Tales from the Prancing Pony
It was a wild night on this ides of March, and the wind howled like a Warg on the prowl as it coursed along the narrow streets of Bree. Sheets of rain drove against the walls and windowpanes of the town's ancient houses of stone, and the few lanterns that stood along the main thoroughfares cast a lamentably feeble glow amid the all-embracing gloom of the moonless night. The streets were empty, and the folk of Bree, both Big and Little, had long since retired early to their beds, fearful of the evil creatures whom legend said stalked the land on nights such as this one. In one house alone were there still candles lighted by the windows, and fires burning brightly in their hearths – that ancient inn from whose lintel above the door hung the Sign of the Prancing Pony.
Since time immemorial, that inn had been the gathering place of the Bree-folk, the heart and soul of the town, where Men and Hobbits would gossip and bargain, sing and dance, drink and be merry. And since time immemorial, the Inn, which stood at the spot where the East-West Road met the North-South Road, had served as a refuge for travelers from distant lands – Men of the South, Dwarves from the East and West, even now and again a handful of exceptionally bold Hobbits of the Shire, though these had grown ever fewer in number over the long years that had passed since the fall of the last King at Fornost, and the rise in brigandage along the roads. These travelers all had to venture many weary miles along forsaken and dangerous paths before they reached the tiny haven of the Bree-land, and for all of them the Prancing Pony was a welcome resting place amid their long and wearisome journeys. To pass inside the broad front door of the Pony, as the Bree-landers called it, was to place danger at one's back, and a trencher full of hot food and mugs of fine ale at one's front, with the promise of story and song to pass the hours, and a soft and warm bed at the night's end.
Hornbeam Butterbur, whose family had owned and managed the Inn for as long as Men could remember, was on all accounts a pleasant enough fellow, with a more jovial manner than many of his more dour predecessors. He was as well-suited for the profession of a publican as a Man could be. For all his habitual good-humour, he was no fool, and knew well that his business at the Pony was first and foremost to ensure that his guests parted with their hard-earned coins in exchange for his hearty fare and cozy rooms. Thus it was with mounting alarm that he noted how few guests had ventured within the walls of the inn this night, and how still and quiet things were at an hour when Men and Hobbits and even Dwarves were habitually feasting and singing. The weather had discouraged all but the most ardent devotees of the ale-taps amongst the Bree-landers from giving their custom to the Pony this night – seven Men and three Bree-Hobbits, to be precise - and even these were grumbling that it would be better to turn in early and head off to their homes than drown their boredom in more dearly-bought ale. Worse still there were but two travelers at the inn – a rag-robed, elderly Man, and a stolid, taciturn Dwarf, neither of whom seemed likely to the casual eye to provide much in the way of entertainment (nor to Mr. Butterbur's eye to rent any but the least expensive of his bedrooms).
Rubbing his broad hands on his greasy white apron, the portly innkeeper, recognizing that he had to take the bull by the horns if the night was not to prove a complete loss, astonished the dozen or so guests who sat at their tables in the common room by climbing (with some difficulty) on top of a heavy oaken chair. Mopping the sweat off his balding pate with a rag that he then returned to a pocket in his woolen britches, he stood to attention, snapped his suspenders with his thumbs, and cried in a very loud (if rather squeaky) voice "YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE!"
The guests stared up at him for but a moment, before some of the more jaded regulars appeared ready to lose interest. Not allowing his moment to go to waste, Butterbur continued, "Your attention please, gentlemen and gentle-hobbits, and gentle-dwarves too – though I fear but one of the Dwarven folk is amongst us tonight." The solitary Dwarf grunted and returned to devouring a joint of beef. "There are, alas, no ladies amongst the company tonight," continued Butterbur, "though the fairer sex has ever been known to shun the outdoors when the weather takes a turn for the worst, and…"
"Are you going to stand there blathering all night?" asked one of the Bree-Men, a sour-looking fellow with a rough, weather-hewn face. "Get to the point, if you have one!"
"Now then, Rowan Goatleaf," chided Butterbur with an exaggerated frown, "no need to fret. The point is this – for the entertainment of all you fine sirs, I am officially declaring this to be a night of storytelling at the Prancing Pony!"
"The only story likely to be told this night will involve a fat innkeeper falling flat on his behind after his chair collapses under his own weight!" shot back Goatleaf triumphantly, to the delight of the Bree-landers. Butterbur took their laughter good-naturedly, and then continued with his announcement:
"Yes, a night of tales of yore, tales from distant lands known not to us Bree-folk!" he continued. "And who better to tell such tales than our two distinguished guests tonight, a foreign Man and a Dwarf no less! Kind sirs, I invite both of you to offer the finest tales known to you. To whichever one of you the audience judges the as having told the best tale, I shall award a rare prize – a trencher of hot bread and stew, and ale to your hearts content, all on the house!" He paused, and the Bree-Hobbits, whose ample bellies suddenly felt less full than they had but a moment before, began to number their own store of homely tales, hoping they might be invited to participate in the contest if the travelers turned down the innkeepers' invitation.
"Master Dwarf!" beamed Butterbur, "perhaps you would honour us by being the first to offer your own fine tale?"
"I most certainly would not!" replied the Dwarf gruffly, folding his arms beneath his dark blue cloak. "I am no minstrel to sing for my supper, innkeeper. Ask yon vagabond if you want a tale to entertain your guests," he continued, nodding curtly at the elderly Man who sat close to the fire.
"Vagabond, am I?" replied the Man in a rasping voice, staring up from his bowl of gruel. He straightened his grey beard with his long fingers, and said "Vagabond I might appear to you, Master Dwarf, and indeed to all of you. It is true that I am short of coin of late, for I lost my purse along with my steed while fording the Greyflood a few weeks ago – accursed river! The few copper pennies stowed in my pockets are all that are left to me at the moment. But I'll have you know that in my time I've enjoyed finer hospitality than many of you might imagine."
"Now, now" interjected Butterbur, keen to prevent a fight from breaking out amongst his guests. "No need for injured feelings, kind sirs. If our illustrious Dwarf is not willing to tell us a tale, then perhaps you would be old greybeard? I almost recall having seen you under the Pony's roof before, in years gone by. Long must you have wandered the roads, it seems, and no doubt you know many tales that are beyond our ken. Surely you will not look askance at my offer? You'll win your meat and ale by acclamation if you do."
The old Man was silent for a moment, his bushy eyebrows drawn together as if in concentration. Then he looked up, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, and said "Well, I'll confess I'm quite willing to sing for my supper, if it's better than this gruel. There's no point in standing on one's dignity if one's stomach isn't full." The Bree-Hobbits nodded at this homely wisdom, and the crowd turned to the greybeard as he pushed away his bowl of gruel, cleared his throat, and prepared himself for his work.
"The tale that I shall tell," he began, in a voice that suddenly grew surprisingly deep and loud, "is one that is doubtless unknown to you. Yet in a distant land, far away in the South, it is the national epic of a brave and noble people. It is in two parts – Fram's Saga and Eorl's Saga - and I heard it sung by the King's minstrels in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, in the town of Edoras, capital of the land of Rohan."
"I've heard of Rohan," interjected Butterbur, who had climbed down off his chair (with even more difficulty than he had climbed up it) and now sat amid the other members of the audience. "A broad grassy plain it is, east of the Ford of Isen, and north of the White Mountains of Gondor. Its horses are famous far and wide."
"They are indeed," replied the storyteller, "and justly so, for reasons that the tale itself makes clear. Mind, I shall not tell it to you precisely as it heard it at Edoras – for there it is sung as an epic poem in the Rohirric speech, and even if I had a voice fit for song you would not understand the words. But I shall relate it to you in prose, as best as I can translate it into the Common Tongue of the Westlands. I might have to use my imagination now and again, to fill in gaps in the tale caused by its conversion from poetry to prose, but I trust you shall bear with me."
"Doubtless it's all imagination anyway," interjected Goatleaf, "so what should we care if you add more to it?"
"I assure you the tale itself is not mere imagination," replied the old Man crossly. "However much embroidered, it is based upon solid fact – though perhaps the history of the lands east of the Misty Mountains is not well known in these parts. Now if I may begin at the beginning – without any further interruptions, mind! – then you shall be able to account to yourselves by this night's end a greater treasury of knowledge than the scanty store some of you have brought with you." He glowered at Goatleaf, and without further preliminaries began his tale:
Fram's Saga
"Nearly nine-hundred years ago - not long after the beginning of the reign of the Stewards of Gondor, who assumed control of that ancient land when the line of its Kings came to an end – a tribe of Northmen dwelt amid the headwaters of the Great River Anduin, in the uppermost of its vales by the roots of the Grey Mountains. They were not the first, and certainly not the most powerful of the many tribes of Northmen who have dwelt in those upper vales of Anduin, whose broad, deep waters have ever-sundered the West of Middle Earth from the East. Their original name, if they had one, was not known to even to themselves, but at the time of which I speak their hereditary chieftain was a Man named Farm, and his people called themselves the Eotheod. They were a simple people, who made their living by herding their cows and sheep and by trading for necessities. They fought on horseback, and oft had to rely on their swords to defend even their meager possessions from theft and pillaging by their enemies."
