The message was delivered but, put briefly, it was lost in the myriad other messages  to King Malvegil.  When the king discovered they wanted nothing but to inform him of events in part of his realm, he thanked them, but Rhudaur was close at hand and making threatening gestures.  Duinbar was too far away to worry about just now, for the king’s knights were already too thinly spread.  The prince of Cardolan responded in like manner, saying “why should I be concerned over some far flung town most people have never heard of when war is a constant threat at our very doorstep?”  The messengers returned to Barad Lomin and the elven realm much discouraged.  Morfindel was very displeased by the lack of concern shown by both king and prince.   On a day not long after, he called Neldoras, Elmoth and Lurisa to him in the archives.  

    “We must become more than watchful,” he said.  “I like it not that Millerson escapes.  And I think we have not found all the goblins, but should we go as a host, they will only conceal themselves again.  Perhaps one may succeed where many fail.  If I return not, Elmoth, you will take up leadership of my realm, for though you appear young, you are of even greater lineage than I.  And from this day forward, I will call you by your true name.  If Morfindel should not return, then Glorfindel shall lead.”

    Elmoth looked troubled but nodded.  “I will permit that I be called by my name, but only if you do not return.”

    Neldoras adamantly agreed with this and Morfindel nodded assent.  Lurisa took her husband by the arm as the others went out.

    “I pray you, be not quick to put yourself in danger,” she said, “for my joy in Middle-earth depends upon your presence here.”

    “I will do what I must, but fear not.  The enemy is yet few.  I name a successor only as a precaution.  Nothing more.  I would not leave you for even a day, but the need is great.  I feel it, in the water, in the earth, in the air.  There will be greater danger if we ignore it now.”

    “As you will, my love.”

    After quietly spending the remains of the day with Lurisa, Morfindel called his horse and carrying a longbow, quiver of arrows and dagger, he set out at dusk toward Barad Lomin.  Only one elf witnessed his departure.  Being warned by Neldoras and Elmoth, and determined that his lord should not go alone, Starfoot took the sword from before Morfindel’s chair on the dais and followed.

All day in Barad Lomin, the bells of the tower chimed at odd times, ringing the hour, then a few minutes later playing a tune.  No one remembered that happening before, except Mr. Brown who commented that a similar tune played the day Ereg came to them.  And Ereg turned out to be an elf.  And was it not true that occasionally a low, resonant tone emanated forth, had done so for many years? And had not the bells tolled at odd times before, when Millerson was up to no good?  When the old teacher mentioned this he was mocked to silence.

    “Oh, go home and read your books,” laughed Barber, the proprietor of the Ringing Well.  “Everyone knows bells are nothing more than objects of metal.  Someone has to be ringing them.  No need to use elves among us to explain a child’s prank.” 

    The other men and women agreed, though none could discover who was responsible.  Several boys were hauled by the shirt collar to the magistrate, only to be found innocent when the bells chimed again.

    Late that afternoon Barber held court at the bar as his patrons discussed more odd goings on by the river.  A raft, one of the oldest and best, had come untied and moved away from the pier.  No one would have thought anything of it, other than to take a boat to fetch it.  But the raft was moving upstream.  And they heard a clear tenor voice singing in a language they could not understand, to the tune the bells had been chiming all day.  The voice sang softly, like someone who was not overly proud of his skill as a singer, but carrying far so that they heard every word.  A man rode out of the trees on the other side of the river, on a marvelous gray horse with black mane and tail.   They’d never seen its like.  Its fluid grace put to shame even the swift messenger horses used by the magistrate’s couriers.  With neither saddle, nor bridle, it carried its rider on to the ferry, which came ashore at the far dock, and patiently stood while the boat drifted across. 

    “What you may say of the horse, I’m sure you know, but saw you the man?” asked Mrs. Green.  When the men said they were too much noting the beast, Mrs. Green clucked her tongue.  “As you would.  I suppose only a woman would notice him.  A lovely thing he is too.  Puts me in mind of our elvish visitors from not long ago.  But never have I seen the likes of him, with a head of hair so black.   And face as comely as any woman, yet manly if you catch my meaning. I suppose none of us could venture the age of an elf, but he looked to be perhaps thirty.  In his prime, so to speak.  Were I a young lass, I’m sure I’d have swooned away in his presence.  As it was I’m afraid I foolishly blushed.  Haven’t done that in years.”

    “None of us were close enough to see him clearly,” said a ferry attendant.  “How did you manage to draw so near?”

    “Drawing water from the well, I was, when he rode his horse inside the tower, and up the stairs.”

    “He did not!” exclaimed Mr. Green, Mr. Brown and Mr. Barber.  Several other men made noises of equal disbelief.

