[Kransha]

Passage to the North Downs was quicker than expected. Those on horseback, or riding in carts, on mules, or hurrying on foot moved quickly away from the ruin of their once-home, shedding but a few choice tears over their loss. The armies of the Dúnedain were beyond devastated; they were ravaged. Once a proud army of thousands, the full core of the military had been reduced to around one hundred men – not nearly enough to stand up to the hordes of Angmar. Thankfully, Belegorn’s clever plan had bottled up the orcs in the city, amidst crumbling wreckage, and the trick would slay many as they tried to surmount it, but it would not withhold them forever, and this heavy thought weighed like a jagged rock balanced on the shoulders of the trekking refugees. Reaching the North Downs would not save them either.

It was less than a day before the column, moving swiftly against harsh winds that swept down from the north, ascended into the rolling hills of the North Downs. Some small outposts, towers of wood that barely reached above the snow-capped slopes of the Downs, dotted the area. They grew more frequent as the column spread and stretched, winding up over cobbled paths that looped into the hills. Tussocks also pockmarked the snowy white earth, and clouds moved with serene tranquility overhead. A burden of sadness lay upon the group, but it was not enough to drag them down, or keep them silent for very long.

Hírvegil rode at the back with his troops; he had reunited with them after the train escaped Fornost, and given due congratulations to his trusty lieutenant, Belegorn. He could not dwell on his second’s accomplishment, unfortunately, nor could he ponder many thoughts beside those that filled his mind. The King’s portion of the column, separate from the rest by nearly a mile and containing the ministers, counselors, and more prosperous landowners or merchants of the city, had already entered the Downs fortress deep in the hills. Hírvegil knew that, when the Rearguard arrived, they would discover the nature of the Dúnedain’s stay in the hold; whether it would be a long stay and an attempt to outwear the Witch-King’s host through siege, or a brief sojourn disrupted by almost immediate departure. A long siege was not a good idea, in the humble strategic opinion of the Captain of the Rearguard. The North Downs hold was not an impregnable fortress, it was a keep that might serve to hold off the orcs for days, but not months or, more likely, the years it would take to fully repel the fearsome Chieftain of the Nazgûl and his merciless host.

The sun was in the sky, but barely visible between wisps of plentiful cloud. The vessel of Arien had not shone over Fornost, possibly hidden in fear of the Witch-King’s shadowy wrath, but now it burst out with subdued defiance, meek but apparent despite the coming of dusk. The sky’s hue was still dark, but no longer because of evil shadows or dark occurrences. Night was on its way, and a blood red tinge had slid onto the horizon, gently tracing the silhouette of distant white mountains turned orange by the golden glare. The hills became steeper around the Rearguard and those citizens who had been absorbed into it. All horses and beasts of burden bore both man and supplies, some saddled down with two people as well as sacks of rescued goods bound to their flanks. The animals trudged upward as the primitive pathway they strode upon became wider, and bordered on each side by picket fences of ancient, rotted woods. The train passed through thin gaps between hills as the hills became mountainous peaks and the valleys beneath became near gorges.

As Hírvegil, prodding his horse and inciting it to move faster, looked about warily, he saw the hillsides close in on him and the column packed together tightly, moving beneath some archaic stone arches set into the walls of hill-rock on either side of them, remnants of a past architectural regime. As the refugees passed beneath the last high arch, Hírvegil clucked his stern tongue in recognition, knowing that they had crossed through the North Pass. He looked downward expectantly to see the North Downs’ Keep, an unimposing brick structure built into the recess of a mountain, surrounded on one side by a shallow coomb that flattened out in one section to create a land-bridge that led into the keep. Two towers sat, built into outcroppings of the mountain looming of the keep, on either side of the hold, and, as evening came and the sunlight dimmed, glimmering torchlight could be seen, like flickering candles, on the towers’ turrets.

