Chapter Text
3013, March 5
“Gollum’s trail grows ever colder, but that is even more reason to go now.” Gandalf gave Aragorn a hard look. “You are more than just the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and your captains will cope well enough with Eriador’s troubles for another season.”
Aragorn shook his head in annoyance and stood up. “The sooner Gollum is found the better, but if the Enemy were to re-establish a foothold in Angmar’s lands, it could be disastrous.” He raised his hand to stop Gandalf interrupting. “I know, not finding Gollum in time may be so as well. I do know how important the hunt is, but–” much as I understand your frustration, I cannot be in two places at once. Aragorn’s answer was cut short by a crunch of gravel on the path leading to their corner of Rivendell’s gardens.
“Captain?”
Aragorn took in the expression on the face of the Ranger who interrupted them.
He finished his answer to Gandalf. “But perhaps, if you can wait until autumn.” Glancing at the waiting man he added, “Though I fear it will not be before then.” He then nodded at the Ranger. “Halmir, you bring news?”
“I do, Captain. There have been more raids. The same as before, farms and hamlets in the Wild are attacked, people and livestock butchered, and the houses burned down.”
~*~
“That’s not necessary, sir,” Halmir protested as Aragorn led him to Elrond’s kitchens for something to eat and drink.
“Maybe not,” Aragorn replied, “but you’ll be glad of it before long. I doubt we’ll stop to eat after the maps come out.” Once his brothers had started including him in campaign planning, it had only taken him one or two hungry evenings spent around a map table to figure that out and take precautions.
“In that case, thank you, Uncle,” Halmir said with a quick smile.
Aragorn smiled back at his cousin as they sat down on a bench in the corridor near the kitchens. “It’s been too long since I was in Caras Dirnen. How are your mother and your brother?”
“Well enough,” Halmir replied. “Mother still wants to move south to Athrad, to grandmother Bereth’s cottage, but she won’t do so until Haldan is old enough to start his Ranger training.”
Aragorn nodded. “He’s ten now, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Halmir said. “Uncle Daeron’s been teaching him the bow lately, and he’s even more determined now to become a Ranger as soon as he’s old enough.”
~*~
“We think they are coming from the north, probably near Mount Gram.” Halmir leant over the map table to point at the mountain.
Aragorn stood back to make room at the table, using the opportunity for a closer look at Halmir. He was pleased to see the young man’s confident manner with Glorfindel and Elrond’s sons. Halbarad, you would have been so proud of him, and of Haldan. He bit his lip to hide the knife-slash of pain that came with the thought. Even after ten years the wound of Halbarad’s loss hurt if he probed it too deeply, or at all, if he was honest with himself.
“How many?” Glorfindel asked.
Aragorn returned his full attention to the discussion. Halbarad would be the first to take me to task for not paying attention.
“Around three hundred from what the scouts saw,” Halmir replied.
“Three hundred,” Elrohir repeated. “And we did not spot them!”
“They must have crossed the Misty Mountains far to the north, beyond the reach of our patrols,” Glorfindel said. “I will send patrols into the Coldfells to see what we can find out and to make sure there is no sudden attack on Rivendell or the High Pass from there.”
“Halmir, do you have an agreed meeting point for your company?” Aragorn asked.
Halmir nodded. “Near the Last Bridge, and if that fails, they’ll leave markers.”
“Then you should start back tomorrow or the day after,” Aragorn said. “Tell them we’ll be joining them in the hunt. I will also send word to the Angle. The Fornost Company are near the end of their leave, and they can join us the quickest.”
“I can set off tomorrow,” Halmir said.
“And hopefully we can chase down the Orcs before their next attack. These raids are bad, but nothing compared to what a permanent foothold at Mount Gram or elsewhere in Angmar’s territory would bring,” Aragorn said. “Glorfindel, you can add the Hoardale Company to your own patrols. The Grey Company will guard the High Pass and keep an eye on Goblin Town. I will send word to Sador and Borlas.”
“And we two will come along with you and your companies,” Elrohir said to Aragorn.
Elladan nodded in agreement. “I would like more than one extra company along, and more horses, but there is not enough time to gather them if you wish to act now.”
3013, March 10
First looking up and down the road to check that they were unobserved, Aragorn nudged his horse to turn left towards the rocky path that ran on into the Angle. After a hundred yards or so he dismounted and went on leading the horse, Elladan and Elrohir following suit.
They had followed the path for about a mile when a Ranger stepped out from the side of the road ahead of them.
“Captain!”
“Daeron, good to see you.” Aragorn nodded at him in greeting.
