The ancient ruins of Ost Waeren were really quite remarkable, Beriador thought on his way back to the village of Tornhad. The day had been most satisfying for him.
Tornhad was one of the few permanent ranger settlements still left in the world and a home to many Dúnadan families. The village was located at the bottom of a forested river-gorge in the Angle of Mitheithel in the Trollshaws. It was a place where many a Dúnadan children learned the art of survival from young age. Beriador had himself been born and raised in Tornhad, and as a youth he had also spent several years in Imladris, which had sparked his interest in the history of the Dúnedain and their ancient kingdoms.
Beriador had not been in Tornhad or the Trollshaws in many decades, not since he came of age. A few months ago he and Lhaindir had decided to follow Felonwort’s tracks from the Tower Hills into Tharbad, where they had found the remains of the former brigand. Evidently Felonwort had been killed and eaten by a band of marauding orcs and wargs, along with some other man the rangers did not know. It was probably some reclusive hunter who had decided to settle on the ruins of Tharbad. Beriador and Lhaindir did not find the letter Reed had mentioned, but the rangers decided that it was probably best not to return to Tinnudir for a while to avoid awkward questions about Felonwort and Reed until the dust had settled. They had decided to follow Gwathló and Mitheithel into Tornhad in the Angle of Mitheithel, where both men had grown up in, and spend the summer and coming winter there.
It was already late in the summer. The summer had been mostly uneventful for Beriador and Lhaindir. They had been helping around the village and scouting the southern Trollshaws for any signs of enemy activities. Beriador had spent all of his free time investigating the many ruins of ancient kingdoms that dotted the Angle of Mitheithel.
This evening Beriador was riding along the road south from Ost Waeren, heading towards Tornhad. He had found many ancient relics and some peculiar runes from the ruins and made rubbings of the runes onto scrolls of parchment that were now wrapped in oilskin inside his long cloak. Beriador was happy with the way things were progressing. Lhaindir had seemed to be in a better mood during the past few days. A raven had come from Tinnudir, and though nobody there had exactly forgotten about Felonwort and Reed, it seemed like the rangers there accepted the explanation Beriador and Lhaindir had cooked up about their disappearance and the reason why the two rangers had not returned to Tinnudir. A few more months and nobody would even remember Felonwort and Reed anymore, and Beriador and Lhaindir could go back home.
If they even wanted to go back, that is. Beriador was not sure if he wanted to. The Angle of Mitheithel was a treasure trove of knowledge for a scholar of history like himself. Beriador had already mapped and investigated every ruin and graveyard he had found around the lake Evendim a long time ago, so there was nothing particularly interesting for him in Tinnudir anymore.
Beriador did not mind the long ride from Ost Waeren to Tornhad. The day had been long and warm, the sun had been reluctant to set and the cool evening air felt pleasant against his skin. Late summer evenings were long and languid in the Trollshaws, like memories of kingdoms past. The rains had been sufficient this summer, and the sun had been generous. Slowly and reluctantly the darkness enveloped the rocky hills and deep pine-woods in the Angle of Mitheithel.
”Why won’t you come off your horse for a little chat?”
Beriador pulled the reins of his horse, jumped off the saddle and reached for his bow and arrows. Who had spoken? The dark, cold voice seemed to have come from the thicket by the side of the road.
”I wouldn’t do that if I were you”, the voice said again. ”Drop your weapons if you want to live.”
”Who are you? What do you want?”
”Drop your bow and come with me. You will find out soon enough what I want.”
Beriador looked around, considering the words of the stranger. He could not see the stranger in the bush, but he knew the stranger had a bow aimed at him. If he moved really fast, he could shoot an arrow into the bush before the stranger loosed his own. If he was very lucky, he might even hit the stranger in the dark. But then the stranger’s arrow would pierce his heart. And besides, he kind of wanted to know who the stranger was and what he wanted. It was not common for anyone to ambush a ranger this close to their home village. And if it was a Dunlending, he would have shot Beriador already. A Dunlending would not have wasted time with words.
”All right, mellon”, Beriador said in a voice he used to charm and disarm his enemies. He smiled – a round-eyed, innocent smile – shrugged and dropped his bow and arrows on the road. Before the stranger said anything more, he had unsheathed his sword and dropped it on the ground as well. He had other weapons too, but those he would not mention unless the stranger found them. ”All right, there is no need to be so rude. What is it that you want to talk about?”
