It was slow going when they left Edoras with the wagon. They had been forced to take the roadway out of the city until they had crossed the River Snowbourne. Once beyond the river’s northern bank, they turned off the road to the east, and proceeded on a less used track that paralleled it. The track was narrow, bumpy and rutted.
A fair way down the path, Aldwulf pulled off into a clearing, well hidden by the surrounding trees. The wagon was broken up, its pieces scattered, and the great draft horses were set loose. Aldwulf, Rochil, and Heldór retrieved their horses and provisions from the wagon before it was dismantled and sat huddled around a small fire, awaiting the arrival of Brytta and Liol.
Aldwulf pulled one the blankets he’d taken from the wagon about his shoulders as the night grew chill. A breeze had come up, and clouds gathered thick in the sky. ‘Smell’s like a rain’s coming,’ he said, taking a deep breath. Heldór nodded his head in agreement. ‘It does at that.’
The new day was just breaking when their companions joined them at last, and soon they were off, making for the Gap. ‘We have about four days of riding ahead of us, Brytta,’ said Aldwulf, pulling along side him as he led them west. ‘How far shall we push it today?’
[ July 23, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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