The red-eyed orcs, fierce as they were, could do little when they met the hardened champions of the fellowship of the seed face to face. It was the Nazgûl that weighed upon the fight. All five of them were beings of the highest dread, stronger by a measure than any one of the company save Gandalf and Corthalion, who alone could stand before them without being broken at once.
For the rest it was a losing struggle, blow by blow. Whenever one of them was caught and held by a Ringwraith, the warg-riders lunged in, carving blood marks upon mail and flesh.
Many days of forced marching, little food, wounds left half-healed: all these had drained their strength. Their steps were heavy, their arms slow, and it was not long before another cry went up.
One Elven hero went down beneath a blow. A warg sprang for him, jaws gaping to rend him to pieces.
Then, from far away, an arrow hissed through the air and punched clean through the beast's skull.
At this sudden turn every head snapped round.
On the northern slope stood a tall man, strong of limb and keen of eye. In his hands he held a greatbow bent into a full shining curve, like a pale new moon.
Three arrows leapt from the string in a single breath, arcing through the air in a beautiful line. Three Orcs toppled at once, each with a shaft buried to the fletching.
"Zakri!"
Gandalf and Aragorn cried his name together.
For there he was: Zakri, the first bow of Eowenría, one of the highest war-leaders of the realm, Warden of the southern Swanhold, a hero whose skill stood among the greatest in the age.
He stood upon the ridge and shouted, "Warriors of Eowenría!"
From behind him ranks of riders surged into view, their forms wreathed in a faint golden radiance.
"Charge the darkness!"
The earth shook with the thunder of hooves. Eowenría's heavy cavalry poured down the hillside like a breaking storm. Orcs and wargs faltered, then broke, shrieking in terror.
The Nazgûl cast one last, unwilling glance at Aragorn, then turned and melted into the dark once more.
The horses roared past the company and plunged straight into the black, and soon the night was filled with the wails of Orcs and the dying howls of wargs.
"Master Wizard, Estel, Denethor..."
Zakri rode up to them and bowed his head slightly, regret in his face. "Forgive me. I am late."
"No," Gandalf replied, shaking his head. "You came at the perfect hour. You have saved us all."
...
Within the Swanhold, in the camp of Eowentría, warmth and order replaced the chaos of the road.
At Zakri's command the soldiers brought hot water and steaming food. He watched in silence as the weary travellers devoured the fare, and his eyes shone with respect.
"King Kaen Eowenríel foresaw that you would pass through peril," Zakri said. "He ordered stores to be laid up here at the Swanfleet and had the finest warhorses saddled and kept in readiness for you."
Gimli cupped a great bowl of meat broth in both hands, speaking around its rim with his mouth full. "Trust the folk of Eowenría," he mumbled. "Their food sits better in the belly than all the Elf berries in the world."
Zakri laughed softly and went on. "His Majesty also said this: if you are hunted by the Nazgûl, take the hidden way west of the Swanfleet. There we have woven a curtain of wards, and it will blind the senses of dark creatures."
Gandalf sipped his hot tea. For the first time in many days there was real ease in his lined face. "Kaen always finds the most careful paths," he said.
They rested two full days in the Swanfleet, until strength and spirit had risen somewhat from the depths to which they had sunk.
Then the road called again.
Zakri assigned ten soldiers of Eowenría to guide them through the marshlands. He placed in Gandalf's hands the newest maps of the region and saw that they were laden with dried rations enough for the next long march.
The morning they departed the sky was a clear, deep blue.
The swans of the marsh rose in wheeling flocks and circled above them, white wings bright against the sun, as if they too would give a blessing to this small band and their burden.
"From here onward," Gandalf said with a smile, "we should meet no further peril. The enemy shuns the borders of Eowenría. Even the Holy March lies beneath Kaen's protection."
"Beyond this marshland lies the land of Eregion," he continued. "In the heart of that land stands Nargothrond, ruled now by Lord Anrod of the Noldor and Princess Anariel."
Aragorn laid a hand upon the bundle beneath his cloak. He could feel the life within the seed leaping faintly, as if it too longed for the journey's end.
He turned once more to gaze back toward the Swanfleet. On a distant height the war-banners of Eowenría still flew, steadfast as a wall of stone, and the sight of them settled something in his heart.
The remaining Sindarin heroes tightened their grips on spear and sword. Their battered armour flashed in the sunlight with a hard, unwavering light. They knew that while a single one of them yet drew breath, the seed must be borne safely to Nargothrond.
Gimli laughed, the sound rolling out over the reeds. "Once we are through," he said, "we will be in the realm of Khazad-dûm. Then I will set ale before you that can wake the dead, and roast meats seasoned in the true Dwarvish fashion."