    “He most certainly did,” retorted Mrs. Green.  “Without a flinch, that horse you admire so passed under the arch which I was leaving.  My eyes met those of his rider, that’s when I blushed like a school girl,  and sure footed as you please, bore his rider around and up all seven flights to the very top.”

    “I did see him up there too,” added the ferry man.  “Singing he was with the bells, and laughing.  And talking to them in that language we heard before.  I saw the horse lower his head and let the man swing his leg over to drop down.  Never have I seen horse and rider work together in such unison.  Up on that top level, under the roof that shelters the bells, this horse cocked his hind foot like horses do at rest and stood quiet.  Like being seven levels up was no cause of fear.  What I would give for a horse like that.”

    “There!  See?  I told you...” Here, Mrs. Green halted, for through the door of the tavern they heard that same voice, singing:

 The voice ceased, and almost shyly, Morfindel stepped into the doorway.  “Please pardon my intrusion.”

    In stunned silence the tavern patrons gaped at the elf.  The door was high, having been built by tall Numenoreans in a past age.  Were he but a few inches taller, he would have had to stoop to enter.  A mail shirt he wore, which sparkled in the flicker of the lamps of the tavern.  Covering his shoulders he wore a gray cowl with a hood which was thrown back.  His booted feet made not a sound when he walked.  

    At last, Barber came to himself.  Ever the host, he moved forward.  “Welcome!  We thought not to see any more of the fair folk for another few thousand years, but you are welcome.”  He offered Morfindel a chair and a goblet of wine, which were accepted.  “Again, welcome.  I’m sure you didn’t come to sample the vintage.  Might we be of service to you, in some way?”

    “Only to answer some questions,” the elf replied.

    “We’ll answer as we’re able,” said Brown.

    Morfindel nodded his thanks and began.  “Noticed any of you the tolling, at odd times, of the great bell in the tower?”

    Barber, somewhat taken aback by this unexpected inquiry, made a face indicating that the answer was obvious.  “All of us.  We became used to it.  Wasn’t annoying or unpleasant.  We thought some mischievous child was responsible.  Has it some meaning, sir?”

    “It is a warning bell,” said the elf, his face expressing troubled disappointment.  “Is there no one who has read the book of lore of Barad Lomin?”

    “Brown,” said the tavern keeper to the teacher.  “Forgive me for laughing at you.  It was you who first connected the tolling of the great bell with other things.”

    Brown waved his hands in front of his face as though fending off a pesky fly.  “It matters not.  But what do we do now, for still the bell tolls at times, be it only faintly.”

    “Has it rung loudly, with harsh discordant tones?”

    “Like a clanging?  It did,” said Mr. Green. “Several times, now that I think of it.  The night the Old Miller brothers were murdered.”

    “Yes.  I remember.  And also some time before” said Seamster.  “It was late in the evening of the day my son left for Tharbad.”

    “That’s right,” said Brown.  “And just as he was setting off that afternoon, I saw him speaking with Millerson.”

    Morfindel looked sharply at Seamster, almost with fear they thought.  “Then a messenger should be sent to inquire if he arrived safely.  The greater the threat, the louder the ringing.  If the bell has tolled for many years, yet not loud enough to reach us in Ered Luin, then a threat has been growing all this time but keeps at a distance.”  He stood and moved toward the door.  When he reached it, he turned back.  “Send messengers to Tharbad, at least two, armed, soon.  Tell them to travel by day and night and do not stop along the way without setting a guard.”

    The men sprang to their feet.

    “That will we do,” said Barber.  “Is there anything else?”

    “I know not, but there is yet something I must do.”  With that, he was gone.

    “Like an angel of mercy, he is, to watch after us so,” murmured Mrs. Green, but the men paid her no mind for they had gone out to prepare the horses.

Weithlo, Morfindel’s horse, trotted up to him bearing the weapons given to his care, strapped around his neck at the withers.   The elf rearmed himself and swung onto the horse’s back.  Moving swiftly through the now twilit town to the country side, they headed for the ravine where the goblins had established a stronghold.  Many caves there were, but Morfindel ignored most of them.  Horse and rider traversed the ravine until the elf found what he sought: a concealed door.  One so crude as this could not evade his keen sight, though men and dwarves tromp past without seeing.  He spoke a word and an entrance appeared, a dark maw perhaps only four feet in height.  Morfindel scowled.  “Bow, arrow and sword are useless here.  This will be knife work.”  The elf gave Weithlo the bow and arrows again,keeping only his dagger, which glowed a faint blue.  It was of type which would shine in the presence of goblins.  He himself had forged it and many like, arming his host with those remaining in his possession.  His own sword, which Neldoras wielded at times, was also of this type and lay at his feet to serve as an early warning sign of impending attack, and had given them time to arm themselves before the most recent fight at the border of his realm.  Now, the dimness of the dagger’s gleam indicated goblins were present, but distant.

