[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir waited until Vrór and Carl disappeared inside the bowels of the earth and then helped fasten a blanket over the hole to conceal the glow from the torch. Leaving Dorran to stand guard on the lower edge of the creek, Lindir crawled up the bank and, staying low to the ground, gazed intently at the surrounding plain to make sure that no one could see them. After determining that no guard stood on duty near the stream bed, the Elf whispered a hurried thanks to the Lady, asking that she who had fashioned the Moon and Sun and who still watched over Middle-earth would bless their endeavors this starry night.

The Elf's relief, however, was short lived. Within a few moments of the Dwarf and Hobbit climbing into the tunnel, a single sentry had come into view, riding along the perimeter of camp. Lindir had ducked his head into the thick brush and motioned to Dorran to stay alert, afraid that their group might be seen. Hopefully, the lone guard would suspect nothing and simply move on. The rider had stopped and squinted in one direction and then the other, but had quickly turned away and, to Lindir's relief, began to ride off in the opposite direction.

While a blanket may be an excellent means to mask the light of a torch, it is less effective in muffling the sounds of a hobbit and a dwarf who must slosh hurriedly through knee deep water carrying a spade head and other essential metal tools. Although both Carl and Vrór were extremely adroit on land, neither had any particular experience with underground rushing streams, yet that was the situation they now found themselves in. Despite their lowered voices and the fact that they had ventured a good ways down the tunnel, every now and then the water splashed and broke against the earthen walls. The sentry on guard had neither the wits or the ears to detect this faint difference in the sound of the stream. But a passing owl perched on a nearby boulder, who had flown down to drink from the water, had immediately detected the difference and begun to hoot out a warning to any of his own kind venturing by, alerting them that something unusual was afoot.

Lindir could do nothing to silence the bird. He had watched in dismay as a look of suspicion passed over the face of the rider who had then swung back to inspect the steam bed. The horseman had called out into the darkness and, within a minute, two more mounted guards had appeared, rushing up to aid the first. There was no place Lindir could hide, and there was no time to retreat down the hole, which might otherwise have provided some shelter. The patches of grass and the stream bank itself did not offer real cover: both Dorran and Lindir were clearly visible to the slavers. The first rider took one look at the Elf and, spitting out a curse, spurred his horse forward, his sword raised menacingly over his head. Even worse, the second placed a great horn to his lips, prepared to give a mighty blast to arouse the entire camp. Lindir watched in horror and turned to face the blow, wondering how they could prevail against some twenty-five men. Dorran ran up beside him with his sword, thrusting out but falling short in a valiant attempt to stop the slaver with the horn.

Yet at that instant, a great explosion reverberated through the skies so that the notes of the horn drifted harmlessly away, unable to be detected more than a few feet distant. Dorran and Lindir turned to face their attackers, each wondering if Rôg or Aiwendil could be responsible for this turn of events.