A few minutes earlier.
The Dragonborn stood alone upon the open moor, feeling that power coiled within him, still hesitating to let it loose.
“Ochriamm, concentrate!” A hundred yards off, Fena called out with the shameless delight of someone who dearly wished to watch chaos unfold.
“Trust yourself!
You can do it!” Though why she was so eager, Dragonborn could not fathom; yet he had learned that ignoring her advice was often the wiser course.
This was no sudden realisation.
Over the past fortnight the dark-haired Dragonborn had tasted the truth of it again and again.
The Elf-woman was a rare oddity among her kind, else she would never have devoted herself so obsessively to the culinary arts, and in that short time she had tormented him without mercy.
Under the pretence of refining recipes, she had laced his meals with every conceivable spice and seasoning, concocting dark, bitter, sour, searing, cloying horrors that left him wretched.
More than once, cowed by her overbearing ways, he had devoured those dreadful dishes only to spend a full day violently retching and purging.
Had his new body not been preternaturally resilient, he suspected he would have perished at the Elf-woman’s hands before his adventures in this strange world even began.
Yet, for all that, Dragonborn was fiercely curious about his own capacities.
After a moment’s inward struggle he could not help glancing at Fena, as if to say, Are you certain?
She seemed to read his mind.
The Elf nodded vigorously, her expression plainly urging, Hurry up and get it over with, so we can go back!
Hmph.
The Dragonborn must have lost his wits, he reflected, ever to ask her about matters of magic.
With a sigh, Dragonborn at last set himself in earnest.
He closed his eyes and focused all his awareness upon the force slumbering within: a power like a mass of molten ore, scorching and immense, coursing through his frame until it gathered at his throat.
Then, without warning, a thunderous, soaring roar burst from the giant-like figure upon the heath.
It was a dragon-cry of such awful majesty that an indescribable pressure, heavy as a mountain, crashed into the Elf-woman’s heart a hundred yards away.
Fena’s face went pale; her hands and feet stiffened.
The sheer weight of that presence was overwhelming, as though she stood before a great dragon.
She had never endured such a thing herself, yet Elven lays and legends all attested to this very power: a dreadful, terrible force.
Under its compulsion the hills trembled, the river shivered, and the birds burst from their nests, darting wildly into the sky.
“A power beyond belief!
Fly, fly!
I must fly back and tell the master!
The Strider from the Sky is a Dragonborn!
Yes, that is the word, not my own making: the Elves of the Grey Havens and the Grey Wizard spoke it, and I overheard!” A monstrous black bird cawed and beat its wings, soaring upward.
It was a spy of the Eastern Shadow, set to hearken after any whisper that might threaten the Dark Lord.
A raven out of Mordor, flying even as it jabbered in a frightened voice: “The Elves have gotten a mighty weapon now, a terrible great lord who can match the Dark Lord’s host!
His voice is as fearsome as a dragon’s, his frame as towering as a giant’s, his eyes can pierce the mist, and the breath he looses can melt all things!
Under his might the mountains, forests, rivers, and beasts all quake and shiver!
Caw, caw!
Some crows were struck dead on the spot by his cry, of all my fellows, only I remain!
Caw, a sad tale.
I must hurry back, hurry back and tell the master…” It flew first eastward, passing over the Little Folk’s homeland, the Shire.
Then it turned north, crossing the Midgewater Marshes, Weathertop, and the Ettenmoors, flying two days and two nights without rest until at last it reached the ancient, broken fastness of Angmar in the North: the ruin of Carn Dûm.
Out of the shadows, a ghastly creature stretched forth a pale, enormous arm, and the exhausted raven alighted upon it.
Chattering, the bird poured out all it had seen and heard into the ear of the terrible being.
The monster grinned hideously, and dreadful words in the Black Speech of Mordor spilled from its fanged maw, as shadow fell upon that once-great stronghold, the Dark Lord’s chief lair in the North long ago.
“Foolish, filthy vermin!
Mount your wargs, draw your blades; war is upon us!” Bwooo… The deep, malignant note of an Orc-horn sounded.
In the darkness, countless savage, blood-hungry eyes flared open all at once.
There were the great black Uruks of Mordor, tall and powerful, and ancient demons out of the uttermost frozen North, the lost realm of Forodwaith.
Some bore the shape of Men (these were the Orcs), but others wore forms strange and grotesque.
The foul things muttered and snarled, swearing to obliterate every fair and wholesome thing beneath the sun.
It was whispered that these demons sprang from the bloodline of Morgoth, the Dark Foe of the First Age, and had lurked in the Northern Wastes for ages beyond count; both Elves and Wizards had thought them perished, yet here they now gathered.
Beyond the walls of Carn Dûm, more Orcs yet streamed in unbroken lines from Mount Gundabad and the Misty Mountains, crossing the Grey Mountains and circling northward into the ruins.
As the pale Orc of huge stature looked upon this evil host, such as had not been assembled since the Dark Years, he commanded the wretched raven: “Do not linger!
Fly with all your might, back to Dol Guldur before those accursed Elves take heed, and tell the master that the Dragonborn has arisen and a great army is mustering!” The raven gave a ragged caw and, with no choice, beat its wings once more and flew.
Now, when the Dragonborn’s fierce, appalling dragon-cry had echoed out, and flocks of birds and clouds of crows had erupted from the Blue Mountains in a black tide streaming northward, Círdan and Gandalf both changed countenance.
The Master of the Grey Havens spoke swiftly: “Gandalf, I give you leave to seek aid from Durin’s Folk, as you call them, though I have little hope that friendship between Elves and Dwarves can ever be renewed.” This was an Elf-lord who had witnessed the First Age, when Elves strove in life-and-death struggle against the Dark Foe Morgoth; who had beheld the Second Age, when Men and Elves united under one banner to assail the Dark Lord Sauron; who had seen the Third Age, when the glory of Men faded, the age of the Elves waned, and Dwarves vanished from the knowledge of the world.
