THUMP!
They landed hard on the wooden dock and came tumbling out of the sling. Alatar alighted on the planks beyond them. In a wink, his wings were only a long feather cloak again.
“Oww!” Aragunk shouted. “You could have given us a softer landing!” Yet, despite his complaints, he was overjoyed to be back on the ground where he belonged. Lumpolas whispered thanks to each of the immortal Valar by name for surviving the flight. Beonna crawled to her feet with her knees wobbling. Alatar ignored them while he preened himself, shaking the dust out of his cloak and scratching his shoulders with his feet. Lumpolas and Aragunk joined Beonna in beholding the huge dark shape closing on them from the sea.
Aragunk’s dim eyes could only make out a black blob on top of the big blue patch of ocean. “What is it?”
“It looks like a castle,” said Lumpolas, fear rising in his voice. “A castle on the water!”
Aragunk shook his head. “A castle? How can a castle float? Your elven eyes must have feathers in them.”
“I tell you, Gunk, from here I see towers, and smoke billowing from chimneys and walls and battlements.”
Beonna nodded in agreement. “It’s some kind of floating fortress and it’s coming right for this city! It means to attack!”
Aragunk drew his sword with a grin. “Let them come! At last! A real fight on solid ground!” He swung his blade through the air with a loud swish, imagining himself leaping into the thickest part of the battle.
Alatar launched a high-pitched peal of laughter. “Fight? You would fain fight that? All on your own? Young fool. So brave, and so witless! Ha ha!”
Aragunk gritted his teeth in rage. “Aye, Crowfoot, I will, if that is the fate you have winged us to! We either fight here or we run like cowards!”
Alatar clucked. “I did not bring you swiftly here to just as swiftly die—and die you would on the spears of those Dagorim marauders! No, your fate lies far southwards.” He pointed a long finger at a tall three-masted clipper ship anchored away in the bay.
Lumpolas noticed the flag, a red hawk flying against a field of gold with a shattered chain in its talons. “The Freedom Hawk! That’s Yorlov’s ship!”
“Yes, young elf,” Alatar said. “Behold!” He pointed back landwards where a group of horses galloped along the shore, making their way to the dock. A figure clad in pure white robes with a long, flowing white beard rode at their head.
“It’s Gandalf!” Beonna cried. “And Captain Yorlov with him! And Culum, and one other, Garsk, but no more. There are only four of them left!”
The foam-covered horses roared to a stop. Gandalf leaped lightly to the dock. But Yorlov all but fell from his horse, looking ill-used indeed with dried blood caked over his left ear and chin. Beonna noticed his left hand was badly burned.
“My young friends,” Gandalf beamed, “what an unexpected joy to find you safely here!” He held up his hands as they bombarded him with questions: What had happened to them? How had they escaped? “There will be time to tell that tale soon—if luck travels with us. But now, as ever, we have need of haste. Captain! To the boat!” He pointed to an abandoned rowboat tied nearby.
While Yorlov and the other two sailors secured the boat to make it fast, Gandalf brought his arms around the three young adventurers. “My friends—especially you, Aragunk, and you, Lumpolas—you have come far and have acquitted yourselves with valor. But I cannot ask you to come further. This ship sails southward into dangers, the likes of which the three of you have never imagined possible! There is no shame if you take these horses and ride back to Minas Tirith with your heads held high for the perils you have overcome this day.”
Lumpolas smiled hopefully at his friends, but his face dropped when he marked the determination set in their eyes.
“Leave? Now?” Aragunk scoffed. “I haven’t even been in a proper fight yet!”
Beonna gripped the locket. “I’m going with you, Master Gandalf. I must.”
All eyes turned to Lumpolas. He glanced at the impatient horses, remembering his beloved kitchens away north in Mirkwood. But with a shrug and a sigh, he shouldered his rucksack. “I’m coming too. Who else is going to keep you out of trouble?”
Gandalf smiled and stepped aside. “Good and stout-hearted companions! Then, if you please, get aboard the boat. I’ll be with you presently.” He left them as they climbed into the boat and stopped at the end of the dock in front of Alatar. “You’ve come back, old friend, and none too soon. How stand matters in the Eastlands?”
Alatar, crouching and gripping his bone staff, squinted at Gandalf. “Free as they can ever be. Her dark armies lay wasted for now, and the floodwaters of Sauron’s power recedes back into the earth. But our allotted time here grows short, Olórin—do they still call you that here? And why, brother, do you now bear the mantle of Saruman?” he asked, regarding his white robes.
Gandalf nodded. “That is a tale that brings more wisdom to the wise and bears careful retelling. I pray we will have the time soon—perhaps away in the West, my friend. But now, having had barely enough time to thank you for watching over these three, I must ask again for your help.” His eyes turned to the approaching dark fortress. “We need but time and a little space to get by them.”