"There were other Northmen in that valley, the Bearserkers, the last of whose descendents dwell there even to this day – a tough and violent people, though many were and are diamonds in the rough. And there were yet other folk as well. Some were Dwarves, and these were a decent lot for the most part, though suspicious of outsiders and habitually lacking in courtesy."
Here the storyteller shot a pointed glare at the blue-robed Dwarf across the common room, and then resumed his tale.
"Yet there were others of a less than savoury nature – a few wicked Dwarves, and many Goblins and Orcs of the Misty and the Grey Mountains, and other dark creatures of whom it is ill to speak on a night such as this." The winds howled again outside the walls of the inn, rattling the doors and windowpanes, and the guests shuddered and leaned closer to the fire.
"But worst of all the evil beings who dwelt near that valley," continued the storyteller, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "was Scatha the Worm." The Dwarf started up suddenly in his seat, but remained silent, though he now watched the storyteller with a new intensity.
"Ah, Scatha's name was well-known in the olden times!" continued the greybeard. "The Northmen called him a Worm in their tongue, but in the Common Speech he would be known to you as a Dragon." Here the audience gasped appreciably, and the old Man smiled. "And no mere Dragon," he intoned, "but the deadliest of his kind – a winged fire-drake!"
"Only one of those fell beasts yet lives in these later days," whispered the Dwarf under his breath.
"Indeed so, Master Dwarf," nodded the storyteller. "But in those days there was more than one, and Scatha was foremost amongst them. He was born in the dungeons of Angband in the First Age of the Sun, and reared on a diet of living flesh by the black hand of the Great Enemy, He Who is Not to be Named, He of whom the Dark Lord of Mordor in later days was but an emissary and a servant."
The greybeard paused, noting the fearful countenances of the audience, and then continued. "Scatha survived the holocaust, the terrible onslaught of the Valar, the High Elves, and the Forefathers of the Numenoreans that led to the destruction of Angband, and the exile of the Great Enemy beyond the Circles of the World at the end of the First Age. Like many survivors of his kind, Scatha retreated to the Withered Heath of Forodwaith, north of the Grey Mountains, and bided his time. Then at length he flew south, to the headwaters of the river Anduin, and at the root of a sheer-sided mountain he found a cave that he excavated into his lair. And there, for many long centuries, Scatha watched and waited."
"He was both terrible and magnificent of aspect, like all his kind. There are many shades and colours of Dragons, and Scatha for his part was sheethed in scales of brilliant green that were as hard as adamant. His eyes glowed red, and trails of brimstone-laden vapours ever issued from his nostrils. He was full two-hundred feet from nose to tail, and one-hundred and fifty across from wingtip to wingtip, and his teeth ranged in from dagger-sized to as long as a sword, and his claws were as long as a spear. Yet few had seen him, even from afar, and fewer still had lived to tell the tale. To attract the attention of Scatha the Worm was to invite one's own death under a torrent of fire and an avalanche of slashing claws and fangs."
"Scatha's opportunity came thanks to the greed of an raiding party of Goblins, laden with spoil they had looted from the treasuries of Moria, the Kazhad-Dum of the Dwarves, in the Misty Mountains far to the south, who were returning to their home in the caverns beneath Mount Gundabad, bearing their stolen treasures in open packs on their backs. The Goblins were themselves servants of Shadow and Flame in their origins, yet that meant nothing to Scatha. Like all Dragons since the fall of the Great Enemy, he served only himself and his own desires. He would make no alliance with other servants of the Enemy unless it served his own ambitions. And like all Dragons, he desired nothing more than the gleam of gold and silver and mithril, and the flash of emeralds and rubies and sapphires. He coveted his own treasure hoard, and by fang and claw he meant to have it!"
"Scatha caught the gleam of gold and gems in the open packs while flying far above, and with a wicked laughed he descened upon the hapless Goblins like a thunderbolt. He slaughterd them with abandon, laughing even more harshly as the black-feathered arrows from their compound bows bounced harmlessly off his dragon scales. They might have done him some damage if they had hit the tender flesh beneath his arms and legs, yet he was so fast and his assault so devastating that their shots were wide off the mark. In less than a minute, the last of the Goblins was defeated. Those who were not dead were gravely wounded, and lay helpless on the ground/"
"After consuming his fill of the living, yet bitter flesh of those few Goblins who had not been slain in his assault - no doubt with some distaste - Scatha then set to gathering up the treasure in gold, silver, mithril and jewels that lay scattered about. He proudly carryed it back to his lair a few clawfuls at a time as his own treasure hoard. It wasn't long before every last part of the treasure found itself at the bottom of Scatha's cavern, serving as his gleaming bed."
"Scatha's greed was sated for a time by his newfound hoard, and for many long years he slept. But then, at length, he was aroused from his sleep by the pangs of awesome hunger. Like all Dragons he was so long-lived as to be nearly immortal, and he could last for decades without devouring a trace of food. But now and again, hunger would come upon him, and when it did he would have to feed on the flesh of the living – whether living beasts, or living Men and others who walked on two legs, it was all the same to him."
"Scatha flew over the lands about his cave, surveying them from on high on a glorious late-Summer's day. He soon realized that the Northmen and their flocks, perhaps benefiting from his slaughter of the Goblins on the long-past day he had claimed the horde of Moria for his own, had grown more numerous than ever. Everywhere he looked amid the rolling green dales of the valley he saw fat sheep and cows, sturdy horses, and tall, clean-limbed, golden-haired Men with their buxom wives and rosy-cheeked children. All were fresh meat, and to Scatha's black heart the latter promised to be the sweetest delicacy of all."
"When Scatha struck it came as a bolt from the blue. It was high summer, and many of the Eotheod were out of doors – the Men tending their flocks and cutting wood from the forests, the women doing their washing and minding their gardens, the children playing in the fields and by the streams. Suddenly the light of the Sun was darkened, as if by a passing cloud, though the day was bright and clear. Then, without warning, Scatha was upon them!"
"The lucky ones never new what hit them. They were consumed in an instant by a holocaust of flame. The others screamed and ran for their lives, of course, but it did them no good. Scatha could devour an entire family in seconds, and there was no house or byre that was shelter enough against his beating wings and deadly, lashing tail. The arrows and spears of the Men proved as useless against his bright green dragonscales as had those of the Goblins of the Misty Mountians.
"In a single day Scatha slaughtered scores of the Eotheod, and consumed or devoured countless sheep, cows and horses. And that was only the beginning. There was no respite from his hunger and cruelty, for he soon developed a taste for manflesh, and found it even more to his liking than well-roasted mutton and beef. At any hour of the day or night, his shadow might darken Sun or Moon, and doom would fall upon yet another hapless clan of the Northmen."
"Soon things came to such a bad state that the Eotheod could no longer live in the open grassy swards of the valley. Some of them fled west into the barren gullies and canyons of the Misty Mountains, but these proved no shelter from Scatha's keen eye. Those poor souls he did not devour fared no better than those he did, for they soon fell prey to maurading bands of Orcs, Goblins and ravenous Trolls. Not one man, woman, or child of the Eotheod who fled west lived to tell the tale."
"The greater part of them, though, fled east, under the dark boughs of Mirkwood, the greatest forest of the northern world. Here at least, Scatha could not see them from afar, and the wood was so vast in extent that he was no more likely to uncover them by chance than is lighting to strike twice in the same spot. Scatha was angered, and breathed fire at countless swaths of forest, reducing once gloomy stands of ancient trees to smoking, barren wastes. But he found few of the Eotheod, and in time he abandoned his efforts. He turned his wrath against the open land about the Anduin itself, where the Eotheod had lived until a few weeks before. Smashing and burning, he felled the last of their turf-roofed houses of wood, devoured the last of their beasts, and reduced the last of their crops of oats and barley to ashes. Then, satiated for the time being, he retreated to his lair in the Grey Mountains, gathered his bulk about his gleaming heap of treasure, and fell into a long, deep sleep, dreaming evil dreams."
"Meanwhile, the survivors of the Eotheod, encamped amid the pathless eves of Mirkwood, soon felt that they had jumped out of the frying pan only to fall into the fire. They were tired, and thirsty, and starving, yet there was neither rest nor food or drink to be found in that wood which the Sylvan Elves call Taur e n'Dedelos, the Forest of Great Fear. The rains that fell were absorbed into the mossy ground, and there were no springs or creeks or even stagnant pools of standing water from which to drink. There were few beasts to be seen, save the great black squirrels of Mirkwood, whose flesh was bitter and well-nigh unpalatable."
"And if the days were bad, the nights were even worse. As soon as darkness fell – a darkness so deep and terrible that even an Elf could not see his hand if he held it in front of his face – the Eotheod went from being the hunters to being the hunted. Many evil beasts live in that wood, and many of the Eotheod who lingered too close to the edges of their camps found themselves dragged away by howling packs of ravening wolves and Wargs, or carried to a terrible doom by the giant spiders that infest the woodlands. The people held watches throughout the night, yet each new dawn revealed that their numbers had been reduced by yet a few more. The trees themselves, ancient and corrupt, almost seemed to enjoy their plight, and sibilant voices, cursing and mocking the Eotheod, could often be heard amid the humid, airless depths of the forest."
