Defenders of Middle Earth: A Middle Earth Story(Book 3)

Chapter 4: Wraith's Bane

   Gerithor had fled until he was in the midst of a dark, misty forest. His wound had been steadily bleeding and now he felt that he could go no further until he looked after it. He stopped Esse in the trees and dismounted, accidentally stumbling and falling to the ground as he did. He was growing weak from loss of blood. He hoped that the wraiths hadn't pursued him, though if they had wanted to it wouldn't have been hard. The trail of blood would lead them here. But there was nothing that could be done about that now.

He quickly tore a piece of cloth from his cloak and tied it around his thigh, using it to stop the blood flow. He had no medicine and he was too weak to wander in search of healing herbs, so he would have to endure the pain. But at least now he would survive.

The only other thing he could do was rest, since he had been riding for several hours and was exhausted. He wished now more than ever that he had kept the flaming brand that Gandalf had given him, but if the wraiths were following him it, along with fire of any sort, would be as good as a beacon to them.

He pulled his cloak around him, attempting to keep warm. When he traveled, he usually fell asleep to of the sounds of crickets and other nighttime creatures. It helped keep his mind from memories that were best left behind. But when he attempted to hear them tonight he realized... The forest was completely silent.

Only the sound of the wind causing the tree branches to creak ominously broke the silence. Gerithor put a hand to the hilt of his sword and stood as best as he could, a feeling of apprehension coming over him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he saw a shadowy shape slowly emerge like a phantom from the misty forest. As it strode forward Gerithor felt a sense of dread come over him, and he realized with growing fear that this place would soon become his grave. Three more shadows joined the first one, and they became human in shape. But there was something very inhuman about them. Three of them wore burnt robes, and where they had burnt through there was nothing. No body, no skin, only air. They were silent in the approach, and the fog curled around them and through them as if they were a part of it.

When they reached Gerithor they stopped, and stood motionless before him like dark specters in the night.

"Where isss the Halfling, ranger?" The foremost wraith said quietly, every word spoken like a curse. It had a strange accent that Gerithor thought sounded vaguely Rhunic, though if it was it was an ancient dialect.

"You're too late, he's already safe! You've failed," he said, attempting to sound confident.

"Thou art a liar, Dunadan... We know he is near," Another wraith hissed. This one had the lofty accent of a Black Numenorean.

"We will kill him, soon," The first wraith said.

"You'll have to get past me first," Gerithor said, drawing his sword. He felt weak, but he knew that this time there would be no chance to flee.

The first wraith hissed. "You are wounded... You will be no challenge for us." At his command all four wraiths moved forward, swords drawn and pointed towards the ranger.

Gerithor gripped his sword weakly, prepared to fight. I will not die like a coward, he thought to himself as he raised his sword into a fighting stance. It was at moments like these that he realized he had very little to lose... Few would notice, let alone mourn his passing. But hopefully in this case his death would make a difference, buy Aragorn and the hobbits some extra time to reach Rivendell safely.

Just as the wraiths closed in about him a horn sounded through the forest, clear and noble. The three other wraiths turned their hooded heads to their leader in surprise.