”Walk past me”, the stranger said. ”Over there, on that cliff by the river. Let’s take a little walk. Don’t try anything stupid. I will be right behind you.”
The stranger remained in the bushes as Beriador walked past him. The night air was heavy with fog. Beriador treaded carefully on the slippery cliff that sloped upwards past the river rushing below him on his right. He knew this area well. He felt the edge of the knife pressing against the flesh of his right arm inside his sleeve. Beriador was very good with knives. He could hit his opponent in the eye without aiming from twenty paces away.
”Where are we going?” Beriador asked in his pleasant voice.
”Keep walking”, the stranger said behind him. His voice was low and flat, and Beriador frowned as he recognized the accent. It was a Gondorian accent. It was a long time since Beriador had heard it before. But what was a Gondorian doing in the Trollshaws?
”I want to talk to you about Felonwort”, said the stranger.
Beriador did not even flinch. It would not have mattered if he did, because the Gondorian was behind him and could not see his face. So the Gondorian knew about Felonwort, Beriador thought, and probably about Reed as well.
”Why won’t you tell me who you are first?” Beriador said. ”And why have you followed me here?”
”I followed your tracks from Tharbad. You and your friend tracked Felonwort there to silence him forever, but looks like somebody beat you to it. So you came here.”
”You are so wrong, mellon.”
”I don’t have time for that”, said the Gondorian. ”Don’t try to deny what I already know. Don’t waste my time.”
”Who are you? What’s going on?”
”I come from Gondor, as you have already guessed. The man who’s remains you found with Felonwort was from Gondor too. He tended trained messenger pigeons from Minas Tirith. So you see, I know everything that Felonwort knew, at least everything he told the old hunter. And I have seen the letter from Mordor as well.”
Beriador climbed the cliff past the waterfall until they came to a grassy highland surrounding a small lake, the fountainhead of the river.
”So”, Beriador said, ”where do you want me to go now?”
”Just follow the lake. Let’s walk around it to the other side.”
”Are you going to kill me then?” Beriador asked. His voice was completely calm, as if he was talking about the weather. ”On the other side?”
”No”, said the Gondorian. ”I only want information.”
”About Felonwort. He was supposed to help us uncover Sauron’s plot to steal the Elostirion-stone in Emyn Beraid. But he decided to flee instead, he…”
”What happened to the spy from Mordor?”
”Felonwort killed him. Cut his throat and stole the letter…”
”No.”
”No? I didn’t see you there, mellon.”
”No. You killed the spy.”
”I killed the spy? I killed him?”
”Yes. Or maybe your friend did it. It doesn’t matter to me. I want to know what the spy knew. I want to know what Felonwort knew – the parts he left out when he told his story to the old man in Tharbad.”
Beriador decided then that the Gondorian, whoever he was, would not live to see the next sunrise. It was bad enough that he knew about Felonwort and Reed, but now he was also accusing him and Lhaindir for Reed’s murder – the very thing he had gone so much trouble through to hide. The Gondorian was good, but he had likely never met a ranger before. And he did not know about the knife in Beriador’s sleeve.
”The spy told you something before you killed him”, said the Gondorian. ”What was it?”
They had circled around the lake and were now on the foot of a high, grassy hill that was leading to the edge of a cliff high above the roaring waterfall and the river. The Gondorian told Beriador to keep walking. When they were standing near the edge of the cliff, the Gondorian suddenly struck Beriador on the head with a heavy object he was holding in his hand. Beriador fell onto his knees and stared at the rushing river far, far below him.
”You are being stupid, Gondorian”, Beriador moaned. ”We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? We’re all fighting for the Free Peoples of the Middle-Earth, we are joined in our fight against Sauron and Mordor, are we not?”
”Then why did you allow a spy from Mordor to get so near the Elostirion-stone? You even helped him find Emyn Beraid.”
”We needed to see what he wanted to do!” Beriador screeched.
”Why not just apprehend and interrogate the spy while he was in your camp?”
