Black Gates Lotr Mga Nobela at Kwento

"You can hate me until your dying day. But I will not let them touch you, no matter what denial you use to mask why you truly care." ​Thalia opened her mouth to snap back, but a long, mournful howl erupted from the outer watchtower—the sound of an intrusion. ​Brandon sprinted to the window. "Sire... black mist. Moving in from the Blackwood Forest, heading straight for the castle." ​I looked out. It wasn't natural fog. Hundreds of shadows moved in uncanny unison, and at the vanguard stood a figure in a pitch-black cloak, arms raised high. ​Raven was already at the door. "I’m gathering the troops, Sire."

It makes the fall harder. The iron gates of Brown-Forge Estate appear through the trees. The stones are a deep, dark crimson, cut from the mountain quarries nearby. They look like dried blood. Two guards stand at the checkpoint, their black tactical vests tight against their chests, their spears held loosely in their hands. I stop ten paces from the gate. The gravel beneath my feet is cold. The guard on the left blinks, his eyes widening as he recognizes my face. He drops the tip of his spear, a nasty, mocking sneer twisting his upper lip.

His blue cloak sweeping behind him and his boots thudding. “Good luck, Brother.” Malachi called after him. Gray turned to give him a last fond look. Before heading out the door. Blue eyes dark with intent and jaw set with severe determination. His men knew that look. Clearing him a wide berth. *** Gray crossed the long bailey. Directed the drawbridge to be lowered and the gate pulled aside. He walked between the spiked walkway and then across the long creaking boards over the gurgling moat which was far more lively then the dead one back at Pyre.

“You say that like you don’t enjoy the killing too, brother.” I didn’t answer. Instead I swung up onto my own horse—a dark grey war charger bred for endurance and strength—and raised one hand to signal the advance. The gates opened smooth and silent, and we rode out in tight formation, hooves thundering against the stone bridge that spanned the palace moat before we turned north toward Blackthorn Ridge.

“I’m ready. We ride.” The gates of Frosthold groaned open, and the Council of Wolves rode out. --- The Grey Marches lived up to their name. The land was a stretch of dead grass and black stone, scoured by wind and old magic. Nothing grew here except thorn and regret. The old border wall ran through it in broken teeth, a relic from the war fifty years ago. They reached the first marker by midday. Rian dismounted and knelt, fingers brushing the ground. “Tracks,” he said. “Not animal. Bootprints. Five days old. Heading north.”

He heard his father resorted with frustration in his voice. “Dear, you shouldn’t be here. Go back to your room.” His mother hurriedly whispered when she noticed him listening to their conversation. “Wait, did you just say men in black?” Hyde resorted when he came back to his senses. His companion didn’t speak but answered him with a mere nod. “Oh, and one more thing, she also said that one of them has some kind of black bird tattoo on the neck.” Hyde was stunned when he heard about the tattoo. He’s certain, that the deceased man was one of them—or just a scapegoat.

Mud River: The entrance to Mud River pack was nothing likeBlack Mountain The tall wooden gates seemed weak in comparison to Black Mountain iron ones. Garold drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he wait for some response from the guard at the gate. He watched the guard look at him and try to figure out if they were expecting visitors. He could see the guard’s eyes widen as more cars pulled up behind Arkyn’s. “Well if we were staging an attack and we were the decoy this would be easy. The guards are confused about visitors and never mind a surprised attack.” Garold chuckled.

I hated that Andrew noticed. "Four minutes and thirty-eight seconds." "Shut up." Daniel opened his door. We stepped out. --- 317 Blackthorn Road did not look sinister. That was disappointing. Some part of me expected iron gates. Gargoyles. Maybe lightning. Instead it looked like an old estate. Stone house. Three stories. Dark windows. Overgrown hedges. A long circular driveway partially covered in fallen leaves. No neighboring houses visible. Lucian stood near the entrance. His gun was still in his hand.

“The seal rests in my personal strongbox. There are only two keys, and both are in my pocket.” Silence settled over the road. Before anyone could speak, a solitary rider came pounding up the road from the west, spurring a horse in even worse shape than Aldren’s. It was one of Hesper’s men, and he nearly tumbled from the saddle before his mount had even halted. “My lord! Blackthorn’s gates are barred shut!” he gasped. No one moved. “By whose command?” Aldren demanded.

I will bring them home, or I will die on that mountain trying. Into the Mist With a final, sharp, devastating nod from Fennigan, the three men turned their massive mounts toward the dark, suffocating wall of the Blackwood forest. The heavy silence of the mourning dawn was violently shattered by the sudden, powerful thrum of hooves tearing against the gravel—a highly rhythmic, violent heartbeat that announced their terrifying departure.