As Gandalf spoke on, the company at last understood the true origin of the Barrow-downs.
More than two thousand years before, when the kingdom of Arnor still stood undivided and ruled all the northern lands of the West, the downs east of the Shire were hallowed ground.
The Barrow-downs had been the sacred burial field of the Northern Dúnedain and before them the Edain themselves, where kings, princes, and great lords were laid to rest.
Their mounds were rich in grave-goods: weapons, jewels, emblems of royalty, tokens of the reverence the Dúnedain bore for their forefathers.
In the year 861 of the Third Age, Arnor split into three petty kingdoms: Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur. The Barrow-downs fell under the rule of Cardolan.
Civil war among the Northern Dúnedain raged for centuries. The three realms clashed again and again across the lands around the Shire, and the mounds of the Barrow-downs grew more numerous with each passing year.
In 1409, the Witch-king of Angmar led a great host against Cardolan, burning the Tower of Amon Sûl. The shattered remnant of that realm fell back and entrenched themselves around the holy burial fields.
Then, in 1636, the Great Plague swept over Cardolan and scoured it clean of life. The people of those lands were all but annihilated, and the Barrow-downs became an empty, forsaken place.
The Witch-king seized his chance.
He sent out spirits of malice to seize the ancient tombs. Through fell sorcery he poured unclean power into the bones of the noble dead of Cardolan, birthing the wights of the Barrow-downs.
These beings were described as "shadows of darkness that cling to bones": eyes glimmering coldly in hollow sockets, hands hard and strong as iron, their withered bodies draped in the rich grave-garments and ornaments buried with them.
By setting his wights upon the Barrow-downs, the Witch-king not only profaned the Dúnedain's resting places—he also used terror and ghost-tales to shatter the courage of their descendants.
Even after Cardolan fell and Arthedain tried to reclaim its old territories, no folk ever returned to live there. The wights saw to that.
This was the Witch-king's favourite strategy: to win without battle, by breaking hearts before swords met. It became one of the chief tools of Angmar's expansion.
Gandalf concluded, smoke curling from his pipe, "The evil and dread of the Witch-king are far beyond what you can yet imagine. In these last millennia, there have been only two whose names truly struck fear into him: Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower… and Kaen of Eowenría."
The company had listened wide-eyed.
Talk of the Barrow-downs buzzed at the tables—arguments over how many wights might lurk beneath those mounds, boasts about cutting them down when they passed by on the morrow.
Only Aragorn and Denethor sat silent, their faces dark.
For them, as sons of the Dúnedain, the barrow-wights were not just monsters, but a stain upon the graves of their own forefathers.
…..
At dawn the next day, the embassy left Bree and followed the South Road toward the Barrow-downs.
The farther east they went, the more the land began to heave and fall. Gentle hills swelled into long ridges, until the downs ran together in wave upon wave.
Round-topped barrows of yellow-brown earth rose on every side, like slumbering beasts scattered across the empty moor.
At some point, clouds thickened overhead. A grey veil drew across the sky, turning the sunlight into a sickly, colourless glow.
The wind carried with it the cold, damp reek of old earth, and something faintly coppery underneath, like dried blood.
As they rode, Thorin dropped into a crouch, tapped the packed soil of a nearby mound with the tip of his sword, and frowned.
A low wind sighed between the mounds.It rose to a thin, wavering keen, driving a few dead leaves before it; they scudded across the grass and slapped softly against Legolas's boots.
The Elf prince lifted one hand in warning, bow already in his other. In the blink of an eye the silver bowstring had drawn taut.
"Something is wrong," he said sharply. "Far too quiet."
He was right.
There were no birds. No chirp of insects, no whisper of grass. Even the sound of their own cloaks and harness seemed to shrink away into the fog.
Mist welled up from the hollows like something alive, coiling around the horses' legs.
Within moments, the world had shrunk to a pale circle barely ten paces wide; the shapes of the nearest riders blurred like ghosts.
"Stay alert!" Kaen drew the holy blade at his waist; golden radiance flared forth, stabbing into the murk. "Close ranks. Forward together—do not let the fog separate you!"
At that moment, faint footsteps came from behind a barrow to the left—light, dragging steps, as though someone were walking with shackled feet.
One of Denethor's guards began to move that way to scout. Before he could take three paces, the sound twisted and rose into a woman's shrill, piercing wail that made the hairs on every neck stand up.
