path the ground opened out into a wide stretch of barren moor. Under the moon they could see scattered dead trees and low, rounded hillocks.
But they had not run far into that open land before new shadows appeared ahead of them. Another band of Orcs was swinging in from the flank, their torches wavering like ghost-fire.
"We are surrounded," Denethor said, and there was a faint edge of panic in his voice. He drew his sword, the steel gleaming cold in the moonlight. "Yet the warriors of Gondor do not turn their backs."
"Now is no time for proud words," Aragorn shouted. His eyes swept the land and fixed on a raised ridge in the distance. "There. The far side of that slope is shielded. Their arrows will not find us so easily there."
Fighting as they went, they fell back toward the ridge.
Legolas's quiver was nearly empty. He loosed his last few arrows, then drew the short knife at his belt. In the chaos of close combat his Elven grace became something ghostlike. Every flick of his blade cut an Orc's throat or hamstrung a charging foe.
Gimli's warhammer moved in a blur, as if he were shaping hot iron on an invisible anvil. The claws of Wargs scraped sparks from his mail, yet could not bite through it.
Denethor's swordsmanship had the sharp elegance of Gondorian nobility; each stroke aimed at a vital point. Already his breathing was growing ragged.
Gandalf's staff shone brightest of all upon that battlefield. He chanted old words under his breath, and with every phrase white light burst from the staff-head. Wherever it struck, Orcs flared into ash and smoke.
Aragorn kept to the center of their ragged line. His sword was blackened with Orc-blood, but his eyes only grew more resolute. He knew he could not fall, not merely for the weight of his own destiny, but because four lives had already been bound to his in trust.
By the time they gained the top of the ridge, they were all near the end of their strength.
Below, Orcs and hill-men gathered in a dark ring, snarling and jeering, yet none dared rush the slope. Gandalf's sorcery had cost them dearly.
"Our arrows are almost gone," Legolas said, counting the shafts left in his quiver. Only three remained. "They will wait for dawn. When the sun rises, there will be no place for us to hide."
Gimli leaned against a rock, gasping. The haft of his hammer was slick with sweat. "I dragged at least thirty of the vermin down with me," he panted. "That is not a bad bargain."
Aragorn glanced to Gandalf. "Have you strength enough still?"
Gandalf nodded once. The blue radiance at the tip of his staff still burned fiercely. "Do not fear. If it comes to hand to hand, I could trade blows with them for a day yet."
Even so, as he spoke he lifted his gaze to the stars, and there was a spark of worry in his eyes.
Just then a stir ran through the ranks of Orcs below.
A heartbeat later came several piercing screams, as if unseen blades had struck throats in the dark.
"What is happening?" Gimli muttered, peering over the ridge with wary eyes.
At the far edge of the wilderness, points of golden light suddenly flared, moving swiftly toward them like a shower of falling stars.
As the lights drew nearer, they could see that they were arrowheads, countless shafts already laid to the string, their points catching the moon. The bows that bent them were in the hands of a host of Elves, clad all in armour that shone like beaten gold.
They moved through the dead trees as swiftly and silently as Legolas himself. With each release of bowstring another Orc dropped, a black shape crumpling into the dust.
More wondrous still, the arrows seemed almost to follow their prey. Even when an Orc flung himself behind a dead trunk for cover, the shaft would bore through wood and strike home in heart or throat.
"It is the Vanyar," Legolas breathed, joy lighting his face. "The Elves of the stars. We are saved."