“Our hour here is ended, Olórin, our task complete with the destruction of Sauron,” said Alatar. But, with a quizzical grin playing over his sharp-featured face, he suddenly vaulted high into the air. With two powerful beats of his wings, he was far out over the water, heading toward the hulking fortress as it bore down on the bay.
Gandalf leaped into the boat and soon they were pulling for the Freedom Hawk, Culum and Garsk hard at the oars. Lumpolas tracked Alatar as he rose higher and higher into the sky, a blue dot becoming a black speck far above the floating fortress. Even his elven eyes could barely see him by the time they arrived ship-side.
“Captain!” a voice called from the gunwale above them. “Captain Yorlov, is that really you?”
“Aye, Boritt, your bug-blasted eyes can see that it’s me, can’t they?” Yorlov growled up at the gaping officer who had cutlass drawn.
“We thought you be dock bandits sneaking over,” the boatswain said as he dropped the rope ladder to them. “We were set to weigh anchor and get out of the path of that thing.”
“There’s your orders then,” said Captain Yorlov. He handed Beonna up the ladder and then followed. “Get the mizzen set. We’ll tack sou’-sou’-west out of the bay. All hands to battle stations!”
The rest climbed aboard the tall ship and instantly felt like they had landed in the middle of a hive of busy bees, running and buzzing all around them. Men were pulling on ropes, hauling on chains, raising sails and handing out swords. The three bewildered adventurers would have been run over if Gandalf hadn’t spirited them through the tumult. He brought them up to the quarterdeck and out of the way while the sailors rigged the ship for quick departure. Men climbed through the rigging above like squirrels among the trees.
Captain Yorlov stood in the middle of it all, barking, threatening and commanding his hive of sailors into urgent action. “Get that jib sheet set and weigh anchor!” He came up to the deck with them and seized the rudder himself. “We’re going hard out of port and we’re going fast!” The sails fluttered in the hot sirocco wind, and Yorlov barked at the men aloft to make fast the rigging.
The sails billowed out with a SNAP! and the ship surged to life. Lumpolas glanced over the stern and could already see a wake forming behind them as they picked up speed. “Warn that blasted scow to get out of the way or we’ll run him down!” Yorlov yelled to the watchman at the prow. He hunched over the tiller, his burnt left hand hidden inside his jacket. The purple scar rippled across his cheek as his jaw clenched, one eye on the sea and one on the floating fortress bearing down on them. “More sail!” he shouted. “Top gallants and top top gallants! Prepare to tack larboard! We’ll outrun ‘em if we can get around ‘em!” The fortress loomed larger as it drew closer.
Beonna turned to Gandalf. “It’s this they’re after, isn’t it?” she asked, putting the tips of her fingers to the locket.
“Yes, Beonna. They will try very hard to take that from you. But we will not let them have it, will we, my dear?” Beonna set her eyes. Courage coursed into her heart from somewhere she couldn’t detect.
“They’re trying to cut us off, sir! We’re not going to make it!” cried a boy’s voice from the crow’s nest.
The captain cursed under his breath. “Hard to port!” he howled to the deck. “Sou’ by southeast. We’ll squeeze through, by Ulmo’s whiskers!”
Dark figures were visible on the walls of the fortress now, drawing bows as they came into range, torches blazing. Lumpolas looked up at Gandalf. The wizard whistled to himself, looking up through the rigging, to all appearances, just an old man on an afternoon pleasure cruise.
The great plume of smoke belching from the peak of the fortress shrouded them in its shadow. Gloom fell on every heart as the sun’s strength diminished. Yorlov’s eyes set grimmer and more determined as he piloted the ship. He prayed for the wind they needed to beat the fortress to the inlet of the bay and escape to the ocean beyond. But to Lumpolas’s eye, the fortress was going to beat them there. It turned, tracking with them though it had no sails, making for the southeast side of the bay inlet. “We’re not going to get there in time!”
Yorlov gave a grim chuckle. “I’ve not lost a ship out on the open ocean yet, lad. And I don’t plan to today!” But to Lumpolas, the captain’s eyes, though hard and set, didn’t look entirely sure that he believed it. The Freedom Hawk flew through the bay waters, white foam in her wake, like a dove into a black cloud. “Tack! Hard to starboard!” Yorlov bellowed. But they all could see it was too late to get around the fortress.
Then, from high above, a whistling sound rose like an arrow whizzing through the air. Lumpolas cast his gaze skyward. A dark blue blur came streaking straight down through the smoke above the dark fortress. “It’s Alatar!” A crashing BOOM! buffeted their ears. The whole floating hulk shuddered as a ball of fire bloomed up through the black smoke. Gandalf laughed over the howls and cries of the men on the fortress walls. The fortress listed, tipping over as a raging fire broke out in its black hull.