"Soon the people grew so angry and desperate that they began to curse the gods for their ill fate, and turn upon their leaders. And most of all, their wrath fell upon their chieftain Fram. Led by a few ambitious malcontents, they told him to his face that he had failed them miserably, and that he was a disgrace to his ancestors. They demanded that he lead them to better times and places, and threatened to bring his line to an end if he did not."
"Fram cared nothing about their threats for his own sake. He was a man of some thirty years, the tallest and strongest of all the Eotheod, and there was no Man among them who could stand up to him in a fight. But he had a daughter, Freya, of but fifteen years, who had given birth to a male child a few months before Scatha's assault. Fram's own wife was long dead, and Freya's son Freyr was his only heir. Freya's husband had been torn to pieces by a pack of wolves not long after they had first ventured into Mirkwood, while he was on a fruitless journey to find a spring of water that could slake his thirst and that of his family. And so, now that the people were turning against them, Fram himself was the only protection that Freya and Freyr had. He did not care to think what might happen to them if the people's wrath, in fear of his own swordarm, was turned against his defenceless family."
"It angered Fram mightily that he should have to fear his own people, and yet he knew their wrath and brewing treachery was not native to their hearts – they had been planted there by desperation. They could not long remain under the dark eves of thrice-accursed Mirkwood. If there was to be any hope for himself, his family, and his people, he would either have to restore them all to their own lands in safety, or lead them far away, exiles forever."
"Yet how could he do any of these things? He dared not lead them west, back to their own lands, for at any time Scatha might return. Below the lands of the Eotheod lay those of the Bearserkers, but they were a sullen and often violent people, and would surely not allow the Eotheod to settle amongst them. Nor were the Eotheod in fit condition to wrest control of the lands of the Bearserkers by force."
"Nor was there hope to the north, for there lay the Grey Mountains, which were not only the home of Scatha himself and lesser dragons besides, but of hordes of Goblins, Hobgoblins, Orcs, Trolls and Wargs of the worst description. And south was the most fearsome path of all, for there, amid the lower reaches of Mirkwood, stood the dark tower of Dol Guldur, lair of the dreaded Necromancer. Fram was not afraid of any living man or beast, but he had heard tales of that awful sorcerer that had made his hair stand on end. He himself would have fallen on his own sword before risking capture by the Necromancer and his evil minions."
"That left the east as the only path open to the Eotheod. Long leagues to the east lay the Forest River, where the people would at least have enough water to drink, and perhaps fish to eat, though they would be no safer from Wargs and giant spiders. Even so, they could dwell by that river for at least a short time before moving on. But that path too was full of peril. To the east lay also the realm of Thranduil, King of the Sylvan Elves of Mirkwood. That folk were not renowned for being overly-friendly toward Men. True, they were known to trade on occasion with the Northmen of Lake Esgaroth and of Dale, yet for the most part they kept aloof from mortals. And the Sylvan Elves' hatred of trespassers was legendary; more than one foolish poacher or trapper had been shot down by an Elvish arrow fired without any warning. If Fram's people were to venture into Thranduil's realm, they would have no choice but to throw themselves at the Elven-King's mercy, with no certainty as to his reply. And the Eotheod themselves, Fram knew, were afraid of all Elves, whom they viewed as woodland wights. They might well rise in open revolt if he proposed placing their fate in Thranduil's hands."
"Fram thought mightily upon these problems, and was exceedingly vexed. If only Scatha could be slain, then all their travails would come to an end, for the Eotheod could return in peace to their own rightful lands, and begin once again to build upon them. Yet how could he even begin to fight against a beast of such awesome power? He had seen with his own eyes that spears and arrows were useless against Scatha's scaly hide, and no Man could draw near enough to him to even attempt to slay him with a sword."
"Then Fram realized there was one whom he could appeal to for aid, if he were willing to risk a long and perilous journey to the south and west. In the Vale of Rhosgobel, some miles north and east of the Old Ford across the Anduin, lay the dwelling-place of Radagast the Brown. Radagast was a Wizard, and though he had in past ages been friends with the Northmen, they had grown increasingly wary of him in recent years, for they were ever more fearful of what they deemed to be magic powers that could only be fueled by dark sorcery. To their simple minds the difference in power between a Wizard like Radagast and a foul sorcerer like the Necromancer was in degree rather than in kind. Yet Fram was wise enough to know that the old tales concerning the aid Radagast had offered the Northmen during the time when he had first settled at Rhosgobel could not be wholly without foundation. If anyone would know how to slay a Dragon, it would surely be a Wizard."
"Fram resolved then to seek out Radagast, and ask his counsel, and perhaps even his aid in slaying Scatha the Worm. Yet he feared what might happen to Freya and Freyr if he left them to their own devices amongst the people. Even if the Eotheod did not turn on them, they might be little inclined to offer them aid should they be attacked by the fearsome beasts of Mirkwood. Fram soon realized he would have to take his daughter and grandson with him to Rhosgobel, for that was a lesser peril than leaving them to their own fate. He knew he risked creating the appearance of abandoning the Eotheod, yet that could not be helped. If he failed to slay Scatha, he would not return to them in any case."
"One morning, then, Fram confided his plan to one of the few lieutenants whom he still trusted. The man reluctantly consented to it, and agreed to lead the people east to the Forest River, where they might better sustain themselves than amid their current encampment. He instructed them to surrender to the Sylvan Elves if they should be challenged by them, rather than risk a fight they could not win, and the man also assented, even more reluctantly, to the wisdom of this counsel. Then, without further delay, Fram packed what scarce food and water of the provender he had brought from his longhouse, woke Freyr and Freyr, and led them beyond the encampment and through the trackless wastes of Mirkwood."
"That grim journey was a tale in itself, and one that I shall not tell in any depth, for it would only fill you with sorrow. Suffice to say that again and again Fram and his family walked in circles amid the treacherous trees, which almost seem to shift their branches and their roots to prevent the hapless mortals from escaping the wood. Fram himself hardly slept at all, for his sword was all that stood between his family and the fangs of Wargs or spiders. Freya grew thin and wan and full of fear, and poor little Freyr cried ceaselessly at first, before falling into ever longer sleeps and ever deeper silences that boded ill for his fate."
"Then, at last, when it seemed they could go on no longer, Fram saw a ray of sunlight between two trees on the farthest edge of his vision. He dashed toward them, dragging Freya with him (the babe being held in her arms) before the light faded and they found themselves lost yet again. Just as the Sun was about to set, they forced their way between the two sullen, rotting Oaks they had seen, dodging past a heavy branch that fell from one of them, and found themselves once again amid the grassy fields of the Vale of Anduin. Fram dropped to his knees and said a prayer of thanks to the gods of his people, and Freya did likewise."
"The land was green and quiet, and it was soon apparent that they in the territory of the Bearserkers, which had not yet suffered from the depredations of Scatha as had the more northerly lands of the Eotheod. Fram proceeded carefully, for he knew that while some of the Bearserkers might take pity on them, and offer them food and shelter for the night, many would not, and some might think nothing of killing a Man and babe of the Eotheod in order to take a comely maiden for a bride. And that was a fearsome thought indeed, for the Bearserkers were no ordinary Men – as their name implied, they could don the skins of Bears, and through enchantments their ancestors had learned who-knows-where in the long ago they could change their form into that of the wild beasts whose skins they wore. The most powerful of them, it was rumoured, could transform directly into bears without needing the aid of skins at all. Then they were fearsome enemies indeed, and Fram did not relish the thought of a fight with them."
"Yet the Berserkers seemed to be within their own longhouses that night, and Fram and his family were not seen by them as they traveled outdoors. All night father and daughter walked under the clear light of the stars and the Moon, heading ever westward, until they came upon a bubbling stream that followed a winding path toward the Anduin. They drank gladly from the stream, and then followed its path as it sloped gently downhill and toward the west. After some miles it disappeared under the leafy arch of a neatly trimmed hedge perhaps ten feet high, and Fram began to follow this hedge in a broad arc for some distance to the south and west of the streem. Then he came upon a tall wooden gate held in place by a latch. Certain now that he had found the place he had been seeking, and hoping that the gods still smiled upon him, he lifted the latch and opened the gate while urged Freya to follow him inside. When she had done so, the gate snapped shut, the latch clicked, and they found themselves amid the Vale of Rhosgobel."
"It was a pleasant place, full of graceful birch trees and of wildflowers that gleamed palely in the light of stars and Moon, and all was still and silent in the small hours of the morning. Then the sky grew light in the East, the birds broke into song, and Fram and Freya found themselves on a narrow path that led over a wooden bridge, across the gurgling stream from which they had drunk beyond the hedge some hours before. They crossed the bridge, followed the path, and after several turns through a stand of birches found themselves in a yard that stood before a cheerfully-painted, log-beamed and turf-roofed house, built into the side of a gently sloping hill."
"'Goodness gracious me!' cried a fruity, mellow voice from within the house. 'I've been watching you for some time now, and I must say I am surprised! To have traveled so far, and through such peril to visit me, of all people!' The door opened, and out stepped an old Man of greater than average height, dressed in robes of brown woolen cloth. His long hair and beard were brown, though streaked with grey, his wrinkled skin was tanned yet rosy like a dried apple, and his eyes were brown, yet flecked with sparks of brilliant green. He was clearly an outlander, not akin to the Eotheod or any of the Northmen, and Fram shuddered to think by what unnatural means the aging Wizard had managed to live for as many long years as legend claimed. Yet he spoke the tongue of the Northmen of Anduin fluently, albeit with an accent that Fram could not place, and his eyes and broad face were warm and welcoming."
