At dawn the next day, the expedition departed once more.
Yet at the great gate of Doriath they found Elurín already waiting. Twelve tall Sindar stood at his side, each one with a presence that stirred the air.
They wore armour of shining silver-white. The longbows on their backs were half a head taller than those of ordinary Elves, and the curved blades at their waists gleamed with a wavering, waterlike sheen.
The captain of this band was named Corthalion, a veteran who had survived the War of Wrath in the First Age. His gaze was sharp as a hawk's, and the aura about him spoke of a power that had ripened into the very height of heroism. The eleven at his back were little less, each of them a warrior of near-legendary renown.
"By the King's command we are to escort you to Nargothrond," Corthalion said, bowing deeply. His voice rang rich and strong. "From this point the road will be ours to guard, in place of Prince Legolas."
They bowed in return. Gandalf smiled faintly. "Our thanks," he said. "The way ahead will need such guardians."
...
At Lond Daer they were given a white-sailed Elven ship, swift and sure, with room enough for them all.
When they had gone aboard and the moorings were cast off, the ship glided from the harbor under the gazes of the Elves upon the quay and turned her prow toward the upper waters of the Gwathló.
On deck, Aragorn tucked the last of the Sacred Tree seeds close against his heart. Its pale-blue shell was warmer now than before, and he could almost sense the sleeping life within beating softly, as if in answer to the world outside.
Far away, upon the highest tower, Legolas stood watching them go, cloak lifting in the wind, his figure a slim silver flame against the misty sky.
The ship moved steadily upstream upon the Gwathló River. Once they had left the harbor, the banks lay open and wide to either side, and for a time no danger troubled their passage.
They began to believe the remainder of the journey might pass in peace.
Yet after a few days upon the water, trouble found them.
One day, a strange dark mist began to spread over the surface of the river ahead, cloaking the channel so thickly they could no longer see the way.
"That is the breath of darkness," Gandalf said in a low voice. "All hands to arms. Hold fast to the rails."
Before his words had fully faded the ship drove straight into the gloom. Sunlight itself seemed to be strained and thinned, turned to a sickly white.
"This is surely the sorcery of the Nazgûl," Aragorn said, drawing his sword so that its silver light carved a pale arc in the fog. "They mean to twist our course astray."
The hull shuddered as if it had struck some unseen rock. All along the deck the twelve Sindarin heroes took up their places, drawing their long swords and ready to fight.
Aragorn ran to the prow and leaned out over the dark water. Beneath the ship the river, which had been calm, now churned with black whirlpools. In their depths he could just glimpse countless distorted shadows.
"Water-wights," Gimli bellowed, hefting his axe. "Called up by foul summoning."
Corthalion loosed twelve arrows in a heartbeat. They struck the river as one, and each arrow erupted in a flash of blue light. The shadows within the whirlpools shrieked thinly and recoiled.
But more black forms welled up from the riverbed. The hull groaned under the pounding of unseen blows, timbers creaking as if ready to split apart.
Feeling the ship lurch and buck, Gandalf raised his staff and shouted toward the bank, "Steer for the shore. There is shallower ground there. The wights cannot follow."
Denethor seized the tiller. With all his strength he wrenched it over, and the ship fought the pull of the whirlpools, turning inch by inch toward the shallows.
At last the keel ground hard against the riverbed. Without waiting, they sprang from the deck, scrambling onto solid earth.
When they looked back a moment later, the entire ship was already sinking into the black vortex. Within breaths it was gone, not even a splinter floating to mark its passing.
Denethor collapsed sitting on the bank, his chest heaving. He stared at the muddy water with lingering fear. "The Nazgûl are craftier than we believed," he said. "They knew the river was our swiftest road."
Gandalf gazed into the drifting grey fog, his brows knitted tight. "This mist blots out the stars," he said. "The eagles could not find us in it. They have prepared their snare well. From here on, we must go by land."
Corthalion studied the map once more, his finger coming to rest upon a stretch marked with thorns and brambles. "If we cross this forest," he said, "we can reach an upper branch of the Gwathló. The current there is shallow. Perhaps we may yet find new boats."
"So it must be," Gandalf answered. Worry lay clear in his eyes as he folded the map. He knew the Nazgûl would not leave them unharried for long.
The battle was no longer something that might be. It was drawing near with every step they took.