When they left Hobbiton, the morning mist of the Shire was still curling lazily along the channel of the Brandywine.
Bilbo stood in the round doorway of Bag End, waving with both hands. In the rising sun his figure shrank to a tiny black speck, until the green waves of the wheatfields swallowed him entirely.
Kaen drew in his reins and looked back at the young folk in the company.
After the trial of the Barrow-downs and the peaceful rest in Hobbiton, the scratches on their armour had been polished smooth,but the sharpness in their eyes was keener than when they'd first set out.
"We've already walked nearly two-thirds of the road," came Gandalf's voice beside him.
The wizard prodded a thistle at the roadside with his staff, then pointed ahead.
"The way from here may feel dull to you," he went on. "We'll meet no real danger, I expect.From the western bounds of the Shire to the Grey Havens is some seventy leagues of scrub and green downs. There are memories of old wars, aye—but what's left now are only tumbled stones and a bit of wind with second-hand tales to tell."
Galadriel said, "Then let us tell those tales ourselves—for the young ones' sake. The deeds of the fallen should not be forgotten."
The company rode on along the Great East Road.
The Shire's patchwork of fields and hedges slowly faded behind them, giving way to sparse thorn-bushes and wind-scoured rock.
The first week passed almost without incident. Only once did something stir them from the quiet: along the Great East Road, Thorin suddenly reined in.
On the old milestone there, half-buried in turf, time and weather had almost erased the carving—but to Dwarven eyes the runes were still clear enough:
Road to the Blue Mountains.
"My forefathers' caravans travelled this way," Thorin murmured. He tapped the stone lightly with the pommel of his sword, knocking loose a trickle of grit. "In those days Khazad-dûm was not yet overrun by Orcs, and there were more Dwarves than Men upon this road. Here the Firebeards of the Blue Mountains were yet thriving."
The young Dwarves dismounted one by one, bending to lay calloused fingers upon the weathered symbols—as if, through the cold stone, they might still feel the warmth of ancestral hands.
One evening at sunset they camped amid the ruins of an abandoned way-station.
Outside the tents, Galadriel, Kaen, and Gandalf stood together on a low rise, gazing toward the dim north.
Galadriel knelt beside a dark pool of rainwater gathered in a hollow of the stone. She breathed softly upon it, and the reflection of the night sky vanished. The water became deep and grey, and in the depths, a scatter of tiny lights began to flicker. "My mirror is far away in my own land," she said softly, "but water remembers much." She passed her hand over the pool. Each fragile spark was the echo of an Elven bone.
"Once," Gandalf said, "the armies of Sauron fought here against the Elves of Lindon and the Númenórean Kings. That war lasted long, and the dead were beyond counting."
The Lady let out a soft sigh. "So many brave warriors gave their lives here," she said. "They dammed the Orcs' advance with their own bodies, and watered the future grasses with their blood."
Kaen watched the lights drift slowly over the water's face and thought of the souls that had finally been freed under the Barrow-downs.
"This land remembers every sacrifice," he said. "It's only that no one has listened for a long time."
Gandalf smiled around the stem of his pipe. "Perhaps the Elves who come out of Aman will help this country bloom in a different way."
Kaen's eyes were deep and unreadable. "Let us hope so."
….
In the second week, the weather turned hard.
The tang of river-mist was replaced by the dry bite of the open heath. At noon the sun hammered down until armour grew hot enough to burn; at night they had to wrap themselves tightly in cloaks against the cutting cold.
At last, the White Downs rose on the horizon—long pale ridges rolling across the land, gleaming in the light like the bones of some giant long dead and half-buried.
The nearer they drew, the clearer the wind's low keening became.
Riding at the head of the column, Kaen suddenly raised his hand.
"Hold," he said. "There are hoofbeats ahead—not ours."
"Who would be here?" Gandalf muttered, frowning. "This is no Elven realm. Lindon's folk do not patrol so far east."
The company snapped smoothly into a defensive formation. The spears of the Kaisar Guard locked together, forming a golden hedge in the sinking light.
A moment later, a dozen riders emerged from behind a tumble of rock. They wore leather armour and weather-stained cloaks crusted with grass seeds; but the swords at their waists were gleaming from careful oil and stone.
The leader pushed back his hood, revealing a face lined and darkened by sun and wind. When his gaze fell on Kaen, he dropped to one knee at once.
"Your Majesty of Eowenría?" His voice was hoarse, as if scraped over gravel—shot through with disbelief.
"I don't recall making your acquaintance," Kaen said mildly. "Who are you?"
"We are the wardens of Eriador," the man replied. "Rangers posted along the White Downs. Two months ago we were ambushed by Orcs out of the Blue Mountains. An elflord named Glorfindel saved us. He told us the King of Eowenría would pass this way."
"Glorfindel?" Several in the company started. None of them had expected the golden Lord to be the link.
Kaen's gaze swept over the men, lingering a moment on their torn leathers and hastily bound wounds.
"If that's so," he said, "why are you here now and what about those injuries?"
"We were attacked again," answered a younger Ranger, cradling an arm wrapped in blood-stained bandages. His face was pale with weariness. "By another band of Orcs. These were… different. They moved without sound. Their eyes were red. Even when we shot them through with arrows, they would not fall. We fought them for two days and nights, and lost seven brothers."
Red-eyed Orcs.
Kaen's eyes narrowed. His first thought was that the movements of their embassy had leaked, that the enemy had sent hunters to intercept them.
But he quashed the notion almost at once. Had that been the case, the shadows would not have let them march this far untroubled.
"How many?" Gandalf asked. "And where?"
"Forty, perhaps fifty," said the Ranger. "They were heading toward the Tower Hills."
"How far?" Kaen said.
"Cross the White Downs and the Far Downs," the man pointed to the south-west, "and ride three days. There stand three towers—the last watchtowers of old Arnor. Under them, folk say, the kings' treasure is buried…"
"Not a treasure-hoard." Denethor cut in, his fingers unconsciously brushing the family badge at his belt. "An archive. The chronicles of the North-kingdom lie there or so our records in Gondor say. And also…"
He hesitated, then looked slowly round the circle.
"…a palantír."
The name fell like a stone into still water.
The haft of Thorin's war-axe trembled a little in his grip.
The seeing-stones of Númenor, relics that showed far places and distant minds. were rare and perilous. In the right hands, they could give a ruler eyes far beyond the walls of any city.
Kaen himself held one, a gift from Saruman.
In the war in the far East, when dark Men had poured in from beyond the Sea of Rhûn, he had used that stone—by Arwen's aid—to cross blades with Thorin on the field of thought.
If a palantír truly lay beneath the Tower Hills, then the purpose of those red-eyed Orcs was all too plain.
"It seems," Kaen said softly, "we can take the chance to prune some of the Dark Lord's claws."
His voice broke the spell of silence. He turned to Aragorn, Legolas, Denethor, and the other young lords.
"Go," he said. "Think of it as your own trial. We will be behind you, to guard your backs."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
"Good, we've been riding too quietly. My sword is growing restless."
The young men were eager. Since the Barrow-downs, they had had no true chance to stretch their limbs.
And all along the road, Gandalf's tales of their forefathers' wars had fanned a steady hatred of the Shadow in each of them. Now, at last, they had something worthy to strike.
So Aragorn, Legolas, Théoden and Denethor took forty or fifty chosen companions, and under the Rangers' guidance spurred their horses toward the Tower Hills.
Kaen watched them go, then clicked his tongue and set his own mount in motion.
"Come," he said to the rest. "We'll keep up….can't have anything unexpected happening to our young heroes."