As they stood at the edge of the marsh, trapped between water and pursuing shadow, hurried footsteps came from behind.
Aragorn staggered into view. His left arm was slick with blood where a Ringwraith's rusted blade had cut him.
"I drew the Nazgûl into the western gorge," he panted, "but the Orcs split their force. One band followed me, the other..."
He never finished. The marsh itself interrupted him.
The murky surface suddenly began to boil. All the creatures lurking beneath broke water at once, bellowing with a roar so loud it seemed to shake the reeds.
At their head rose a great water-beast, jaws yawning wide to show two rows of jagged, saw-like teeth. Drool fell in thick ropes from its maw, hissing where it struck the water and raising greasy bubbles.
"They are drawn by the smell of blood," Denethor said, tightening his grip about the precious bundle in his arms. "We must cross the marsh."
Gandalf swung his staff. A lance of fire leapt from it and struck the nearest beast, but the creature's slimy hide drank up the flame. Only a few spits and sizzles sounded as the fire died against the mucus.
"We cannot break through headlong," Gandalf said sharply. "Their scales resist sorcery, and the marsh itself is..."
He did not finish. The truth of it was plain enough. The others glanced about and found themselves with no ready answer.
At that moment, from the shadows behind them, the harsh cries of the pursuing Orcs rang out again.
"We have no more time to weigh choices," Gandalf said. "The marsh is our only road. Into it, or we die where we stand."
Without another word he stepped forward into the water. The others followed at once.
"The water here is colder than a dwarf-well in midwinter,"Gimli growled.
They fought their way forward through the sucking mud, the waterbeasts swimming in closer circles all about them.
As Aragorn walked, he suddenly felt the mire beneath his boots clutch at his legs like a living thing, dragging him downward. For a heartbeat he was on the edge of being pulled entirely under.
He cried out, "Watch your footing!" and thrust his sword into the water.
A long tentacle, lined with suckers, came writhing up from the mud on the blade's point. Dark green blood spurted out across the surface, drawing more of the lurking shapes toward them.
Gimli's stocky build was, strangely, a boon in the mire. He moved like a weighted plumb-bob, sinking less than the taller Men. His star-iron axe rose and fell in short, brutal strokes, hacking aside tentacles that came lunging from the side.
"By Durin's beard," he shouted, "these wretches smell worse than my father's socks after a month in the mines!"
Legolas bounded from stump to stump where dead trees broke the surface, his silver boots steady as if on dry stone though the wood was slick as ice. His arrows punched cleanly into the eyes of a rearing beast, sending it thrashing back beneath the water and churning up clouds of muddy spray.
Denethor kept close behind Gandalf. His sword never stopped moving, weaving a bright net of steel before him and shearing away any tentacle that dared grope near the bundle he carried.
Their struggle and shouting stirred the fen into fury. More and more shadowy forms gathered beneath the water, and a forest of grasping limbs reached for every step they took.
"We need a place to stand," Denethor called.
"There," Legolas answered at once, pointing toward a great slab of stone that jutted up from the center of the marsh. "If we can reach it, we can gain a foothold."
"Darkness, fall back!" Gandalf cried. He drove his staff deep into the mud. Ripples of pale light spread out from the point like circles in a pond, forcing tentacles and beasts to recoil for a moment.
The five of them waded, scrambled and heaved their way to the rock and clawed their way onto it.
Only then did they see that the stone was smaller than it had seemed from afar. It could barely hold five standing shoulder to shoulder. There was no space to sit, no safety if the beasts chose to lunge.
All around, the creatures of the marsh had formed a ring. Their eyes, hidden under foul water and mud, glimmered red whenever the light caught them. Patiently, they waited for exhaustion to drag the intruders back into reach.
"We must find a way off this," Aragorn said, drawing a long breath. His face was pale and there was a slackness about his mouth that spoke of pain.
Gandalf, seeing the change in him, stepped quickly to his side and pulled aside the cloth at his shoulder. At once his expression darkened.
"The darkness is eating at your flesh," he said grimly.
Aragorn's wound had been dealt by a Ringwraith's corroded sword in the battle. Now, fouled by the filth of the marsh and the tainted mud, the cut had drunk in new corruption. Dark power was spreading through his blood, reaching outward from the hurt.
Gandalf pressed his hand over the wound and began to murmur words of healing. White light welled beneath his palm.
After a little while, colour returned slowly to Aragorn's cheeks, and the cloud seemed to lift from his eyes. At length he gave a small nod and said quietly, "My thanks."
Gandalf drew back his hand and looked out over the countless beasts circling in the marsh, his brows knit tight. "We must leave this place quickly," he said.