“Hurrah!” the men in the Freedom Hawk’s rigging cheered even as Yorlov barked at them to squeeze more speed out of the sails. “We’re not by ‘em yet!” And as he said it, arrows whistled from the fortress. Two men up in the fighting-top crashed to the planks with their last screams dying on their lips. Gandalf darted to the port-side gunwale. He pointed his staff at the group of dark archers, who alone on the fortress still marked the ship slipping past them. Then Gandalf uttered something under his breath and a blinding flash of light erupted in the air above the archers, followed by a colossal BANG! The archers fell to the deck, stunned.
The Freedom Hawk soared past and soon the open ocean lay before them like a welcoming friend. The pall of smoke dissipated behind them. The sun regained its strength.
“We made it!” Beonna yelled and leaped to embrace Lumpolas and Aragunk in her joy. But she found Aragunk crumpled on the deck instead. He groaned in agony with his hands covering his stomach. “Aragunk! Someone help! He’s hurt!”
Lumpolas dropped to his friend’s side. “Aragunk!” He searched for the arrow that must have struck his friend, but could not find it. “Are you alright?”
Beonna knelt and put her hands on Aragunk’s shoulder. “What happened? Can you tell us?”
Aragunk only moaned in reply. Sweat stood out on his brow and his face had waxed pale.
“He’s dying!” shouted Lumpolas.
Beonna’s cast pleading eyes to the wizard. “Master Gandalf! Can you help him?”
Gandalf knelt by the young man of Gondor and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for him.”
“Gunk!” Lumpolas wailed, taking his friend in his arms. “Oh, my bestest of friends, all you ever wanted was an adventure, and it ended too soon! Oh, curse the hour we left Minas Tirith! I should have left you to your sweet sleep!” Tears streamed down his round cheeks.
Aragunk groaned louder as Lumpolas rocked his friend back and forth. “Stop!” he gasped, trying to push the elf away, who carried on heedlessly.
“My friend lies killed, and he never had a chance to fight in glorious battle! He wanted to be remembered in song. Fear not, my lost friend, I will carry on the stories of your mighty deeds. No one will forget the name of Aragunk, warrior of Gondor, while I draw breath!”
Gandalf chuckled. “Fret not yourself, young son of Thranduil. To my knowledge, no one has ever died of being seasick.”
Lumpolas stared at Gandalf as he continued rocking his friend. “Seasick?”
Aragunk struggled harder until he finally pushed Lumpolas away. “For the love of Elrond’s elbows, let me go!”
“You’re only seasick?” said Lumpolas as the light of realization dawned. “I thought you were dying!”
“I’m not seasick!” Aragunk grunted while struggling to his feet. “Men of Númenor don’t get seasick! We’re all natural sailors.” His eyes crossed, and he flung himself to the gunwale and emptied his sour stomach into the sea.
“Oh, poor Gunk,” said Beonna, trying hard not to laugh.
“Well, if that’s all it is,” Lumpolas said. He slung his rucksack from his shoulder and dug to the bottom. He measured out portions of herbs into a small wooden bowl, mashed them up with a spoon, and poured in water from the never-ending cup. Aragunk collapsed back to the deck when he finished throwing up, his face green as a lime. Lumpolas held the bowl up to his friend’s lips. “Drink this. It’s crownleaf and lorry-root. It will calm your stomach and give you your strength back.” Aragunk glared at the foamy green mixture. He tried to push the bowl away. “Ughh, the smell! It’s going to make me sick.”
“You’re already sick, you great turnip head! Now drink!”
Aragunk squinched his nose and turned his face away like a colicky baby. “No! Get that away from me!”
But Lumpolas would not be denied. “Beonna, help me get him to drink this!”
She shot out her hand. “Give me the bowl.” Lumpolas handed it over, grateful for someone else to help him. “Look, it’s not so terrible,” she said and took a sniff of the bowl. Her own face twisted up and turned a pale green. “Ughh! What is this foul stuff? It smells like horse dung!”
“See?” Aragunk spat.
Lumpolas gaped at him. “It’s not that bad! Elven mariners have been using these herbs for ages and it never fails to cure sea-sickness!”
Beonna gazed doubtfully at the green broth. “Look, Gunk, will you just drink this? I know it smells like rotting vegetables, but you don’t want people thinking you’re afraid of a little herb tea, do you?”
Aragunk glared at her and took the bowl from her hands. He brought it close to his face and gagged. “No! I can’t!” He held the bowl away. But a large wave swelled under the ship and Aragunk’s face went ashen.