"'You have seen us from afar?' asked Fram, still wary of this strange old Man, and protective of Freya and Freyr, even though he knew he had little choice other than to trust to the Wizard's good intentions."
"'Yes, you might say I've seen you from afar,' laughed the Wizard, 'Fram son of Frumgar, indeed from farther away than you might guess. I have many friends among the birds and beasts in these parts, and they told me of your progress through the woods and over the fields. But heavens, where are my manners? I am Radagast the Brown, as you doubtless know or guess, and I welcome you to Rhosgobel. I've had no visitors for many a long year, and your company is much appreciated. Come in! Eat, drink, rest! We can discuss the business that brings you here on the morrow.'"
"Fram then warmed to Radagast, and gladly accepted his offer of food and shelter. He and Freya and her infant son drank long draughts of cool, clean water and sweet, rich cream, and then the two adults savoured fine mead, and feasted on bread and butter, cheese and nuts, and berries of the wood and field. Radagast bustled about, and drew a bath of warm water for them in an oaken tub, so that they might clean the dust and mud of many long leagues from their bodies, and sooth their tired arms and legs. The Wizard offered all of them a draught of some curious bitters, which he vowed would cure what ailed them while they rested. Then he led them to their bedroom, which was as comfortable as it was homely, and they slept like logs the rest of the day, and for the first night in nearly a Moon, for it was now early October."
"The next morning they arose early, full of vim and vigor, and with ravenous appetites; it seemed the Wizard's draught had worked well indeed. They all breakfasted with Radagast by his hearth. Then, while Freya went out into the gardens, to play with Freyr and shake off her grim memories of the loss and suffering she had endured, Fram turned to the Wizard and (in the rather direct manner of the Northmen) proceeded to tell him flat out what he sought, and to appeal for his aid and counsel."
"'Hmm, yes,' said Radagast, narrowing his eyes and bridging the fingers of his calloused hands. 'Yes, the Dragon. You want me to help you put paid to old Scatha, eh? I had suspected as much.'"
"'Well, can you help us or not?' asked Fram bluntly. 'If you can, I and my people shall be eternally in your debt. If not, then perhaps you can direct us to a Wizard or Wise-man who would be of aid, and we shall thank you for your hospitality and be on our way."
"'Eternally grateful!' laughed the Wizard, slapping his hand against his thigh. 'That I very much doubt! Eternity is a long time, don't you know? Longer than the memory of Men, to be sure.'"
"'Will you not help us, then?'" asked Fram, running his fingers though his thick golden beard as his face was marred by a frown.
"'Now, that's not what I said, is it young fellow?' replied Radagast, with an injured air. 'Mind, I'm not going on an expedition with you to slay your infernal Dragon. Dragon-slaying is not in my line of work, you know, and I'm much too busy with my gardens and aviaries and beehives to leave Rhosgobel for more than a few days at a time. But I'll offer you my counsel gladly! I'm not the wisest of my Order, nor the most powerful, but I'm sure I can still tell you what you need to know.'"
"'Well then, Wizard, go ahead and tell me,' replied Fram, again in his plainspoken style.
"'Patience, child!' exclaimed Radagast, rising to his feet. 'Follow me to my library, and we shall consult my Bestiary!'"
"So Fram got up and followed him, to a long, oak-beamed room lined floor-to-ceiling with scrolls and dusty tomes. The Eotheod lack familiarity with the arts of writing in those days, and so Fram was quite mystified when Radagast pulled an especially weighty (and dusty) leather-bound book from his shelves, slammed it down on a wooden lectionary, opened the creaking covers to a certain page, and then began to run his fingers over the spidery markings on the parchment. The Wizard began to mutter under his breath, and for a brief moment Fram feared that maybe he had been deceived, and this conjuror meant to put a spell on him and Freya after all."
"Radagast looked up at him, and said sharply, 'Really, young Man, we'll have none of that! If I wasn't well-disposed toward you, you'd never have set foot in my house to begin with!' He turned back to his book, and Fram stood still as a stone, even more alarmed that the Wizard had somehow read his mind."
"At last, the Wizard exclaimed aloud in some outlandish tongue, and then turned to Fram and said proudly, 'I've found it! Perfectly simple to kill a Dragon, don't you know! Surprised I didn't think of the answer myself.'"
"'You mean it's easy to slay a Dragon?' asked Fram doubtfully.
"'Oh no, not easy at all,' replied Radagast dismissively. 'You'll almost certainly be killed. But it is simple, and I can tell you how to go about it in principle.'"
"'Well, that's certainly reassuring,' replied Fram dryly. "But what is this counsel of yours?'"
"'All dragons have two halves,' announced the Wizard, 'a top half and a bottom one.'"
"'Do you think so?' replied Fram sourly."
"'Let me finish, young man!'" replied Radagast. 'As I was saying, all Dragons have two halves. The top half is covered in Dragonscales, often reinforced by hard gems or shards of metal, and is totally impenetrable by any mortal weapon. Only a weapon forged of Mithril by Elven or perhaps Dwarven-smiths, with their enchantments lain upon its blade, could hope to penetrate the armour on the top half of a Dragon.'"
"'I'm afraid there are no enchanted Elven or Dwarven-blades forged of Mithril in my armoury,' replied Fram. 'All I have is my sword, a bow, and a quiver full of arrows.'"
"'Quite,'" replied Radagast. 'Nor is forging such weapons my own forté, I'm afraid. I'm an herbalist and a healer, not a weapon-maker. But that brings us to the Dragon's bottom half, its long underbelly. It has no scales, only skin as soft as butter. Very inconvenient for a beast that spends much of its time in the air. But then, as it says here on page six-hundred and ninety-two, the first Dragons crawled on the ground, and so their undersides needed no armour. The flying Dragons came much later, not long before the War of Wrath, and in his haste to breed them as fast as he could, the Great Enemy did not bother to add scales to their bellies. A design flaw, you might say. And so…"
"'My warriors fired many arrows and threw many spears at the underside of this beast,' interrupted Fram. 'Few of them hit him, he moved so quickly. And those that did find their mark bounced off harmlessly, as if we had fired them at a mountainside.'"
"'Yes, yes,' replied Radagast. 'But there's a simple explanation for that you see. On his own merits, a winged Dragon has to be fast if he's to avoid having his undersides skewered. But if he can get his hands on a horde of treasure, one full of diamonds and other hard gems, or even of Mithril, then it's a different story. He can embed the gems in the skin of his belly, and then they act as the armour for his bottom half, just as they can also reinforce the Dragonscale armour on his top half. Would you say Scatha's underside was glittering, or was it silvery?"
"'I only saw the beast once,' admitted Fram dourly, 'and I didn't get a good look at its belly, as once my arrow was fired I was more concerned with running away from him and hiding in the forest. But I'd say his belly glittered – the Sun's light fair sparked off it, almost like many little rainbows.'"
"'Then his belly is covered with diamonds,' replied Radagast sagely. 'Your iron spears and arrowheads aren't nearly as tough as diamonds are, my lad, and that's why they bounced off old Scatha's paunch.'"
"'What use is this lore to me, then?' asked Fram impatiently. 'You're telling me that both halves of Scatha are invulnerable.'"
"'Young Man,' sighed Radagast, 'I must say it's a good thing you're a chieftain and a warrior, because it's plain you haven't got a head for book-learning. I said nothing of the kind, and indeed you didn't allow me to finish the point.'"
"'Then what is your point?' asked Fram bluntly."
"The point is that no Dragon can cover his entire underside," replied Radagast with a wink. 'Their legs aren't long enough to reach every last nook and cranny. There's always somewhere on a Dragon's belly, usually near the crook of an arm or leg, that won't be protected. Might only be a small patch of bare skin, but it will be as soft as butter. All you have to do is find it and then no enchanted weapons are required, Elven or otherwise. Good mortal iron or steel will put a Dragon out of his misery, as long as it's applied to his soft spot. So you see, slaying a Dragon is a simple matter, just as I said.'"
"'How does one find the soft spot in the first place?' asked Fram warily.
"'Ah, well,' admitted Radagast, 'that part might be a bit tricky in practice. It would be best to get him while he's on the ground, not in the air, and to fool him somehow or other into showing you his belly. Then you've got one chance – but only one, mind – to find his soft spot, and strike at it as fast as lightning, before he burns you too a crisp. That's the really hard part, I imagine.'"
"'Indeed,'" replied Fram. 'But I can't just walk into Scatha's lair and ask him to roll over and show me his belly. How am I supposed to fool the beast?'"
"'Hmm, well,' replied Radagast, running his fingers through his long beard. 'What you need is a plan, and a good one. I've one idea myself…but you probably won't like it much.'"
"He told Fram his idea, and at first the Northman flatly refused to consider it. But then, as he pondered the matter, he began to realize two things. First, that there was no other choice; and second, that with luck and the will of the Northmen's gods, it just might work."
The storyteller paused, and drained the last of his mug of thin ale. "More of this on the house if you please, Butterbur," said he. "Telling tales is thirsty work. And I think I've earned a pouchful of pipeweed, if you don't mind."