"But we cannot fly," Gimli huffed, dropping down heavily onto the narrow rock and gulping air. "The whole mire is crawling with monsters. There is no way out for us."
Silence followed. Grim though it was, the Dwarf spoke no more than the truth.
"Perhaps it is not so hopeless," Aragorn said at last.
He reached inside his cloak and drew forth the silver horn that Ingwion had given him before they left Laurenandë.
...
In the kingdom of Eowenría, in the royal city of Elarothiel, beneath the Golden Sacred Tree upon his throne, Kaen Eowenríel slowly opened his eyes. The gravity in them had deepened.
Beside him, Artemis turned and asked, "How fares it?"
"War is coming," Kaen replied, his tone heavy. "I heard Aragorn's prayer. They are under attack by the Nazgûl, somewhere in the land of Enedhwaith."
He was silent for a moment, then added, "That is no glad news. It means Sauron has already discovered that the Elves of Light have returned to Middle-earth."
"He will be driven to frenzy by that knowledge," Kaen went on. "Soon he will strike without restraint, as he did in the Second Age."
Artemis frowned. "Should we send word to the Calaquendi and gather our armies to their aid?"
"It is already too late for that," Kaen said, shaking his head. His gaze drifted eastward. "The hosts of Eowenría must hold the evils of the North in check. To summon and arm the reserves will take time, and Sauron will move faster than we can.
"Mordor cannot yet send forth its armies in strength, for Gondor and Rohan stand between. No, the forces he is most likely to summon are the Dark Númenóreans, the Corsairs of the South, and the Haradrim."
...
The Dark Númenóreans were of the same ancient stock as the Dúnedain, both descended from the proud people of Númenor.
In the days when Númenor still rose golden from the sea, its people had been divided into two factions: the King's Men and the Faithful.
The Faithful are the forefathers of the Dúnedain. When Númenor was drowned, they sailed to Middle-earth and founded the twin realms of Arnor and Gondor.
The King's Men, however, had listened to Sauron's whispers. Their king led an invincible armada against Valinor and was destroyed with all his fleet, but some of that proud folk survived. Twisted by their loyalty to darkness, they became the Dark Númenóreans.
These Dark Númenóreans took root in Umbar, where they raised a kingdom of sea-raiders.
Umbar lay in the south of the Bay of Belfalas, below the mouths of the Anduin, a natural haven deep in the land where high cliffs wrapped about the sea. Only a narrow cut opened westward to the waves.
As the hub of southern trade, Umbar controlled the flow of gold, spices and slaves from Harad, and with its black-sailed ships it threatened the sealanes that carried Gondor's lifeblood. Many in Minas Tirith had named it "the dagger at Gondor's heart."
The Dark Númenóreans, and later the traitorous heirs of Castamir, allied with the men of Harad to command the Corsairs upon the southern seas. They had warred against Gondor generation after generation.
If Sauron meant to strike at the Calaquendi, there was only one clear path: he must send forth the Dark Númenóreans with their fleets, bearing armies by sea. Only so could he avoid Gondor's watch and come straight upon the coasts of Enedhwaith and Minhiriath, to fall upon the new realms of the Elves.
For to stand face to face with the Calaquendi, perhaps only the Dark Númenóreans were bold and cruel enough. Their fathers had once lifted their hand against Aman itself.
Having guessed Sauron's likely design, Kaen thought for a long moment, then turned again to Artemis. "I need you to send our white messengers," he said. "Warn the Elves of Lindon. Let them ready their ships, so they can sail at any hour to support Lond Daer."
"And send word to the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm," he added. "Bid them guard the Orcs in the Misty Mountains. I fear those creatures will seize on any southern turmoil to fall upon Nargothrond before it has time to stand firm."
"Very well," Artemis answered without hesitation. She went at once to summon the white birds and set them to wing with their messages.
Kaen raised his voice toward the distance. "Reger," he called, "carry my word to the ministers of the realm. Summon them to council at once."
"At once, my lord," came the reply.
That dayr, command after command went out from beneath the Golden Tree.
The whole kingdom of Eowenría moved like a great war-engine roused from sleep.
Everyone received orders.
King's Decree:
Gather ten thousand Caladhîn Elven warriors. They will march with Kaen Eowenríel, High King of Eowenría, and ride south to the aid of the Elves of Light.
King's Decree:
General Sigilion will lead his armies to the Ettenmoors and permit not a single creature of darkness to slip past his line.
King's Decree:
Generals Caden and Reyzeth will advance to the Dead-men's Dike and there hold fast, letting no shadow-beast within that place set one foot beyond its bounds.
Thus spoke the High King of Eowenría.