Lumpolas pounced, grabbing Aragunk’s nose and squeezing his cheeks together to force his mouth open. “Now, Beonna!” She snatched the bowl and poured it into Aragunk’s mouth. Lumpolas slapped a hand under Aragunk’s chin and made him swallow it. He leaped away, fearing a surprise green shower. Aragunk retched and rolled on his side, but nothing came back up.
“See? You’re already feeling better, yes?” said Lumpolas, brushing his hands together for a job well done.
The young man wiped his chin with his sleeve, scowling up at Beonna and Lumpolas. “If either of you ever do anything like that again, I’ll throw you overboard!”
Captain Yorlov, who, along with Gandalf, had been laughing at the entire exchange, barked for Culum to come take the tiller from his hands. “Due south, Culum, until the wind shifts at eventide, then fetch me.”
“Aye, aye,” said the old sailor, taking the helm.
The captain turned to the wizard. “Master Gandalf, I believe we have some business awaiting us.”
“Captain!” the young tow-headed boy up in the crow’s nest called down, “Ahoy astern! Three boats are calving off that burning monster, sir!” They all cast their eyes over the stern. Indeed, a trio of dark galleys could be seen pulling away from the sinking fortress in pursuit of the Freedom Hawk.
“Captain?” Gandalf asked, looking at the stout Yorlov as he tasted the wind and glanced at the sea.
“Aye, we can stay ahead of ‘em as long as the wind stays with us. But they’re slavers. And with oars splashing, they can keep coming as long as they have strength.”
Gandalf studied the three ships and the sinking hulk behind them for a moment. “Come, my young friends,” he said with a sweep of his arm. “It’s time for a long overdue conversation.”
“Ahoy, Millen!” Captain Yorlov said to the yellow-haired boy up in the crow. “Keep an eagle eye on those three galleys. If they gain so much as a spit-shot on us, I want to know about it!”
“Aye, sir!” Millen called back. “We’ve a pretty lady aboard now, sir. I won’t let ‘em get near!” There wasn’t a trace of fear in the boy’s voice and Beonna liked him instantly.
“He’s an impertinent whelp, he is,” said Yorlov to her by way of apology, “my late sister’s son. But he’s got a heart of gold, Millen does.”
She laughed as they followed the captain down the steps and through the hatch. They entered a spacious and luxuriously appointed stateroom, the captain’s quarters. “You can make yourselves comfortable here while I go bury my men,” said Yorlov, looking none too happy. “There’s food on the board and plenty of wine in the barrel.” And with that, he strode back out and shut the door behind him.
“What does he mean he’s going to bury his men?” asked Beonna. “Where is he going to bury them?”
Gandalf set his staff against the wall and sat down at the broad table. “A sea burial. They will be wrapped in sailcloth and interred to the deep. This is the first time aboard a sailing vessel for all of you, I presume. You’ll find it a world unto itself. But while we wait for our host to return, let us avail ourselves of his hospitality.” Bread and cheese and cold meats burdened the side table. Beonna, Lumpolas and Aragunk, starving for hours now, set to ravenously.
As they feasted, a tall, gangly sailor in a grungy apron brought in a steaming pot of thick chowder and set in on the board. “Afternoon to ye, lads and lass,” the tall skinny man said with an awkward salute and an even more awkward bow. “My name’s Pete, but everyone calls me Cookie, because that’s what I am: the cook!”
Lumpolas beamed at him. “Well, it’s a joy to meet another practitioner of the culinary arts! My name is Lumpolas, chef to the court of King Thranduil of Mirkwood.”
Cookie gulped his enormous Adam’s apple in genuine surprise. “You’re a chef? A real chef? Well, if I’d known that, I might’ve made something a mite more, uh, sophisticated, to um, gladden your refined palate, m’lord.”
“Nonsense!” said Lumpolas. “Simple fare is the proper test of a skilled chef. ‘Less is more’ is the rule of cooking that I pilot my kitchen by. But I’d be delighted to tour your galley sometime, if it’s not too inconvenient. We can swap recipes.”
Cookie’s eyes shot wide. “Aye! That’d be right as arugula, I suppose. Anytime, Master… Master… I’m sorry, but I’ve already bloomin’ forgot your name!”
“Lumpolas. Chef Lumpolas. This is Aragunk of Gondor, Beonna of Norngalad, and I’m sure you know Gandalf the White.”
Cookie, a little star-struck by them, bowed. “Pleased to meet you all. The second course will be on its way presently. If you need a thing in the meantimes, ring that bell there on the table and someone’ll be in straightaway.” He bowed awkwardly again and backed out, cracking his head on the lintel for his troubles.