"Not at all," replied Butterbur, rising from his seat. He took several other orders for ale and pipeweed - in exchange for coin, much to his satisfaction - and soon the Bree-Men and Hobbits were drinking and smoking – an art discovered at Bree some centuries before - and the storyteller was blowing smoke-rings across the room. Even the Dwarf pulled out his pipe, and began puffing away to his heart's content. The old greybeard pulled up a stool, propped his legs on it, issued a final smoke ring, and then continued with his tale.
"Well, where was I," he muttered. "Ah yes, the plan. Fram talked it over with his daughter Freya, and she was very reluctant at first…"
"You haven't told us what the plan was, you old sot!" shouted Goatleaf, between puffs on his clay pipe.
"Don't interrupt me when I'm talking!" cried the storyteller. "One more word out of you, and I'll turn you into a frog and toss you in a puddle!" The Bree-Men laughed and cheered, and Goatleaf, cursing under his breath, held his tongue.
"I shall reveal the plan in the telling of the tale," continued the storyteller. "Now, to continue. Freya was very reluctant to agree to Fram's plan, but then he was her chieftain as well as her father, and she recognized there was nothing else for her to do. So, the next day, Fram and Freya, who had left little Freyr to Radagast's keeping, began their long journey northward to the Grey Mountains and the lair of Scatha the worm. They borrowed two of Radagast's own ponies, and each bore with them a token to display to the Bearserkers if they accosted them – 'Most of the shapechangers won't molest anyone who's a friend of mine,' the Wizard had promised them – and armed in this fashion they rode north without incident for some days. They met several of that burly, black-bearded folk, who smiled and waved when they saw Radagast's tokens. But when they heard the pair were set on dueling with Scatha the Worm, they turned pale and fearful, said prayers to their gods, and quickly retreated into the safety (as it seemed to them) of their own longhouses."
"The Bearserkers were a mixed lot, though, and one morning they had the misfortune of meeting one who cared little whether they were friends of Radagast the Brown. His name was Horsa, and he had a reputation as a brawler and a troublemaker even amongst his own tempestuous folk. His keen eyes caught sight of Freya from afar, and he determined at once that he would seize the beautiful maiden for his own use, and slay the man with her should he resist."
"He strode across his unkempt barley fields with extraordinary speed, leapt over a wooden fence, and planted himself in the muddy path before Fram and Freya, a stern, seven-foot tall giant. He was garbed in nothing but a bearskin vest and leathern pantaloons, and lacked both arms and armour. But his burly arms were folded across his chest, and his face glowered darkly."
"'Ho there!" he cried, in a deep, rumbling voice. 'What do you mean by trespassing across my lands, you mangy towhead?'"
"'Mind your tone, fellow!' shot back Fram, who for all his wariness of a hostile Bearserker waxed wroth at this insult to his pride. 'You speak to the Fram son of Frumgar, Chieftain of the Eotheod! Moreover my daughter and I are friends of Radagast the Brown.'"
"'Bah! Radagast the Birdcatcher!' spat Horsa. 'And who are these Eotheod you speak of? There was once such a folk, but there were all devoured by Scatha the Worm, 'tis said. I've heard tell those few who weren't snapped up by Scatha are cowering in the depths of Mirkwood.'"
"'I ride north to slay Scatha and avenge my people with his blood,' replied Fram. 'You would do well not to hinder me.'"
"'I won't hinder you, o great chief,' replied Horsa mockingly, 'as long as you first pay the toll.'"
"'By what right do you to apply a toll against me?' demanded Fram.'"
"'By right of the brawn of my arms and legs, and the wrath of my fangs and claws,' replied Horsa menacingly. 'Hand me the woman now, or this day will be your last!'"
"Freya drew back on her horse's reigns, edging away from the brewing fight, while Fram drew his sword and aimed its point at the Bearserker's throat. "'I tire of your bold tongue, peasant!' he shot back. 'Out of my path, or your head and shoulders part company!'"
"Horsa's features shifted and blurred suddenly, and Freya cried out in terror as fangs and claws sprouted where teeth and nails once had been, and thick black fur burst through rough, sun-bronzed skin. Where a moment before had stood a Man, there now glowered a ferocious, slavering Bear!"
"Fram's pony shrieked and foamed at the mouth in its fear, but before it could move the beast was on it, tearing out its throat with a single swipe of his massive paw. Fram leapt from its back just in time to avoid another fatal blow as the Werebear shot toward him. He thrust his sword at the beast, but with a third lightning-fast wipe of its paw it knocked the sword out of his hand and into the mud of the path. Then, it was on him!"
"Fram and the beast rolled in the mud, the werebear growling and slavering, slashing with teeth and claws, while Fram desperately used all his own brawn to hold it at arm's length. He knew that if it caught hold of him with its jaws for an instant, all would be over. But it was a losing battle, for no mortal Man can hope to best a werebeast in a contest of brute strength. The brute lowering its grinning jaws over Fram's sweating face, drooling foully on him as it prepared to sink its fangs into his skull."
"Then suddenly the beast screamed in agony and anger, and pulled away from Fram. He looked up, and to his astonishment saw Freya, his blood-dripping sword grasped in her slender hands! She had not stood idle, but had claimed Fram's sword for her own!"
"'Freya!' cried Fram, staggering to his feet. 'Point out!' She thrust the blade forward, just in time to deter the werebear from charging her directly. But the beast was only deterred a moment, and reared up on it hind legs, towering over Freya, bleeding from the deep gash in its shoulder that had been carved by her blade. It was full of bloodlust now, and no longer sought to ravish her as it had when still a Man, but to kill her outright and feast on her flesh."
"Without hesitation, Fram threw himself at the beast, which turned and struck at him with its massive paw, sending him crashing through the solid wooden fence by the path. But that instant was all Freya needed. Heedless of her peril now, she thrust Fram's sword straight into the wearbear's chest!"
"It reared back and screamed horribly, not with the savage snarl of a bear, but with the agonized cry of a dying Man! Then it fell to the ground with a sickening thud, its fur shedding rapidly as its features shifted to those of Horsa. The Bearserker lay there stone dead, Fram's sword embedded in his heart, a look of utter shock and disbelief carved into his coarse features."
"Freya, still not believing that she had found the courage to fight and slay the horrible creature, swiftly turned from the sight of Horsa's bloody corpse, and ran through the hole in the fence towards Fram. He lay sprawled on his back, with the wind knocked out of him, but she soon saw to her relief that none of his bones were broken and he was not seriously harmed. After some moments he stood to his feet, stared wordlessly at Freya, and then strode through the gap in the fence, standing over the corpse of Horsa. He pulled his sword from the Bearserker's chest, cleaned it on the bearskin tunic, sheathed it, and then turned to face Freya again."
"'My thanks,' he said wryly. 'I have never before owed my life to a woman, let alone my own daughter. In truth I know not whether to be thankful or ashamed.'"
"'Be neither,' she replied simply. 'We slew the beast together. Had you not distracted it, it would have disarmed me with a swipe of its paw as it had done to you. Then we would both lie dead instead of him.'"
"'Aye, true enough,' nodded Fram. 'Pity about my poor horse, though. And where is yours?'"
"'It threw me and bolted,' replied Freya glumly."
"'Then we shall have to hoof it ourselves,' said Fram. 'But first we'll replenish our stores from whatever we find in this brigand's hut, which I see lies yonder across the fields. Doubtless whatever we find there are ill gotten gains, and if the rightful owners aren't available we're as entitled to them to them as any man or woman.'"
"So Fram and Freya helped themselves to Horsa's stores of dried meat and tough waybread, and continued on foot towards the north. Horsa's body they left on the road, as a warning to others of the wages of brigandage and rapine."
"On and on they marched. Then, in time, Fram and his daughter left behind the country of the Bearserkers, and journeying ever northward came upon the remains of their own land. Alas! It was with a heavy heart that they saw league upon league of blackened, ashen wastes, and the ruins of countless longhouses that had once sheltered men and women who had either perished in their ruin, or languished now in the depths of Mirkwood. Fram's anger grew like that of a burning ember on the fire, which smoulders ceaselessly even as it consumes itself in its wrath. Freya, it is said, was both saddened and angered, yet it was she who saw that even as the autumn wore on blades of green grass sprung up here and there amid the wasteland. Hope had not forsaken entirely the land of the Eotheod."
"It was early November before Fram and Freya left behind the uppermost stretches of the Vale of Anduin, and followed the stream of the Greylin into the foothills of the Grey Mountains. That was a dark and dreary land, all the more so in the tail end of the year. The rounded hills were worn and tired-looking, as if they had stood for too many long ages under the Sun, and their rocky bones were veiled only here and there by sickly patches of moorland. Great boulders were strewn about the valley, as if a battle had been fought there by the Stone Giants in days long forgotten, and Fram and Freya had to weave their way between them as they pushed ever northward. Chill mists descended suddenly from the heights, and froze the marrow in the bones of both man and woman. And all about were signs that they drew nearer and nearer to the lair of Scatha, the great and merciless Dragon who had brought such pain and death to their kindred. His broad tracks could be seen here and there in the scattered patches of moorgrasses on the hillsides."
