In The Halls of Nargothrond….
"We have to go back," Corthalion said at once, eyes hardening. "Our homeland may already be under threat. We must stand with our kin."
The remaining four Sindar heroes rose as well, faces set, though they had bled alongside the others on these very walls only days ago.
Anrod spoke.
"Nargothrond has been badly mauled," he said quietly. "I can scrape together fewer than twenty thousand more, and we must still guard against whatever Orcs remain in the Misty Mountains. I cannot strip the city bare to send a great army south."
He paused, thinking, then nodded to himself.
"But I can give you three thousand of my royal guard, elite Noldor, to ride to Doriath's aid."
Princess Anariel tossed back the last of her wine in a single swallow. Her golden hair burned in the Sacred Tree's glow as she rose to her feet.
"My brother must remain to hold the kingdom," she said. "But I am free to lead those troops south with you."
Dáin caught Gimli's hopeful look and clapped a hand on his shoulder with a sigh.
"Believe me, I would gladly send a Dwarven host at your back," he said. "But you know how fast we march. By the time we reached the south, the war might be long finished—and the ale gone."
"All right, all right," Gimli muttered, clearly disappointed. Then he straightened. "I'll go in our name, then. Let the Dwarves be counted in this relief as well."
Everyone rose. Cups were raised high.
Aragorn's voice rang out over them all:
"Southward we ride, drive back the darkness!"
The answering roar rolled up beneath the Tree's branches.
…
At dawn the next day, Anrod's choice stood assembled: three thousand Noldorin warriors in gold mail.
They carried long spears and broad shields, with short-blades at their belts that shone with enchantment-light.
Anariel wore a fitted suit of armor that traced the lines of her figure, a long sword at her hip.
She did not possess her brother's mythic power, but she was herself a top-tier legendary warrior; once she drew steel, she was no less deadly on the field.
Under the gaze of those who remained, the southern relief column rode out of Nargothrond.
Behind them the Sacred Tree blazed gold and blue, its light like a great beacon kindled for this new host.
Gandalf glanced back once at the tree, taller and prouder than ever in the wake of flame and blood. He smiled.
"When the three Sacred Trees stand together," he murmured, "their light will be one… and all the south of the Western Lands will know no night."
Following the tributaries of the Gwathló, they pressed south.
…
At the same time, Kaen's Eowenrían army swept through the morning mist like a river of moving starlight, racing downstream toward the sea.
Ten thousand Caladhîn Elven warriors formed the vanguard, silver armor flashing cold under the rising sun. Longbows were slung across their backs, the fletching of every arrow dyed a uniform gold. Elemental light shimmered faintly around each of them; none were weaker than the Light-elves they rode to aid.
Five thousand Elven Shadow-wardens flowed along the flanks, panthers in the gloom. They wore black leather under grey cloaks, blades hidden beneath the cloth and bows in their hands. They ghosted through the undergrowth ahead and to either side, silently clearing threats before the main host arrived.
At the core marched five thousand of the King's Guard. Their armor was forged from a blend of iron and true-gold, and at the center of every breastplate gleamed a miniature emblem of the Golden Tree.
Their warhorses were a breed raised only in Eowenría's royal studs, hooves drumming on stone in a deep, steady rhythm like the beating of a giant's heart.
Kaen rode at their head, clad in a silver-grey royal mantle over light, gilded war-plate. In his hand he bore the Sword of Courage and Glory, its light so fierce few could look straight at it.
"Lord," said Reger, spurring up alongside. Dew still clung to the general's armor; his eyes were as sharp as a hawk's. "The Shadow-wardens report that Lond Daer is but three days' march ahead."
He hesitated, then added,
"At the southern edge of the great forest, they found several Elf bodies. Sindar, from Doriath. Their throats were slit cleanly… and the wounds are edged in black-violet."
Kaen drew on the reins. His steed snorted, stamping once, as if it too sensed what lay ahead.
The king turned his gaze southward. There, the sky was veiled in a faint grey haze, and even across a hundred miles he could feel it: the slow, ugly surge of dark power boiling over that land.
Half a month of forced marching lay behind them.
Now, at last, they were at the edge of their destination.
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