Lumpolas squinted and said in a low voice, “Another rule I live by is ‘never trust a skinny cook.’ But the proof is in the pot, as they say.” He dished out the chowder and sampled it, smacking his lips with eyes closed and brow clenched in concentration.
“Here we go,” said Aragunk, rolling his eyes.
“Well, how is it Lump?” asked Beonna. “Will we survive on this food?”
“He’s no stranger to the salt bowl, that’s for certain. But it could use something… what is it? Ah, of course!” He reached into his rucksack again, pulled out an ordinary-looking rock, and dropped it into the pot with a plop. He gave it a stir and brought a spoonful to his lips. “Aye, the Mungicite stone can turn the proverbial lead into gold. It’s first aid for any dish. But, egads, his spice rack could use a good going over!”
Beonna and Gandalf smiled at each other as Lumpolas fussed over the board, sniffing this and tasting that, adding something here and there from his sack of goodies. Cookie returned with a roast nestled among boiled potatoes swimming in garlic butter and garnished with parsley. They ate heartily—danger being a hungry business. Lumpolas received each course with pleasant but subtly pointed criticisms. Anyone could see they were getting under Cookie’s skin. The topper came when he brought in the dessert: a pudding of caramelized fruits topped with a lightly toasted crumb-crisp coating, crowned in fresh whipped cream sporting flecks of vanilla beans. Cookie waited irritably for Lumpolas’s assessment while he chewed and sniffed and smacked his lips and said, “Adequate.” He pushed his plate away unfinished.
“Adequate?” said Cookie with teeth clenched. “Adequate? I busts my tail cooking the finest meal this ship has ever seen and all you’ve done is pick at this and poke at that, finding something wrong with every dish I put on the table. And then I puts the dessert in front of you,—a recipe I got from my dear departed mother, may Eru bless her soul—and you call it no better than ‘adequate?’ Adequate?”
Lumpolas smiled back at him. “Now don’t go getting hurt. You’re a fine cook and my friends here were well-satisfied with the fare. And I’m sure that, considering the limited facilities aboard, you’ve done as good a job as a person of your minimal training could. But cooking isn’t a job, it’s an art. I suppose my weakness is that I look for art where I should set my sights lower and expect little more than mere sustenance.”
“Lumpolas!” Beonna hissed, as Cookie trembled with rage.
“‘Sustenance’ he says! I’ll have you know that the Freedom Hawk is known across the three seas for her hospitality! Captain Yorlov spares no expense to make sure that even a king would lack nothing aboard his ship. And you have the gall to call it nothin’ but ‘mere sustenance?’ I’d like to see you do better with our ‘limited facilities’ mister high-and-mighty royal chef of Mirkwood! What’s that they cook up there in that swampland? Spider legs and toad livers?”
“Easy, Lump.” Aragunk put his hand on Lumpolas’s shoulder when his friend’s face turned tomato red.
“Spider legs! Toad livers! Even if that was all I had to work with, I could still cook a meal that would make your mind think it had died and gone to the four heavens.”
“Aye, I’m sure I would want to die if I ate any of your swamp food!”
Aragunk slapped his knees in laughter at that. Lumpolas’s plump cheeks jiggled with rage as he sprang out of his chair. “Swamp food? My swamp food can beat your bilge-water cooking any day of the year!”
Cookie smirked back at him. “I’d like to see it, Swampy. If you’re such a big-shot chef, then why don’t you prove it?”
“Prove it? Gladly! You cook your best—if anything you cook can be called that—and I’ll prepare a dish. We’ll put them in front of a panel of judges and we’ll let them taste the truth for themselves.”
“Fine, a contest then!” Cookie spat. “If the captain approves it.”
“If he approves what?” Captain Yorlov asked as he strode back in to the stateroom.
“Ahoy Cap’n,” said Cookie, pointing at Lumpolas. “This chubby, pointed-eared, bad-mannered—”
“Cookie!” Yorlov warned. “If I hear any man speak ill of our honored guests, I’ll have him hauled under the keel!”
“Right! Sorry, sir! I meant to say that our honored guest from Mirkwood Way thinks his cooking can best the Freedom Hawk’s fare. And he’s not shy in saying it, he ain’t! And our honored guest has also expressed a desire to put his cooking up next to ours and may the best slop win.”
“A contest?” Yorlov’s eye glinted as he sat down at the table and tore off a hunk of bread and sliced some cheese. “Done! Tomorrow’s luncheon. The men’ll take a betting interest in it, of course.”
Everybody cheered, well-pleased with the captain’s order, especially Lumpolas and Cookie. They both grinned at each other like two gladiators sizing each other up.
“I’ll be waitin’ for ya, Swampy,” said Cookie as he carried dishes away out the hatch.