"For some days they walked on foot, until their nostrils wrinkled at the smell of brimstone, rotten flesh, and years of indescribable filth. Scatha's lair was very close indeed. Freya began to tremble, yet she dared not turn back. She knew that without her aid in their strategem, her father would have no hope of slaying the worm; and she also knew that Fram was so enraged by the Dragon's evil deeds that he would attack it by himself, even if it meant his certain death. Between her love of her father, and her desire to save her people, she had no choice but to push herself forward, though each footstep became more difficult than the last. She thought back upon her battle with Horsa the Bearserker, and hoped that she would find the same courage in her heart when the time came to confront Scatha the Worm."
"Fram, for his part, grew very silent, but his face had a dark and somber mien, and his icy blue eyes shone fiercely. This beast had ruined his land, slain countless numbers of his kinsmen, and nearly turned the rest of them against himself and his family. He thirsted for revenge, and by the gods he would have it! He hardly seemed aware of his daughter's growing fear, or of the peril they faced together. All his thoughts were on his hated foe."
"Then, through the evening mists, Fram and Freya could see a gaping fissure in a wall of rock, through which a distant, steady rumble could be heard. Now it was like the wind moaning over the moors, now like gravel sliding down a hill. Scatha's lair! The great beast was fast asleep, yet the sound of his breathing rooted man and woman to the ground where they stood."
"Now, the time came to put their plan into effect. Fram reached into his tunic and withdrew the charm that Radagast had given him in secret some weeks before. It was a crystal phile imbued with some dark, smoky liquid that seethed as if alive. He placed the phile about his neck, and spoke a secret Word which had been told to him by Radagast. Then he took his place behind a large boulder, knocked an arrow, and waited."
"Freya, her very limbs trembling with affright, backed away from the mouth of the cave. But she was not retreating from the terrible danger. Rather, she climbed the stony mountainside opposite the cave, scrambling up the scree and loose rock as he took her place some hundreds of feet above the valley floor."
"Then she turned about and, facing the cave, began to sing in a soft, clear voice. It was a mournful song that recounted the sorrows and suffering of the Eotheod since the depredations of Scatha some months before. She was accusing the Worm of the many crimes he had committed against her people, and doing so nigh to his very doorstep!"
"Deep within his lair, Scatha stirred uneasily, his ears troubled by unwelcome sounds uttered in a voice that brought to mind nauseating images of beauty and innocence. First one heavy bejeweled eyelid, then the other, lifted upwards, and ruddy beams shone forth from his close-set, serpentine eyes. For a moment, he listened in disbelief – and then sat up and unleashed a terrible roar!"
"An intruder! Never before in his long and bloody career, not even in the far-off days when the Sons of Feanor strode across Beleriand like vengeful gods, had anyone dared to challenge Scatha before any of the lairs he had kept. And yet the being that sang in the valley this night was no gleaming Elf-Lord of the Elder Days, his eyes shining brightly with the pure light of the West of West. Scatha could tell both by the timbre of the voice and the words it sang that it belonged to a mortal female, and one of the Northmen's blood no less. Was she mad, to pit herself against a Winged Fire-Drake from whom the heroes of old had fled in terror?"
"Scatha was no fool, of course. He was as sly and crafty as all Dragons, and knew at once that this mortal woman was not inviting death out of madness or folly. Her purpose was obvious – she was bait in a trap, and she meant to lure him outside so that he would be exposed to an attack of who knew what sort from some accomplice or accomplices. Surely no mortal would be fool enough to confront him unless armed with an enchanted weapon, one supplied either by the Elves or by the Dwarves. Their plan was clear enough to Scatha's greedy mind – to use these mortal dupes in order to slay him, and then take his magnificent horde for themselves. Most likely the Dwarves are behind it, he thought to himself. Those miserable little creatures will not have forgotten that this treasure was sullied by their hands, before I claimed it for my own."
"Scatha looked about at the vast mound of treasure on which he had slept, gleaming dully under the light streaming forth from his eyes. It was his – down to the last copper penny, and he did not mean to be parted with the slightest trace of it! He would find out who was behind the plan to despoil his horde, and then kill both the mortal dupes and their skulking masters. His vengeance against them would be so terrible that no one would ever again dare to cross Scatha the Worm! But first he would amuse himself by toying with the pathetic creature who sang in her feeble voice outside his lair."
"Smiling with grim humour, as only a Dragon can, he pulled himself up the long, low tunnel that led from the depths of the cave to a smaller antechamber that stood inside the cave's mouth. He sat there, his head filling the chamber, while his long neck and vast body remained hidden inside the tunnel. He knew that in the growing darkness his head could not be seen clearly from outside, even though he could see clearly the flaxen-haired girl on the hillside opposite the cave. Only his two long, narrow eyes, gleaming ruddily amid the shadows, would be visible to mortal sight."
"Meanwhile Freya, whose voice had faltered for a time as she heard the awesome power of the Dragon's roar, and faltered again as she saw the terrible gleam of its eyes within the darkness of its cave, began to sing in a voice once more loud and clear. She sang of the depths of her sorrow, and yet she also sang of hope amid her despair. The Dragon might slay and lay waste, but the day would come when the lands of the Eotheod would bloom green and fertile once again, and its people would live in peace amid the grassy fields."
"'What a beautiful song, my child,' said Scatha, speaking the tongue of the Northmen in a voice that was as deep as the bottom of the Sea, and yet as smooth and mellow as a ringing bell. 'If only you had come sooner to my abode! I have not had such pleasant company in many a long year.'"
"'You…you speak!' gasped Freya, whose song died at once as she gaped in astonishment and fear."
"'Does that surprise you, my dear one?' asked Scatha, his voice assuming an injured air. 'Do you think me a mere beast, a dumb and mindless animal?'"
"'I…I know not what to think,' she replied doubtfully. 'You are a Worm, a serpent, yet you speak as Men do…'"
"'A Worm!' exclaimed the Dragon. 'That is your word for my kind in your tongue, is it my sweet? Ah, you know so little of us, of our glorious past. In the Age of Heroes were we born, legion upon legion! We were amongst the proudest and the mightiest servants of the Lord of this World. Yet we are so few in these latter days, so few and far between. The time of my kindred draws near to its end.'"
"'Does it?' asked Freya, uncertain whether to feel hope or sorrow at the Dragon's lament for the waning of his race. Her mind felt strangely clouded, and she could not pursue any thought for more than a few moments. It was as if a thick fog had descended upon her, and she knew not which way to turn."
"'Do you not pity us?' asked the Dragon mournfully. 'Do you not pity me, my child? I am alone, and friendless. When I am gone, something of the glory and wonder of the Elder Days shall be lost to Middle Earth forever.'"
"'I…I had not thought of that…' said Freya, her voice trailing to a whisper (though one that Scatha's keen ears could easily hear). 'I had not realized…' To her own amazement, she began to feel pity well up in her breast, and to feel growing shame at her role in Fram's scheme."
"'No, you did not realize, my dear one,' chided the Dragon gently. 'You did not care for my fate, or for that of my kindred. There was no mercy, no pity in your stony heart, when you thought of Scatha. You did not think of what would happen, what the import would be, when you came here to slay me.'"
"'I did not come to slay you!' gasped Freya in sudden alarm. 'It was not my plan to do it!'"
"'Is that so, my child?' asked Scatha sweetly. 'I am glad, if that is true. It warms my old bones to think there is still goodness left in this Middle Earth in these latter years.'"
"'I swear to you,' replied Freya, whose mind seemed no longer her own, 'I mean you no harm, poor beast.'"
"'Then who does, my dear?' asked Scatha earnestly. His red eyes narrowed but a trifle. 'Who sent you here to help them kill me, and where are they now?'"
"As the Dragon awaited her reply, Fram, hiding behind his boulder, grew more shocked and fearful every second. Things were not proceeding according to his plan at all! The Wizard had warned him of the Dragon's Voice, but Fram had assumed he meant not to take affright at the beast's terrible roar. The last thing he had expected was for it to engage in polite conversation with his daughter!"
"Fram's mind raced as he pondered what he should do. The charm that Radagast had given him, once activated, rendered him invisible against a solid backdrop like stone or rock as along as he remained motionless. They had hoped that would buy him time until Scatha, lured by Freya's voice, climbed out of his cave in order to slay her. The nearby Fram, who could look up at the underside of the lumbering beast, could then find its patch of bare skin and fire his arrow at it – a special arrow whose iron tip the Wizard had dipped with a deadly poison. A daring and no doubt foolhardy plan, to be sure, but it had been the best Radagast and Fram could come up with."
"Everything had hinged on Scatha falling for the bait of Freya. Yet it was now all too clear that the cunning creature had no intention of striding forth from its cave, and exposing itself to attack. Worse yet, Freya's mind seemed overthrown, as if she felt only sympathy for the cruel beast who had destroyed her land and driven the remnant of her people into exile. He had only moments to spare before she revealed him and his hiding place to the Worm!"
"Meanwhile, the entranced Freya answered Scatha's questions in a soft, sleepy voice, as if she stood transfixed between the waking world and the land of dreams. 'I was sent by Radagast the Brown and Fram son of Frumgar,' she replied."