Now he lamented aloud: “Since the First Age, when the Dwarves, out of greed and folly, seized by force the Nauglamír, the Dwarf-necklace set with a Silmaril, from Elwë Singollo, King of Doriath, and slew him, my own blood-kin, the friendship between Elves and Dwarves has been utterly shattered!
Allies who once fought beneath a single banner could not withstand the lure of a single jewel, how pitiful!
Even if that jewel was a Silmaril, a treasure beyond all price under the sky.” Memory of countless ages of bloodshed, of ancient betrayal, of the waxing and waning of the flame of civilisation, seemed to weigh upon the ageless Elf.
He sighed: “Allies became foes, the land ran red with blood, and both Dwarf-realms and Elf-kingdoms fell into decline.
Such is the ruin that greed brings.
Even the light of Arien follows the unbending law of rising in the east and setting in the west; how then could any great power or kingdom escape that doom?
If the great light of Arda is fated to be quenched this day, I shall accept that end.” But the Grey Wizard would not see the Master of the Havens sunk in such sorrow.
He answered just as swiftly: “Círdan, I will forget the last words you spoke, for I know them to be but a fleeting madness from the great Shipwright.” As if to lend his words greater weight, the Wizard’s voice grew louder and more impassioned, and his shadow upon the ground rose tall, till it seemed to mantle the white council-hall.
“The age of the Elves may be ending, but not this day!
Once the Dwarves did great evil under the lure of a Silmaril, but such a deed shall not be repeated now.
This day, on behalf of the Northern Elves, I will seek the aid of the Dwarves.
And the Dwarves, heeding my counsel, will cast aside old quarrels and ancient grudges and march forth!
Yes, I am certain of it.
Great Shipwright, hold fast to hope.
In the hour of the Elves’ greatest need, look to the far bank of the River Lhûn, and you shall see me coming from the north with a host of allies.
Only let the great Shipwright put aside the blood-feud of his kin, forget the long enmity between Elf and Dwarf, and the light of hope in Middle-earth shall not fall!” Startled by the Wizard’s ringing, fervent words, Círdan stirred from his despondent gloom.
The heroic spirit and quiet confidence of old returned to the Lord of the Grey Havens.
He gave a hearty laugh and unmasked the Wizard’s “trick”.
“Mithrandir, do not try to befuddle me with your lofty speeches.
If the Dwarves truly agreed to come to the aid of the Grey Havens, they would needs come by the pass south of the Blue Mountains and west of the River Lhûn: from the north, just as you said!
Come, come!” Rising clear of the sorrow of ages, the Elven-hero waved aside the Wizard’s attempt to defend his artifice and said with a smile: “Mithrandir, do not be abashed.
Though I do not know why you are so determined that I should aid Thorin Oakenshield, I do know that the thoughts of the Wizards are not fixed upon the ground beneath their feet; they are ever thinking ten steps, twenty steps ahead.” It was high praise, and the Grey Wizard bowed humbly.
He was not surprised that the Master of the Havens had seen through his little stratagem.
This Elf was among the eldest of his race; the marvels and the sorrows he had known, the ages he had witnessed, were surpassed by none.
He possessed wisdom enough to pierce the veils of fate and find the true hope hidden therein.
Still, thought Gandalf, my plan has succeeded.
After a moment’s silence, the Lord of the Northern Elves, the Master of the Havens, the Shipwright, spoke to the deep-minded Grey Wizard: “I agree to your design, Mithrandir.
Go, then.
Bear my word and a token of my goodwill.
Seek out the prince of the fallen Kingdom under the Mountain, and see whether he yet retains the honour and pride of Durin’s line, as you have claimed.” Then Círdan, who had witnessed the birth and passing of numberless legends, stood in the midday sun and issued his war-herald to the folk of the Grey Havens.
“I shall send riders to watch the borders and the shores, that no foul and hideous Orcs nor their wargs may steal past our sentinels and assail our homes!
Make ready, people of the Grey Havens!
Take up your blades, burnish your armour, feed your horses full, and fill your quivers with arrows!
For war is coming!” Thus cried the Elven-lord of the North: “Sound the ancient horn, people of Lindon!
Let the dark minions learn that Elves do not shrink from battle!” Before such stirring words, Gandalf the Grey bent low in reverence.
And so it was, on a day in the high summer of the year 2931 of the Third Age, that the sacred horn of the Northern Elves, all but forgotten by the peoples of Middle-earth, was blown once more.
Bwooo… The commanding note rang across the northern lands, a king’s herald.
All goodly folk, both Elves and Men, who heard the mighty proclamation of the Lord of the Grey Havens were moved by the Elven-lord’s valour.
From among the ruins of ancient kingdoms the Elves arose like shoots after spring rain, hearts lifted, and they mounted and rode swiftly to the Grey Havens.
The Rangers of the North, the Dúnedain, heirs of the royal line of Westernesse, put their gear in order, sharpened their swords, and kept a watchful eye upon the wide northern wilds.
Long ago they had lost their kingdom, and for many reasons they wandered now as renowned hunters of evil, sworn to root out darkness and defend the helpless.
Now that the Elves had sounded the horn of war, it was certain that some evil in the North was stirring anew.
So the Rangers took to the wilds, seeking to discover what had befallen.
They alone, among all Men, came as allies to the Northern Elves.
As for the cowardly and the double-hearted, they were thrown into panic, scurrying about like frightened coneys, babbling senselessly of war.
Their clamour availed nothing and only deepened the disquiet.