“Hope you can do something useful besides cook,” Lumpolas answered with a sneer. “Because you’ll be looking for a new job after I’m done with you!”
Yorlov laughed. “Go easy on him, Master Elf. Cookie’s a good lad. We rescued him off a slave-galley like the ones pursuing us right now. He doesn’t have your experience, I’m sure, but he’s the best cook we’ve had aboard in years.”
“Oh, he’s going to learn a lot more about cooking in one day than he ever thought possible. Don’t you worry!”
“What’s there to worry about? We’ll all get to eat some fine victuals and the men will have a rooting interest. That’s if we survive to luncheon tomorrow,” Yorlov said, glancing out the stern windows. The three galleys still pursued them in the distance.
Beonna peered at his hand, red and blistered, and the dried blood caked on the side of his face. “Captain, what happened to you after our boat capsized? How did you escape?”
Yorlov regarded her as he chewed his bread and gave her a solemn nod. “Most of us didn’t escape, lass. And we figured you hadn’t either. Only Gandalf had a notion that you might have got clear. We made to draw the enemy to us, to give you three a chance to make a run for it.
“After the boat turned over, we swam after it to the bend in the river and pulled ourselves ashore. When the first of those Dagor longboats came around the bend, we made sure to give ‘em a good fight so that the other boat had to come help.” He stopped to wash down his food with a swig of mead. “We lay badly outnumbered and our weapons fell far fewer, but we had the white wizard on our side. We climbed up the bank a ways, and using his wizard’s mischief, he made it to sound like there were many more of us than we had. We raised a racket and pelted them with stones and arrows until they had to beach their boats and come after us.
“Well, we were waitin’ for that. So we ran—no simple task for a bunch of gum-footed sailors—until we could get them in a good spot to ambush ‘em. We fought ‘em here and there where we could, picking ‘em off one at a time. But there was one of ‘em, a big monster with a nasty evil-looking pike I took to be their leader. He killed two of my men and so I purposed to take him down personally. I surprised him in the woods and took hold of that ugly pike, to rip it out of his hands and do to him with it what he had done to my men. But the second I grabbed it, the bloody haft turned into fire itself and, well, you can see what it did to my hand. I fell to the ground, and the monster booted me in the head for my troubles. I thought I was done for, when a light flashed and—BANG!—he went tumbling down the hill. Gandalf pulled me up, and I made to go after the brute to finish him. That’s when I sees that rat Tinker out of the corner of my eye come sneaking up on Gandalf’s back out of the scrub. He had his sailmaker’s bodkin out a’glinting in the sun.”
Gandalf tapped his knuckles on the table, gazing at the three young companions. “Tinker, I am certain, was your acquaintance Ratskin, come to discharge his duty to his dark master. Captain Yorlov saved my life with his quick knife hand, or I would have been ill-used as a pincushion by him.”
Aragunk pounded the board. “I knew it was Tinker all along! I could tell by the bloody rat-smell of him he was a rat coward!” Lumpolas and Beonna rolled their eyes at each other.
“A bloody rat traitor is what he was!” said Yorlov. “Picked him up scarce more than a month ago when we shipped into port, scouring for hands. My gut always grumbled when I had to talk to Tinker, but he kept to himself and did passable work. But any good sailor knows to trust his gut! I only had an instant to throw my knife into his rat-heart! A second later and Gandalf would have gone down and the rest of us would have gone keel up!”
“Hooray for Captain Yorlov!” said Lumpolas.
Beonna leaned in, gazing intently at the captain. “And what of their leader? Did you kill him?”
Yorlov shook his head. “No, lass. He must have taken himself off when he got a snootful of Gandalf’s white-magic. The monster vanished after Tinker fell, and we didn’t stay around to go hunting for him. We packed off across the hill country to the south until we had a couple leagues between us and those Dagor dogs. Then, Gandalf here whistles and a great powerful white horse shows up with two more behind. We rode like demons the rest of the way to Larrola. Now we have to survive another chase out on the open ocean.”
“We’ll survive alright,” said Aragunk. “I say let them catch us so we can fight them man to man and end all the trouble!”
“Is there an elvish word for brave but foolish? Does anybody know?” asked Beonna. “Because if there isn’t, then maybe that’s what Aragunk should mean.”
The others laughed while Aragunk raised his hands. “Well, what else are we going to do? Just let them chase us southwards until we run out of water? We’ll have to fight them sometime, won’t we?”
Gandalf began packing his pipe. “We may, young man of Gondor. We may indeed have to fight them if we don’t beat them to our mark.”
“And what, Master Gandalf,” asked Captain Yorlov, “is our mark? I only know that we bear due south. Beyond that, I still know as little as these children.”
