[mark12_30]

Nethwador watched Mellondu as Celegoer Beorneth and Echo trotted steadily along the riverbank. Behind them, Erebemlin and Taitheneb watched Mellondu's back uneasily, probing, listening, waiting, watching. Erebemlin, grim-faced, steadily ignored the rest of the troop. Taitheneb 's eyes often studied his icy leader, but to no avail.

Mellondu whistled often, sang sometimes, and spoke little. He was happy, except for two things; he was worried, now that he knew his sister was pursuing him; and he was restless, not knowing where Nimrodel might be. But to be on horseback in a company with two elves, two women, and three other companions from other lands was the height of romance and intrigue-- bested only by the purpose of the quest. He submitted joyously to the enchantment enjoying every moment of it.

If only I knew that my sister was safe, I would be happy.

But that was not quite true. He also missed Nimrodel; missed her lovely eyes, her lilting voice, her shimmering hair and her comforting arms.

Best not to think on that.

They trotted on and on, Erebemlin watching for any sign that his lord was still with them.

Late that afternoon he found what he sought. A flicker, a spark; a flame. The king's anger burned, he cried for vengeance, and suddenly like a ready beacon answering the torch, the young blacksmith turned to Erebemlin and Taitheneb and met their eyes. The king had returned.

Echo turned to block the group and halted; suprised, the troop milled to a halt. Sudden questions were hushed by Erebemlin's upraised hand; the elf leaned forward to listen.

He spoke in a low voice. "Close your minds, Taitheneb, Erebemlin. All of you; close your thoughts, even to one another. There is one to the south who deceives and darkens; we will find him, and I will have vengeance, my friends. Perhaps this is why I have come. We ride now. I will not stop for nightfall; let them who cannot keep up turn aside. "

Echo tossed his head, spun on his haunches, and in moments the troop was strung out at a steady gallop. Ahead and to their left, the rugged lands tumbled around Rauros; even in the distance, the falls were loud, and as they passed to the southwest of them as night fell, the roar of the falls mingled with the thunder of the hooves.

They left the falls behind them, and rode on. Ahead of them the swamps of the Entwash lay flat and dreary; they halted at the first stream, and Nethwador and Taitheneb watched as Amroth surveyed the land. Erebemlin pointed. "My lord, a path."

Ædegard muttered, "If that is anything more than a rabbit trail, then I am king of this swamp."

Liornung smiled and whispered a reply. "You still do not trust their elf-eyes, good Ædegard? I fear you will find few rabbits here. I will write you a merry coronation song, o swamp-king."

Despite their weariness, the ladies giggled.

Erebemlin hushed them sharply, and Taitheneb trotted forward to the path. They strung out in single-file, Taitheneb, Amroth, Nethwador, Erebemlin, the ladies, Liornung, Ædegard. All night long the only noise was the buzz of flies, the soft creaking of saddle-leather, and the subdued squishing of muddy hooves. They crossed the fifth stream as the eastern stars faded in the greying sky. Bella swayed in the saddle, and Argeleafa spoke to her; Erebemlin shushed her harshly.

Dawn came, and the sixth and seventh streams passed. Horses stumbled; men yawned. Still Amroth drove them southeast. Nethwador watched uneasily; the eyes of all three elves were icy fire. The ground under them grew firm, and the elves' faces became grim.