[Envinyatar]

The area on the north side of the river was pocketed with scattered areas of low growing shrubs. A few willows wandered here and there along the river’s bank, dipping their long roots into the water. Ondomirë wondered that the trees did not curl back their roots in horror that the once clear, sweet, waters of the Sirannon now ran red with the blood of Elves and Orcs and Men. Or that those very willows did not curl up their leaves at the reek of death that eddied on the breezes.

Lord Elrond’s troops had found only a handful of Elves from the city who were still living, nearer the river. The Orcs had ranged out this far before the lure of riches in the city overcame their desire to kill more Elves. It was only through great luck, or perhaps as some of the Elves would whisper, the grace of the Valar, that the lives of a few of the mirdain had been spared.

Further on, the shrubs gave way to more heavily wooded areas. One of those from the city who had been rescued urged the Lindon Elves to make for a part of the woods more to the east where he said he and his family had gone in the summers to harvest wood for their forge fires. There were some wooden shelters there, where the woodsmen would live while they worked. Perhaps, he told them, some of the families who had been able to flee the city would have taken refuge there.

‘There,’ he cried softly, as they neared the clearing. ‘Those are the huts!’

The troops drew near the clearing. It was quiet. The windows of the shelters were all dark, doors closed. It appeared undisturbed.

One of the Dwarves, who were now on foot, inched his way quietly to the perimeter of the trees about the clearing. He crouched down, his eyes looking closely at the ground where the dried grasses abutted the ring of birches. ‘A small horse,’ he said, calling back to his companions who had come forward. ‘Here . . . and recently.’

Ondomirë came softly to the Dwarf’s side. ‘Yes . . . and gone that way,’ he said his eyes following the faint track . . .