“This way.” Daeron headed off the path past some low trees. It did not take long for them to reach the place where the others were waiting.
One of the Rangers got up as soon as he saw them and came over to greet them.
“We’re ready to leave, sir,” he told Aragorn.
“Marach, I am sorry to pull your company from their leave early,” Aragorn replied.
“I’d say it is about time,” Marach said as he gestured at the men to get ready to move. “The farmer folk cannot deal with this, the East Road Company is overstretched, and we’re at hand. Things are quiet enough west of the Weatherhills that we can stay away a bit longer.”
3013, March 22
“There is little we can do until the scouts pick up some trace of the Orcs,” Brandir, the captain of the East Road Company, said.
“If there is a trail out there, we will find it,” Elladan said.
Aragorn said nothing. He himself had gone out to look and had found nothing. Our hope rests on what Elrohir may find.
“And while we sit here and wait, people may be dying,” Marach said.
“Rushing around blindly will do nothing to help them,” Brandir replied.
“So you’ve said before.” Marach turned away. “Orcs don’t just fade into thin air.”
Aragorn shook his head and spoke to Brandir. “The last attack was a week ago, you say?”
Brandir nodded. “The last one we know of, but they’re all the same. All the people killed, and no looting except for what food they could carry.” His expression was grim as he looked at the others. “By now, Rangers have brought warning to most of the farms and villages out here, but there is little that people can do when forty or fifty Orcs come at them in the night.”
“Have you found any pattern in the attacks?” Elladan asked Brandir.
“Not yet,” the Ranger admitted, looking annoyed. “Every time we thought we did, they turned up somewhere else altogether. It’s rare for Orcs to be this crafty.”
“And that suggests that their purpose is more than just raiding, as does the lack of looting. Their captain doesn’t want them encumbered by plunder and has them well in hand,” Daeron said.
“True,” Brandir replied. “But some of the men are saying they are ghosts to fade away as they do every time. What are they up to?”
“Ghosts don’t—” Daeron’s reply was cut short by the sound of a horse approaching at speed.
“There has been another attack! Twenty miles east from here, last night!” the Ranger who rode in to the clearing blurted out as he dismounted.
“Then we will go and look,” Aragorn replied.
“Are you sure it’s wise to rush in?” Elladan asked as Aragorn headed for his horse.
“This is the first time we have hope of a fresh trail,” Aragorn said. “I won’t walk blindly into a trap.”
“Not blindly, perhaps,” Elladan said. “But be wary, little brother. They are too crafty for comfort.”
3013, March 23
The sun had only just risen when Aragorn and those with him dismounted to approach what remained of the farm that had been attacked. With his brother’s warning still in mind, Aragorn was even more careful in approaching the farm than he would have been otherwise, but nothing stirred.
Not a bird is singing, and the place stinks of death and fire.
Everything above the level of the farm’s stone foundation had been set alight, and smoke still curled up lazily from the wooden beams that had supported the house. The blackened outline of a tree that had been caught in the blaze stood starkly against the pale morning sky. Aragorn looked up as the wind rattled through charred branches.
“The same again,” Daeron said bitterly after he had spoken to the Rangers who had found the farm the previous day and who were now keeping guard. “No one left alive and no looting.”
Elladan and Elrohir went off to look for tracks away from the farm while Aragorn followed Daeron to look at what was left of the building.
“Follow me!” Elrohir came running back. “Elladan found a survivor.”
Aragorn and the others rushed over to find Elladan some distance back from the house, carefully removing the body of a girl from the doubtful shelter of a tangle of brambles near some trees. She was clearly dead, with her innards exposed through a great wound in her belly, but as Elladan gently placed her on the ground, Aragorn saw that she had been huddled over another, younger child. Elladan soon roused the child, a boy of about five years old, to awareness. The boy was covered in blood and tried to pull away from the Half-elf in fear, but as Elladan spoke to him, he calmed down enough that Elladan could pick him up and carry him to the front of the house. He took fright again when he saw the Rangers, so Elladan turned away slightly while he continued to softly speak to him.
Why is he afraid of Rangers when they were attacked by Orcs? All out here know the Rangers protect them, or should protect them, Aragorn wondered as he joined the men trying to find the Orcs’ trail.
“Here!” one of the men with Daeron called out. “They’re going north-west, Captain.”
“From what young Gelmir told my brother,” Elrohir said a while later as they prepared to return to the Rangers’ camp, “the farm was attacked the night before last, by Orcs, but they were led by a Man.”
Ruffians! That explains the boy’s fear. “We’ll go after them as soon as we have collected the others.” Aragorn made a wry face. “The hunt is on.”