|
Into the courtyard. Yes, of course. Lómwë nodded wearily as Endamir laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Perhaps the fortress will give us some defense against those foul spirits,” Orëmir continued. Lómwë doubted it. What protection would stone be against spirits? Abruptly, he twisted around and looked down far below them at their ship, swaying in the tide. The best protection would be to leave this cursed fortress. His resolve to remain was rapidly decreasing as his doubt in his own judgment increased. What did he expect to find here?
Malris and Tasa were already at the gate. Endamir seemed to be waiting for him. “You are having doubts.”
“Yes. It is getting worse… storms, then voices, now an attack – yet, ‘On,’ we say, ‘push on.’ Maybe you were right. Maybe we ought to turn back.” Now they were drawing near to the gate, then they were through. Lómwë shivered slightly as they passed under the crumbling arch.
The first thing that struck him was the lack of color; the place felt dead. All that remained were dull metals and rock – no banners, no flowers, no nothing remained to enliven the ruins.
“Well, Malris,” said Lómwë, a twinge of accusation in his voice, “you’ve brought us this far, and we’ve seen what manner of thing dwells here. Just what exactly do you intend to do next?”
|