    In his youth, Morfindel had been sent by his father to the dwarves as a representative and to learn from them anything they would teach.  He recalled his days among them crawling through the clean rock and soil, seeking veins of metal ore.  Though he had disliked being underground, he became accustomed to it, learning to keep his bearings in the dark through other senses than sight and hearing.  Disagreeable as the dwarf caves had seemed at first, they were havens compared to this foul hovel.  The goblin stench nearly choked him but he measured his breath and kept a tight rein on his pounding heart, quieting himself.  He took his gloves from his belt and put them on without returning the dagger to its sheath.  His mithril shirt reflected the increasing glimmer of that knife as he crouched and made his way  into the tunnel.  The farther in he crept, the more brightly the dagger glowed.

    For a moment he thought of how his father would react to seeing him thus, and almost laughed aloud.  Surprised was Caranthir when his son, neither eldest nor youngest, became a comrade of dwarves, learning their language even, but only after swearing himself to secrecy.  They honored him thus after he forged many knives like the one he carried, for goblins were often known to invade dwarvish halls.  The mithril shirt was also a dwarvish gift, but from another place and time.

    Presently the tunnel became wider and lower so that he had to crawl flat.  Voices reached his ears from what could be a chamber ahead.

    “... say?  A crafty one is that Millerson,” said a harsh goblin voice.  “Same thing said he to me. ‘Quick death is too good for ‘em,’ he says.  Make ‘em suffer, he says.”

    Two other voices answered with cruel laughter.

    “Time to check the main entrance,” said the first.  “I’ll be back to hear the rest of the tale.  Gurbltaur, you’re with me.”

      “Well, don’t be long.  I forget stories quickly, you know.”

    Only three goblins, but Morfindel knew there were more.  They were becoming bold to go out into the countryside.  Hoping to draw the one remaining in the chamber, the elf scraped the ground with his fingers.

    “What’s that?”  Then a low chuckle.  “A cony or a rat?”  The creature stooped down and peered into the tunnel.  “Rats and conies knocking at our back door, asking to feed us.”  With the agility of one accustomed to tunnels the goblin crawled forward.  “Wait a minute, it don’t smell like...”  He never finished his statement, for Morfindel’s dagger struck swiftly as an elf can think.

    The elf lord preferred his battles more straight forward, but a cat seeking rats had best not declare himself openly, he reasoned.  With stealth he crawled from the low tunnel and into the chamber.  A torch burned in a stand by a large tunnel to the left.  A table and benches occupied the center.  Large earthenware mugs, some upright, some toppled, were set on the table or strewn about the floor.  These were not goblin furnishings and Morfindel shuddered to think how they must have come by them. 

    Two other smaller tunnels there were to the right.  Morfindel found they lead to storage rooms, filled with provisions .  Millerson could live here for a year or more and suffer no lack.

    The tromping of heavy footsteps came from the main tunnel and Morfindel silently moved to the side of the entrance, crouching on one knee with his dagger at the ready.

    “... caught a whiff of something and wants...  Hey, Bosrip, where’d you... get... to...

    The goblin fell forward, clutching the wound from the elven dagger.  Morfindel dragged him to the back door tunnel and concealed him there, then returned to his post.  The elf did not have to wait long, for the largest of the goblins returned, swearing and cursing.

    “When I send for you, you’d best come running...”  growled the ogre, then stopped, sniffing.  Just as Morfindel lunged, the goblin jumped aside, but gave an “Oomph!” when Morfindel’s foot struck his gut.

    “Hey!  No fair!  Elves don’t kick!” he gasped.

    “Neither do we crawl about in tunnels,” responded the elf.

    The goblin bellowed and lunged.  The elf dodged and struck, plunging his dagger into the creature’s back.

    “Forgive my knife in your back,” murmured the elf, “but I never held to many notions of what elves do and do not.  And it seems you’ve been done by as you once did.” 

    The creature gasped a curse and then died.  Morfindel moved the goblin to the back door tunnel and hid him with the others.

    The wild alarm call of a horse rang from the outer end of the large tunnel and Morfindel responded with his own call, heard only by the horse.  The elf moved quickly outside to find Weithlo prancing and whinnying, snorting and tossing his head.  With surprise, Morfindel noticed his bow and quiver were gone, but in their place around the horse’s neck was hung his sword, glowing blue in the starlit night.