"'Radagast the Wizard?' asked Scatha, his smooth voice concealing his surprise. He knew something of the Wizards and their powers. Why would one of those meddlers seek to steal his horde of treasure? No matter – this Radagast the Brown would soon receive a most unwelcome visitor."
"'And who is this Fram son of Frumgar?' continued Scatha."
"'My father,' replied Freya. 'Chief of the Eotheod.'"
"'Aha! Is he!' replied the Dragon, who realized now that this scheme did not concern his magnificent treasure at all. It was a simple case of sought-for vengeance, perhaps inspired, and clearly aided by the meddling Wizard. Scatha considered carefully his knowledge of lore, and the means by which a Wizard might choose to aid a mortal in slaying one of the Dragon-kind.
"'What of your friends, my dear one?' asked Scatha, more sweetly than ever. 'You didn't come alone to these barren lands, and I smell more than one of you in this vale, even if my eyes are cheated and I cannot see them. Where are they hiding now?'"
"'My father Fram,' replied Freya listlessly, 'is…'"
"Suddenly a clacking sound, like metal hitting stone, echoed from a boulder just before the entrance to the cave, only a few yard's from the tip of Scatha's snout. Instantly, the Dragon surged out of his cave, his darting head affixed to his long, sinuous neck. His mouth hung open now, yellow fangs coated with dried blood, and steam issued forth ominously from maw."
"'So!' boomed Scatha, his voice harsh and cruel now, like knives sharpened against a grindstone. 'The Wizard might have made you invisible, wretch, but he cannot disguise your sounds! Or do you think to lure me forth entirely from the safety of my cave, and expose myself to whatever enchanted weapon the Wizard equipped you with?' He grinned evilly. 'Stand forth, and reveal yourself now! Or by Shadow and Flame, I shall burn your precious daughter to a cinder. She is well within reach of my fiery breath!' Freya screamed shrilly as the Dragonspell was suddenly broken by Scatha's menacing words."
"Meanwhile, now that more of Scatha's form was exposed thanks to the arrowshot, Fram searched desperately for any weakness. The Dragon's head and neck were exposed, yet its body was still concealed inside the shadows of the cave. Radagast had told Fram that he would remain invisible as long as he was motionless, but that he could be seen as a blur when he moved. He knew that he had little time before either Freya was killed, or a stray movement on his part was caught by the Dragon's keen eyes and he suffered immolation. Surely the beast held back from scorching the valley with its fiery breath only because it feared some enchanted weapon would be employed against it."
"Freya was terrified almost out of her wits, and yet she realized that the moment of truth was at hand. She could not assail the Dragon herself, but she could give her father the chance he needed."
"'Please! she screamed. 'Don't kill me, great Scatha!'"
"'Shall I spare you then, mortal?' sneered Scatha. 'Where is the wretch hiding? Tell me now! Or shall I turn this entire valley into a sea of fire, and consume you with it?'"
"'On the hillside above and to the left your cave!' she cried, 'waiting to ambush you from behind!'"
"Faster than the eye could see, Scatha surged out of his cave, twisting his head to the hillside above and behind him. A pillar of flame spewed out of his open maw, blasting the hillside and sending sheets of steam and molten rock spewing over the valley floor."
"Fram moved quickly, dashing out from behind the boulder. Scatha's back was turned to him, but he could see a dull patch amid his glistening armour, just underneath his right armpit as Radagast had predicted it might be. Aiming quickly, he knocked an arrow and loosed it at his foe."
"Scatha's keen eyes spotted the sudden movement in the valley to his right and almost behind him. Even as the arrow hit home, he whipped his head around on its long neck, unleashing at torrent of flame at the valley, scouring all about the spot where he had seen the blur of Fram's motion for an instant."
"When the arrow struck his one vulnerable spot, he bellowed in shock and range, wildly shooting flames at everything in sight. Then, even as poison set to work and his vision began to dim, the Dragon settled his black heart on one last evil act. His limbs were weakening from loss of his oily red Dragon's blood, yet still he found the strength to surge into the air on his massive leathery wings, and dive straight at Freya, trapped on the hillside!"
"Fram, who had taken refuge behind a boulder, was half-mad with agony from the Dragon's fiery assault. He had not taken a direct hit, but his armour was nearly red-hot to the touch, and his skin and hair were burned by the terrible heat issuing forth from the rocks that Scatha had seared with this breath. He stared desperately at Freya, defenseless on the open hillside against Scatha's final attack. Then his eyes grew dark, and he knew no more."
The storyteller frowned, and took a pull at his mug of ale. The crowd was silent and somber now, as they waited to hear the conclusion of the story.
"When Fram awoke, it was morning, a dreary, foggy day. He was still in pain, but his armour was cool, and he found the strength to stand to his feet. He saw the crystal charm that had laid about his neck shattered on the rocks – it must have done so when he leapt to save himself from Scatha's fiery breath. He could not see far amid the mists, but he willed himself to drag his frame between the boulders of the valley floor, and up the hill toward the spot where he had last seen his daughter."
"A terrible stench filled his nostrils, a and then vast bulk soon reared up before him in the mist. He recognized it for what it was – the corpse of Scatha the Worm! By chance or the will of fate, his arrow and found its mark and lodged deep in the Dragon's flesh. Fram felt his spirits soar, and began to call out for Freya, his voice echoing against the stony walls of the valley."
"He heard no reply, and began to feel a growing unease gnawing at his innards. He walked towards Scatha's lifeless head, its yellow Dragon's teeth projecting over its ruddy lips, and then saw that which turned his heart to stone."
"It was Freya – or what was left of her. The Dragon's last jet of fiery breath must have hit her directly, for no trace of her clothes or flesh remained. There instead were her blackened bones, exposed pitifully on the barren rock and talice of the hillside."
"Fram sank to his knees, weeping bitterly. All morning he sat and wept and cried aloud uselessly, for he knew his bitter anger could not be further assuaged now that the beast which had killed his beloved daughter was already dead. He left her charred bones exposed on the hillside with a prayer commending her spirit to the gods of his people, for in those days the Eotheod still practiced the heathen ways."
"Then, Fram turned his gaze at the vile beast who sprawled dead on the ground before him. Its teeth and mouth seemed arrayed in what was almost a mocking grin, even in death. Fram spat at it, and then said 'I'll wipe that smile off your face.' He set to work with his sword, cutting the smallest of the Dragon's teeth one by one from its glistening gums. It was hard work, and it took until nearly nightfall before he had removed a dozen of them, binding them together with his belt and carrying them under his left arm, for his pack had been consumed by the Dragon's flames. Without further word, he turned his back on that accursed vale, and set out to find the dwellings of his people by the Forest River in Mirkwood."
The storyteller then fell silent, and muttered something to himself which no one else could hear.
"A sad tale, indeed," said Butterbur mournfully, "even though the beast was slain in the end". He secretly hoped that the customers were not put off their drink.
"'All the tales of Middle Earth are bittersweet at best,' replied the storyteller, his blue eyes glistening keenly. 'Joy and sorrow can never be parted from each other under the Sun. But the tale is not quite finished. One last part remains, though you may like it no better than the first."
"It was near winter now, but Fram, though wounded and embittered, managed to find game enough here and there to survive his journey across the wastes of the Grey Mountains until he came to the place where the Forest River follows its course into Mirkwood. Then he followed the banks of the river, for he had instructed its people to encamp by its shores. It did not take him long to find them, for they had moved north as well as east, and dwelt near the edges of the wood."
"He was surprised by their encampment, for they dwelt in tents of fine cloth, and seemed well-fed and sheltered. As long as they stayed closed to the riverbanks, they were not harassed overmuch by the beasts of the wood. It transpired that they had been accosted by scouts of the Wood-Elves who, seeing that they were starving and desperate, took pity on them rather than punishing them for their trespass. Under the guidance of the Elven-King Thranduil, they had led the remnants of the Eotheod to the Forest River, and given them tents and provender as well as a generous allotment of seed-corn purchased from the Men of Dale and Lake-town so that they could survive the winter before returning to their own lands, or else settling elsewhere as they preferred."
"The people themselves were far more surprised to see Fram, and astonished when he showed them Dragon's teeth as proof that the terrible beast had been slain. They delighted to hear that little Freyr was safe with Radagast the Brown, who it seemed was not so forbidding as they had supposed, but grieved to hear of Freya's heroic death. Truth to tell, they felt guilty and ashamed that they had threatened their chieftain and his family in their darkest hour, and they soon turned on the handful of ambitious malcontents who had stirred them up against Freyr's House in hopes of leading the Eotheod themselves. These malefactors were soon fleeing for their lives from the wrath of an angry people, and disappeared into the depths of Mirkwood, never to be seen or heard from again. Fram himself was honoured as a hero, and the people drilled holes in some of the Dragon's teeth and bound them with a leathern strap into a necklace, which Fram wore about his neck for the rest of his days in testament to his mighty feat, the slaying of Scatha the Worm."