"Illusion!" cried Galadriel. Her voice rang with power, a note that made the fog shudder.
She lifted her hand, and a sheet of white light ripped a jagged tear through the mist.
"Do not listen. Do not look back. Forward only!"
But the warning came a heartbeat too late.
Two young Riders of Rohan, their nerves already strung taut, flicked their eyes toward their left-hand.
On the crown of the mound, half-hidden among the dead grass, stood a figure in a trailing white dress. Long hair hung like a curtain over its face. Its hands were thin as twigs, and it beckoned to them slowly.
One of the youths went glassy-eyed. His hand slackened on the reins; he took a stumbling step in that direction.
"Stop him!" Kaen's shout cracked like a whip.
Reger and the King's Guard surged forward at once. In an instant they interposed themselves, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the youth's path and seizing his arm before he could break from the line.
"Uuuuh—"
"Uuuuh—"
The sound came from everywhere now, a chorus of muffled moans and sobbing howls that clawed at the nerves like fingernails on bone.
Almost at the same time, one of the barrows on the right split open with a grinding crack.
From the black fissure in its side, pale hands thrust outward, dozens of them, clawing blindly at the nearest Dwarves.
"These filthy things!" a Dwarf bellowed, swinging his axe. The heavy blade whistled down, shearing through three grasping arms; black ichor sprayed across the ground and hissed where it fell, eating into soil and stone alike.
The severed limbs jerked and withdrew into the dark.
Then, one after another, the barrow-mounds all around them began to stir.
From broken mouths of earth, countless figures crawled forth, barrow-wights wrapped in tattered grave-clothes, rotted flesh hanging in strips, black blood oozing from open seams in their flesh, and a stench of mould and decay rolling off them in waves.
"Form up!"
Reger's shout rang out.
The fifty King's Guards and all the members of the embassy lifted their weapons and drew together, forming a wide defensive ring with shields and spear-points turned outward.
Legolas loosed three arrows in the space of a breath. Each shaft shone with a faint silver gleam, and each struck true, piercing a wight through chest or skull, yet the bodies scarcely faltered.
"They won't fall to ordinary blows!" he called.
"Do not panic!"
Gandalf's voice boomed across the downs. The head of his staff flared with pure, steady light, and a wave of strength spread outward from him, wrapping itself around the hearts and limbs of every fighter.
"This is your trial," he said. "Go now, young ones!"
"Kill them!"
Aragorn shouted, and hurled himself into the fray.
The young Dúnedain of the South roared and followed. Rage burned in their eyes, for the bones driven by these foul spirits were their own ancestors, stolen from their rest and twisted into mockeries.
The others did not share that particular pain, but they were no less fierce.
These were sons and daughters of noble houses, heirs of kings and lords; yet in this moment there was no rank between them, only comradeship and the ring of steel as they fought shoulder to shoulder.
Kaen, Galadriel, Arwen, Artemis, Thorin, and Gandalf themselves did not move to strike. They watched in silence as the circle of young warriors closed with the wights.
These spirits were strange and dangerous, yes—but not yet beyond the strength of the company. So this battle, for now, would serve as their tempering fire.
But the dead were many.
More and more barrows shuddered and split; more shadows boiled forth.
Among them rose one wight taller and broader than the rest; black mists coiled about its form, and it hefted a long, rusted sword in both hands. A low, muffled croaking issued from its throat, thick with a dread power that prickled the skin.
Gandalf narrowed his eyes. "The Lord of the Barrow-downs," he said grimly. "Chosen by the Witch-king to rule here."
He had scarcely named it when the fighting warriors also felt its presence.
Aragorn, already at Legendary rank, did not hesitate. He surged forward through the press and met the creature head-on, sword flashing.
In only a few strokes he hewed the wight apart, scattering bone and rotten cloth.
Yet something uncanny happened.
The Barrow-lord did not fall quiet.
Instead it loosed a shriek that split the air, a howl so loud it shook dust from the barrows. Its shattered body dissolved into swirling black vapour that spread like spilled ink across the downs; all around, the ancient mounds began to shake and groan.
"It's calling every wight to wake," Galadriel said softly, eyes hard.
Kaen looked around at the youths, their chests heaving, their arms growing heavy, faces pale with exhaustion but still set in stubborn lines.
He turned to Gandalf and said, "Enough. The time for sport is ended. If we tarry longer, the strength of our youth shall break."