Part 8

“We are heading straight for the mountains,” shouted Legolas.

“I know, my lord!” Arador swung the wheel.

The elf looked fore and aft, judging the distances. It was hard to believe how fast they were moving. “We are already more than half way!”

“It is the wind, my Lord! I have no control!”

Legolas unhooked himself from the safety rail and joined the boy at the helm. “If we can just turn her a little more to the north,” he said, grasping the wheel, “we will pass over Newhome.” Arador’s former home was a farming community, set on the broad, flat plain at the foot of the mountains. “There is enough space there to land in.” But elven strength made no difference to the steering.

“She will not respond to the rudder!” cried the boy.

“Because the air does not offer enough resistance,” said Legolas. “And the bladder cannot be trimmed like sails. We will have to rise higher, Arador—we will have to fly over the mountains. How much miruvor do we have?”

The boy pulled the flask from his pocket. “Enough,” he said. “It is almost full. But, my Lord, it is Master Eldacar’s belief that the air will grow thinner and thinner the higher we rise—and that, at some point, there will no longer be enough to keep us alive.”

Legolas took the flask. “How high can we safely go?” he asked.

“I have no idea. Though you will probably survive much longer than I.”

“Well,” said the elf, “keep trying to turn her north. I will tend the flames. We do not need to decide just yet.”

...

The funnel was almost dry. Legolas uncorked the flask and poured in ten drops of miruvor, then—on second thoughts—he added another five. If we do have to climb, he thought, we will want the fuel ready.

He had no idea how, when the time came, he would decide what to do.

He re-corked the flask, checked the flames—they were still steady—straightened up, and looked towards the mountains.

They were alarmingly close.

But something else was touching the edge of his mind, something familiar, something...

Something he loved.

Eowyn?

He swung round.

“My Lord,” cried Arador, “there is something following us!”