”It was Lhaindir’s idea… you see, nobody else in Tinnudir suspected Reed of being a spy, and Lhaindir didn’t want to share the credit for foiling Sauron’s plans with the other rangers. He wanted to be the hero and save the day all by his lonesome, damn him!”
”But you went along with it”, Delioron pointed out. ”He was willing to share the credit with you, and you had nothing against it.”
Beriador did not say anything to that. He rubbed his aching head and sat up, staring into the darkness where the voice came from. He saw a silhouette of a dark figure looming against the starry sky, holding a heavy object in his hands. Probably a crossbow.
”If I kill you now and drop your corpse off the cliff”, Delioron said, ”there is a good chance nobody will ever find it. It will crush against the rocks and the river might carry it all the way to the sea. Just like Reed. Now tell me… what did Reed know?”
”I don’t know, Gondorian. But he had a letter with him. An encrypted letter from Mordor with his mission orders.”
”And what were those orders?”
”I don’t know exactly. You know better than me, damn you! You told me you have read the letter! Well, I haven’t. Felonwort stole the letter and took it with him when he escaped. But it was damned odd, if you ask me… why would he keep such a letter with him, when he was in the enemy camp? He should have memorized his orders and destroyed the letter.”
”Perhaps the letter was meant to be found. Maybe the elves at Emyn Beraid were meant to find it.”
”But why?”
Delioron said nothing to that. His crossbow was still pointed at Beriador, but Beriador could not see it in the darkness. The night sky was dotted with stars, and an eerie mist floated above the ground. The outline of Delioron’s dark silhouette loomed against the fog.
”He had instructions to keep the letter”, Beriador said. ”That’s what he told me, Gondorian, I swear it on my mother’s grave.”
”Why?”
”I don’t know, Gondorian. Reed didn’t know. He was not the brightest apple in the basket, you see, he was just following his orders. He did not lie to me. After a while he wasn’t able to lie”, Beriador said. ”Can I get up now?”
Beriador felt the blade against his arm. He was ready to make his move.
”Can you swim?” Delioron asked.
”What do you mean? I told you everything I know.”
”I’m going to give you two options. One way or the other you are going down to that river. One way is that I kill you now and drop your corpse off the cliff. The other way is that you jump down yourself. It’s a long fall, but I’ve seen people survive worse. I think you have a realistic chance of surviving if you jump.”
”Damn you, Gondorian! This isn’t fair!”
”It wasn’t fair for Reed either. At least I’m giving you a chance.”
”Can you at least grant me one favor, Gondorian?” Beriador pleaded. ”Let me empty my pockets first.”
”Why?”
”I have relics from Ost Waeren – ruins up north from here. Relics of Rhudaur. They are invaluable, Gondorian! Let me put them down before I jump so I can come pick them up later if I survive – or for some other Dúnadan to find. They are more important than you or me, Gondorian – they are part of the legacy of Men that can not be forgotten, lost from the world!”
”All right then, but no sudden movements.”
Slowly Beriador pulled the oilskin from under his cloak and set it down gently on the wet grass near the cliffs.
”Rubbings”, he explained. ”I made rubbings from some runes I found at Ost Waeren.” Beriador emptied his pockets and laid several small dilapidated objects on the oilcloth. ”I can always make the rubbings again, but not these”, he explained.
Delioron said nothing. He kept the crossbow aimed at Beriador, who was seething with rage. Beriador felt like a fool. He realized he had no chance to throw the knife. The Gondorian was aware of his intentions and expecting him to try something. If he survived the fall, he would avenge this. Somehow.
”Jump!” said a cold voice from the fog.
Beriador turned and jumped off the cliff into the rushing waterfall below. For a moment he could hear his own scream as his body hit the cloud of foam and spatter with a fierce splash. In the next moment he was falling through the surging foam wall. His scream drowned into the thundering foam. In the next moment the icy waters closed over him before his feet touched the bottom. His left leg cracked against a jutting rock. Fear gave Beriador the strength of a giant. He struggled up and broke the surface above him.
Everything was darkness around him. He struggled to the reedy bank, grasped a hold of the slippery cliffs and pulled his body out of the water. He crawled onto the bank, his left leg hanging limply behind him. It was broken, but he could not tell how badly. There was not even pain, not yet. The pain would come later.
Damn the Gondorian. Damn him!