Lumpolas cleared his throat. “Forgive me, sir, but who are these Dagorim? What do they want so badly that they seek to destroy us?”
The wizard took his time lighting his pipe and then filled his mouth with smoke. With a slow, strong exhale, Gandalf let out a ring of smoke that grew and grew until it surrounded the table and everyone sitting at it. Unlike any smoke ring they had ever seen, this one didn’t dissipate, but stayed billowing in place around them.
“There, we are now quite safe from prying ears. Everything we discuss here must, I insist, remain absolutely secret. If anyone thinks they cannot bear this burden of secrecy, they are welcome to leave now. But I warn you: if you stay, you must not utter any word spoken within this circle. Agreed?” Gandalf’s face grew severe as he fixed each one in turn with his smoldering blue-gray eyes. No one got up and no one left.
Gandalf rested his gaze on Lumpolas. “Our pursuers, son of Thranduil, are an ancient cult of fallen men dedicated to the Dark Lord Morgoth. The Dagorim have labored long since the end of the first age, seeking one of the lost Silmarils. They hope to use one of these to release the Evil One from his prison beyond the Door of Everlasting Night, ushering in a new age of darkness over the world in which the Dagorim will reign supreme.”
“But no one knows where the Silmarils are!” Lumpolas said. “One was placed in the Heavens far beyond reach, one was lost in the fires at the heart of the earth, and the third was lost forever in the… oh!”
“Yes, Lumpolas, the last Silmaril was cast into the southern sea, precisely where we are now headed. There is now strong reason to believe that the Dagorim may be on the verge of finding it. This is why we sail. We must stop them, no matter the cost, my friends.”
A low grumble rose in Yorlov’s throat. “Aye, that may be, Master Wizard, but how can we beat them there if we don’t know where to look ourselves?”
“To answer that, we require the presence of one more guest.” Gandalf pointed to Beonna. “The locket, my dear. If you will place it at the center of the table, all will be in perfect readiness.”
Beonna’s hands hesitated before moving to the locket. Gandalf watched her carefully as she removed it from around her neck. Her face fell as she set it on the table, as when a beloved friend departs. The locket clicked open by itself, and before their eyes, a silvery light rose from the shining jewel within like a radiant mist, swirling and growing. Everyone’s face shone in the light as though the moon itself had risen in the chamber with them. They all gazed in wonder as the luminous mist coalesced into a form floating just above the table, a sleeping young elf-lord with a jewel of clearest light affixed to his brow.
“Shelob’s shins!” whispered the captain. “It’s true then!”
“It is time,” said Gandalf, “for us to become better acquainted with another member of our party. He is Inolduay, the sleeping one and greatest friend of the lost tree Telperion. He has given me permission to tell his sad tale that you may understand the purpose of our quest.” They looked one to another for a solemn moment. Then their gazes turned back to Gandalf as he began, “In the days after the destruction of the Great Lamps by Morgoth—or Melkor as he was known then—”
Beonna shuddered at the mention of those names
“—there was a great house of noble elves known as the Poichain—the pure-sighted. When the two great trees, Telperion and Laurelin, had been planted, so deep was the Poichain’s love for them, that they abandoned their households and their ships and their possessions. They left all to dwell at the feet of these trees and rejoice in their life-giving light. Their songs of joy and thanksgiving reached even the ears of blessed Manwë, highest of the Great Lords of Valinor. They lived thus, dwelling under the light of the trees for many thousands of years, nourished by the wholesome fruits from their branches and the pure dew from their leaves. Their joy waxed complete, and many marveled at the wonderful harmony between the Poichain and the beloved trees.”
Lumpolas parted with a soft sigh.
“But it is a sad truth,” Gandalf continued, “that in the heart of all things made since the beginning of the world, there will always be a seed of discontent, a tiny itch that one can never quite scratch. Some say that Morgoth himself, the father of all discontent, came secretly among them, sowing discordant notes into their songs and whispering proud thoughts into their hearts. He hated the trees and their light, and he hated the joyful songs of the Poichain. And thus, after so many centuries, the ears of the wise began to detect a gradual lessening of the joy in the Poichain songs. Their dances became less spirited. And their hearts turned, by degree, to the outside world and wondered after its affairs.
“A day came when one of the Poichain, named Erumver, quieted the song in his throat. He was the first to leave the dance and wander away from the trees, never to return. An unfamiliar sadness entered the hearts of the Poichain at Erumver’s departure. Yet the songs of praise, though now diminished, continued.
“But over many centuries, the Poichain, one by one, quieted and departed the circles around the trees and returned to the civilization of the elves. At last, only two remained. A couple married in the sight of Manwë, Ailendil and his wife, Ilúnuel, and she was with child. Seeing themselves left alone among the Poichain, they mourned. A song of sadness dwelt in their throats where once only joy dwelt.
