[The Barrow-Wight]

The uncounted crows of Saruman’s North Isengard murder (for who could ever tally such a whirling mass of fluttering feathers) flew for days and days. So many days, in fact, that the land beneath it began to seem as one endless blur to the individual birds who bothered to look down anymore. Most crows were lost in the painful pushing and pulling of wings in an infinite cycle of weariness, and the effort of looking downward only added to their misery. Occasionally, as the leagues of green and brown slid away beneath them, a crebain would fall earthward, unable to go on.

“There goes another,” croaked Fingot. “That’s more than a dozen today.”

Akaaw nodded agreement. “I know. I, too, am counting our losses and am amazed at the lack of commitment in the youth of today.”

“Aye,” coughed the ancient crow, “Grown accustomed to the comforts of the Ring or too young to have ever left it until now. They complain endlessly of the effort they must put forward and act as if the words duty and honor have never been uttered in their presence.”

“Mitikaw has remembered your lessons, Sparrowbane. Duty and honor have been apparent in all of his actions since Fangorn.”

Fingot bristled with pride at his Chief’s words of praise for his son, the first positive thing Akaaw had said since this journey had begun. Finally, his impetuous son was listening to the common sense of his father and no longer hearing the hollow support of the ignorant youngsters that urged him on to premature action.

“Yes, Chief,” he answered. “Thank you for mentioning his improved performance. He may yet prove to be worthy of succeeding me.”

“Perhaps. He is no quitter, and I thank you for that. Those around him are still with us, and that shows leadership qualities. I will keep a closer eye on him as we continue our trek.”

He motioned ahead to a dark line on the northern horizon.

“That is the river I seek. Somewhere ahead it is joined by another stream, and at that intersection we will find the ruins of an ancient city. I do not know what it was once called, but I suspect we may find what our Master seeks among its broken towers and walls.”

“I also do not know its name,” muttered Fingot, “but I do know that it was once a great city of Elves, destroyed by the Eye more than an Age ago. It is undoubtedly haunted, and I don’t think we should go near it.”

“Feather and bone, Sparrowbane! Are you afraid of the ghosts of dead Elves?”

“Indeed,” grinned the old bird, “for ghosts do not feed the hungry bellies of tired crebain. But you mistake my meaning. It is not the spirits of the fallen that I fear. It is the unknown terrors that often house themselves in such ancient places. Horrors as deadly as the terrible trees can be found beyond the eaves of Fangorn. If we go to the Elvish city, be on your guard!”

“I will, Fingot. I will.”