When, by the torches of the Rearguard, the refugees caught sight of the keep, many broke into a run, or goaded their steeds to their fastest paces, pushing the creatures to their imagined limits. The earthen bridge seemed to expand to meet them, and the iron-grilled gates of the keep gaped like a pleasant maw to take them in. The hundreds crowded into the chamber just behind the door, and filed through expansive halls, ablaze with chatter and talk, until they all reached a greater chamber, huge in size, with an unseen ceiling and arching walls that vaulted at a level far above. This was the grand chamber of the hold, where councils of old had oft been held, built beneath an off-shooting hill of the high mountain. Here there was no time for merry or teary reunification, for the place was buzzing and claustrophobic. The Rearguard dismounted, leaving countless stable boys, pages, and squires to hurry the animals to a stable in the fort. They surrounded the civilians, who joined the others of their ilk at the center of the hall. The remainder of Fornost was barely five hundred, many civilians and lords among that number, and all were present in the grand room, though some nobles and ministers were rumored to be taking counsel in adjacent chambers. There was not a silent instant that passed, for all were speaking at once, creating a tremendous din. No one knew exactly what was going on, or what was going on, or much of anything, in fact.

Until, that is, the King arrived.

The room fell silent as King Arvedui of Arthedain mounted a small marble platform at one end of the chamber, flanked by elegantly clad royal guards and close ministers, as well as servants who stood or knelt beside him. Hirvegil looked on from the very back, trying to deduce what had occurred before his arrival. He guessed that Arvedui had consulted with the few ministers who arrived with him and settled on a finite plan, without the aid of the nobles who had been part of Hírvegil’s evacuation party. Now was probably the best time for a morale boost, considering the circumstance, and who better to give such a talk than the King. Arvedui did not often appear to his people, except for addresses to the populace made from a balcony or podium arranged for him. This unprofessional, personal atmosphere was jarring and abnormal, but the shifty Dúnedain, nervous and filled with consternation, got used to it sheerly for the sake of their own peace of mind. After nearly a full minute of blank silence, the King raised his open hands and spoke, his kingly voice booming.

“My people: our home is lost to us, our lands are marred, and many of us lie slain in Fornost Akallabêth, but we are still here!” There was some more shifting, but no distinct whispers from Arvedui’s audience. He had referred to Fornost as “Akallabêth”, the Downfallen, a name of old Númenór. This was appropriate usage, but ill-timed. Solemnly, he went on. “Regardless of the losses we have bravely endured, there is still a road we must take. We are not defeated, not bereft of life or lost in a tempest sea; we are the Dúnedain of Arnor, the people of mighty Isildur and Elendil, we shall not be conquered by wraiths and foul-spawn!” He brandished a fist madly in the air. “This is not our home, nor will it be for long. A plan has been devised that shall grant us safety from the insurgents from the east.”

He took time to pause, but all remained quiet. This was news, good or bad, that would incite a reaction.

“The North Downs shall hold us intact for some days, until preparations for a longer trek across the wilds have been made. By the will of the heavens we shall traverse the lands to the west and make haste to the Blue Mountains.” Now whispers and sidling words could not be avoided. Unnerved chatter undulated through the crowds. “There,” continued Arvedui calmly, “the refuges of the Dwarves shall be home to us until we have recovered from this stinging blow. Food and supplies can be found there, and metals in those mines to forge new weapons that shall replace our splintered blades. Shields will be remade, spears sharpened, armor wrought, and victory regained in time. It may take many months, but, by the Valar I swear, the line of Isildur shall reclaim Fornost and all of Arnor in time, and our glory and power shall be restored. The strength of the House of Elendil shall crush this menace in time. Until then, we will repair to the Ered Luin and rest in safety.” He stopped again, having paused periodically for reactions during the speech, and let it all sink in.

“Make yourselves ready, all, for a great journey. Look to your arms and your families, tender them dearly, and let them not stray from you. The wilds shall not bow to us, we must overcome them, and the elements in turn. But, I say no darkling thing shall hinder us. Arnor is not over, my people. The North has not fallen yet!”

With that, Arvedui descended from the platform, leaving a sudden overwhelming surge of noise in his wake.