“Ilúnuel gave birth to a son in her time, and they laid him at the roots of Telperion the beloved. As they knelt, beholding their newborn son, a single drop of dew, alive with silver light, fell from Telperion’s highest branch. This drop fell through the shimmering air and alighted on the forehead of the sleeping babe. The shining drop remained on the boy, pure and radiant with the hallowed light of the blessed tree. His parents wondered at this new jewel of light resting on the infant’s brow and they understood that Telperion had blessed their child and hallowed him, claiming the babe for its own. Thus, Ilúnuel and Ailendil rose up, left their child at the roots of the tree, and journeyed back to the cities of the elves.
“The tree Telperion nurtured the child, raised the child as its own fruit and, after its fashion, loved the child. The boy grew far away from his own kind, and yet his eyes saw far from the top branches of the tree. He gained vast knowledge of the surrounding world. He fed on the fruits from its branches and drank the dew that fell from its leaves and slept at its roots from his childhood. Those who journeyed to the tree returned from their pilgrimage with tales of a strange boy with living light on his brow. They told of a boy dwelling in the branches of mighty Telperion possessed of a wisdom beyond the ken of the greatest of the elves. His sight reached farther than all but the Valar themselves. They called him Inolduay the pure. For as the tree had grown uncorrupted by Morgoth, so too Inolduay grew in incorruption, knowing only holy light and all its grace.”
Every eye at the table gazed at the sleeping boy with redoubled wonder.
“In time, Inolduay removed himself from the Earth. He lived only among the branches high above, glorying in the light of his beloved Telperion. But he had compassion for those who brought their troubles to the foot of the tree. Many traveled to the great tree, seeking the illumined boy. They cast their troubles and perplexities to the child. He spoke to them from the high branches, always foreknowing what they would ask before they opened their mouths. His answers always brought peace to those who needed it and trouble to those who thought themselves wise.
“But as Inolduay became a greater and greater source of wonder to the elves, the darkness and the hatred in Morgoth’s heart grew deeper for Inolduay the pure, voice of Telperion. The Evil One began devising the destruction of the holy trees. For many long years he waited patiently, scheming, hiding his evil plans.
“At that time, the elven craftsman Fëanor completed his work to enshrine the light of the hallowed trees. He brought forth the three Silmarils, those famed jewels, the history of which is well known. Morgoth’s lust for destruction could be restrained no longer. He put into motion his plans to destroy the two trees and steal the Silmarils. On that dark day, as the Evil One approached, Telperion, formed in wisdom, caused a deep sleep to come over Inolduay. Morgoth’s ally, ever-insatiable Ungoliant, the mother of all spiders, pierced the trunk of the great tree with her black fangs in her unending hunger to draw out its life. The keen eyes of Morgoth searched in vain for the boy while Ungoliant fed. Yet in his fury he failed to mark a lone fruit fall from the highest branches of dying Telperion. It rolled away down a bank into the great river that fed its roots. Morgoth ravaged the fallen tree as Ungoliant moved on to Telperion’s sister tree, Laurelin, to quench her undying hunger on its light. He tore the tree apart limb by limb, searching for Inolduay in vain. In wrath, he turned his evil mind to stealing the Silmarils as Ungoliant finished her meal.
“The fruit that had fallen from Telperion in its dying moment floated away down the river. It came to rest on the shores of a simple village of the elves. Among those living in this village was Ilúnuel, Inolduay’s own mother. She crouched by the river in fear, wondering what the failing light and the darkness rising over the land could mean. Then her eyes beheld the holy fruit drifting toward her. It glowed with a lost light her soul longed for. She took it from the water, wrapped it in her mantle, and brought it to her husband. They set the luminous bundle on their table and opened the fruit. Within, they found a single bright jewel where the seed should have been. Their eyes drank in the light from the jewel, knowing it to be the light of lost Telperion. Fearing that Morgoth might see the light and return to steal it, Ilúnuel and Ailendil closed the fruit around the shining jewel. They bound it with thick cloth and shut it in a strong wooden chest. Then they prepared an escape route should the evil one find them and took counsel together to decide what to do with the fruit and its precious seed.
“For a long time—how long is not known, for there was no cycle of days and nights after the death of the trees—Ailendil and Ilúnuel fretted over their choice. They feared to keep the fruit by them. But they dreaded to take it out into the darkened world to seek counsel. Back and forth they went, trying to decide what course to pursue, until, when their despair and confusion threatened to overwhelm them, a staff knocked against their door. Their hearts froze within their chests. Their faces told each other the same fear—Morgoth had come!”
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