[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Throughout the night the company worked its way along the narrow path that lead downward once more into Mordor. They headed more or less south, with the blank wall of the cliff face to their right and an appalling drop into blackness at their left. At times the path was no more than a thin ledge, and they would creep along it with their backs pressed against the stone of the mountains. It was an arduous journey and it took them many hours to cover the few miles to the Morgul Vale.

Grash could not keep the strange events of the previous evening from his mind. The mood of the company had gone through some kind of fundamental shift, the full nature of which eluded him. He was beginning to realise that life and freedom were more complicated than he had perhaps guessed. His life, brutal though it was, had been easy. There was never any doubt of what to do, or whom to hate. He had known with the certainty of despair that none could be trusted but himself, that faith in others was foolish and friendship a dangerous dream. And yet he had seen people forge unions this night – some stable, others not so much – and he had been offered an odd form of friendship himself. His hand went once more to the blade that Darash had given him, and he fingered the hilt thoughtfully. He wondered if she too, somewhere in the dark behind him, was toying with the dagger that he had exchanged for hers in token of acceptance and alliance.

Of all the strangest chances of this night, it seemed that he had been accepted as the company’s guide, perhaps – in their own motley fashion – as their leader. Grash’s callow mind was unable to follow fully the ominous subtleties of his position, but he knew instinctively that such leadership, based as it was on convenience and practicality, was dangerously temporary. Were he to fail them once more, he could all too easily be dismissed by the company.

As the sky in the east began to lighten they came finally to the bottom of the path and found themselves on the road from the Tower. To their left it rose up and up, back to their prison where it lay hidden behind the shoulders of the mountains. To their right, the road went slowly down for a few hundred feet and joined the Morgul Road. Even looking upon that path caused Grash’s skin to crawl, but there was no other way. The company creeped along the edge of the road, pressing themselves into the shadows on its western side as though willing themselves into invisibility. Grash could feel the distant pressure of the Eye upon the land about him, as though the Dark Lord were watching the Morgul Vale for something. He pushed that thought from his mind.


They achieved the crossroad and paused. The road to Mount Doom and , beyond it, Barad Dur, crossed the Morgai here and disappeared into the early morning darkness. They turned from that sight and looked instead upon an equally terrible one. The road rose slowly into the Vale, headed for the high pass that led down to the Dead City and, beyond it, to the West. There came from the Vale a chill wind carrying with it the smell of dead things, and the feel of it upon their cheeks sent trembles of terror along all their limbs. There was some murmuring and shuffling from some members of the company, and Grash feared that some might argue to turn back or aside to find another path, but no-one spoke. Grash turned to them.

“Follow road. Follow road to highest point, there, at peak of valley, between dark mountains. Then, take small path to the south. Up up up we go, high up to top of mountain on that side, then down again.” He paused, considering, then rushed ahead once more. “But first, must pass Dark Lord’s Stones.”

“What?” It was Aldor who spoke first. “What do you mean the ‘Dark Lord’s Stones’?”

Grash pointed into the inky darkness and their eyes followed his hand up the road. Not far along the road, standing upon either side of it, were two large, featureless stones, carved into smoothly rounded columns that rose no more than twice the height of a man. That stood upon each side of the road, like gateposts, and yet now that the company looked upon them, their blood ran chill. In ages past they had been set there by the Men of Gondor, as a ward and warning to the forces of Mordor not to stray upon the road and thence to Minas Ithil, as the Dead City had once been called. But when the city had been taken by the Nine and the road brought under the dominion of Sauron, the stones had been twisted and subjected to his will. Using the power of the One, Sauron had set upon the stones the memory of his own will, and all who passed between them felt that. For all the armies and spies and slaves whom the Dark Lord sent forth from his land, the stones were a last reminder of their servitude, and it set upon them the imprint of their Master.

The company looked upon the stones with loathing, but there was no other way. Pulling their courage about them, they moved onto the Morgul Road and advanced.