"The next spring, the people decamped from the Forest River, and returned to their own lands near the headwaters of the Anduin. There, where the rivers Langwell and Greylin blended their waters to form the mighty Aunduin, Fram built a new longhouse for himself, larger and sturdier than the old, and the people build their own houses within a fortified stockade. This became the first proper capital of the Eotheod, named Framsburg in honour of their chief, and Fram sent messengers to Radagast the Brown, who replied with his congratulations to Fram for his magnificent heroism, and condolences for the tragic loss of Freya. He also restored his grandson Freyr to him, who in Fram's absence had grown into a healthy, thriving toddler with a thick mane of golden hair. Fram was delighted to see the lad again, for in him lay the future of his House. And the people were glad, for the spring was bright and warm, with gentle rains and cool breezes, and the ash left by Scatha's fiery breath in the terrible year before proved fertile soil for wild grasses and for the seed-corn that Thranduil's Wood-Elves had given them in charity. They traded some of their corn several of the friendlier clans of Bearserkers to the south, in exchange for beasts of toil, wooden ploughs, and iron ingots for the smithies. Soon the land was green and vibrant, and appeared more prosperous than ever before."
"Now, it should be remembered that prior to Scatha's time, the people had dwelt in scattered farms, and it was a strange thing to them to dwell in a fortified town. But Fram had decided that now they needed to live together behind high walls, and find safety in numbers. The reason soon became clear – Fram knew from ancient lore that Scatha's lair might well contain a great horde of treasure, and as he thought more and more on it the shadow of greed began to stir in his heart, cloaked in a garb of righteousness. Now that his people were safe and restored to their ancient lands, and they had a secure and defensible capital, he meant to take the Worm's treasure for himself as weregild - the blood-price for his daughter Freya - and he meant to guard it jealously against all comers."
"On Midsummer's Day, Fram led a party of warriors north from Framsburg into the Grey Mountains, bearing with them a wagon-train to cart away the spoils from Scatha's lair. They reached Scatha's dreadful valley in the middle of July, under a bright Sun that was hot by the standard of the Northlands. Fram cursed the name of the Worm, and waxed wroth as he gazed at the barren hillside where his daughter had perished the autumn before, and where Scatha's bleached bones and scattered Dragonscales lay picked-clean of flesh by crows – although the diamonds did not sparkle on the hillside as he had expected they might. Fram was thus in an ill humour indeed when he and his Men approached the mouth of Scatha's cave, and saw the unwelcome sight before them."
"For the cave was not abandoned, as they had supposed! A rampart of cleanly-hewn stone had been thrown up in front of the cave's mouth, and patrolling it were stolid, stocky Dwarves, heavily armoured in steel plate mail and armed with axes in the fashion of their kind. His face dark and brooding, Fram strode up to the foot of the wall, and challenged the Dwarves above."
"'I am Fram son of Frumgar,' he cried, 'Chieftain of the Eotheod. Who are you Dwarves to build a wall before this cave, and deny me the right to the Worm's treasure?'"
"'Who are you to claim such a right?' asked one of the Dwarves on the wall, in a gruff, burly voice."
"'I am the slayer of Scatha the Worm!' declared Fram proudly. 'See you not this necklace that I wear? This Worm despoiled my lands, and slew the greater part of my people, including by beloved daughter, whose bones lie on yonder hillside. I claim the Worm's treasure as weregild, the blood-price!'"
"'This treasure,' replied the Dwarf on the wall, 'was mined and smithied by the people of Khazad-Dum, ages upon ages before the fathers of the fathers of the Eotheod awoke beneath the first sunrise in the farthest East. It is the property of my people by hereditary right, stolen from us by the thrice-accursed Orcs, and from them by the Dragon. Now we have reclaimed it, forever! Not one penny shall pass into the hands of mortal Men, nor any other race.'"
"'You deny me then my weregild?' shouted Fram, his battle-scarred face livid with rage. 'Ungrateful, stunted wretches! Were it not for me, Scatha would dwell still in his lair, and not one penny of his horde would have fallen into your greedy hands!'"
"'You have your necklace of Dragon's teeth,' scoffed the Dwarf. 'Take that as your precious weregild, and be off with you! Else the next reply you receive shall be my axe, embedded in your towheaded skull.'"
"'Forth, Eotheodras!' cried Fram, drawing his sword. 'Up the wall and at them!'"
"The Eotheod had come equipped with ladders, the better to carry Scatha's treasure up from the depths of his lair, so the stone wall proved but a trifling impediment to them. It was the Dwarves themselves who proved a serious obstacle. It turned out there were but two-dozen of them, less than a quarter of Fram's Men, but they were doughty fighters. Hard and stubborn, skilled with their axes, they fought to the death, all but one, and took more than thirty of Fram's warriors with them to the netherworld. That one who survived was the same who had challenged Fram from the battlements, and he fled into the valley, vowing revenge against Fram son of Frumgar and all the Eotheod."
"Fram dismissed the Dwarf's threats with scorn, and stared impassively as his grieving warriors lit the funeral pyres of their slain kindred. Then he put his Men to work, descending into the putrid depths of Scatha's lair, and returning with sack after sack full of golden, silver and copper coins, precious jewels, and wondrous works of craft."
"It soon became apparent that there was too much treasure for the carts Fram had led into the valley to handle, and that it would another expedition to remove the bulk of it from Scatha's lair. Fram set to work leading the effort, and near a hundred able-bodied who were not needed to defend the walls of Framsburg, till the fields about it or forge new arms and armour in its smithies were dispatched with carts to and from Scatha's lair, bearing more treasure than they had imagined existed in all the world. The people themselves were astonished at this sudden bounty, and thrilled by Fram's generosity, for even the small amount of treasure that he allotted to each of them was far more wealth than they otherwise could ever have hoped to earn in their entire lives. But Fram reserved the greater part of the treasure for himself and his most favoured warriors, those few who had remained loyal to him during the dark days of their exile in Mirkwood. He stored it in a large wooden barn that he built by his longhouse for the purpose, which was guarded night and day by those favoured warriors, who swore to defend it to the death."
"The people thought it strange that their chief preferred hording his treasure like a miser to displaying his vast wealth, but wisely kept their whispering to themselves. One item alone he kept in his own hall – a wondrous horn of silver with a baldric of green, which from which issued a note so loud, high and clear that it echoed from the walls of the Misty Mountains to the eves of Mirkwood. This Horn he named an heirloom of his House, and he meant it to be blown to summon the people outside the walls of Framsburg to safety within should danger threaten them again."
"Alas, danger threatened soon enough! It was in the early autumn of the year, a grey, drizzling day, and the people were preparing for the harvest festival when the guardsmen on the walls sounded the alarum."
"The men grabbed their swords and shields and rushed to the walls, Fram foremost amongst them. Before their gate they saw a small army of Dwarves, some hundred and two-score strong, all armoured and armed with axes, and equipped with carts and siege-ladders. Their bearded faces were dark and grim, and they glared angrily at the tall Northmen arrayed on the wooden walls above them."
"One of the Dwarves stood forth, and cried, 'I am Orin son of Dalin, Captain of the Royal Guard of Thrain son of Nain son of Durin, King under the Mountain. Where is Fram son of Frumgar?'"
"'I am Fram,' replied the chief of the Eotheod, his hand clutching tightly on the hilt of his sword. 'What mean you by coming here in force of arms? Speak?'"
"'Do you not recognize me, noble chief?' mocked Orin. 'We last exchanged words at the ramparts of Scatha's lair, before you slew twenty-three of my kindred and stole my treasure. I mean to avenge the one and reclaim the other.'"
"'Then you have come here in vain, Dwarf!' spat Fram. 'And your trained dogs slew thirty-two of my warriors. Nine lives are in the balance, and they are owed by you to me.'
"'We shall kill ninefold that number of your folk,' rejoined Orin, 'unless by morning you have thrown over your walls to us every last penny of the treasure of Khazad-Dum that you have unjustly gained.'"
"'I shall give you a greater treasure than Scatha's horde, Orin son of Dalin,' replied Fram, with a grim smile on his face. He pulled off his necklace of Dragon's teeth, and cast it over the battlements to land on the ground at Orin's feet."
"'There is your treasure, o Dwarf!' mocked Fram. 'The teeth of Scatha the Worm! And it is a greater treasure than any Dwarf has ever possessed before – for to gain it required courage, which is found in scanty store amongst your craven folk!'"
"'Enough talk!' shouted Orin, clashing his axe against his shield. 'Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!"
"And with that, the Dwarves took up the famous battle-cry of their people, and launched themselves at the walls of Framsburg. The battle was long and grim. Well into the evening, the Dwarves surged up their ladders to the battlements, only to be thrown down, and yet climb up their ladders again and again. The clash of sword and axe against shield and armour echoed along the walls, and the cries of the wounded and the dying filled the hearts of the women and children of the Eotheod with pity and with dread."
"It was midnight before Orin and Fram finally confronted each other. It might have seemed an uneven contest to those unversed in the battle-arts of the Dwarves, for the mighty Northman towered over his diminutive foe. But Dwarves are quick and cunning in a fight, their armour is strong and well-made, and their stony flesh can endure many wounds that would slay beings less hardy than themselves. Three times Fram struck a blow at Orin with his longsword, and three times Orin sank to his knees, spewing blood from his wounds, only to stand upright and attack his foe again. Then, just when it seemed Fram was about to deliver the death-blow to his mortally wounded enemy, the Dwarf lunged between his long legs and severed Fram's left foot with a lightning-fast axe-blow. Fram screamed and dropped to the ground, and Orin buried his axe in the Northman's skull – though not before Fram, bellowing in defiance and rage, thrust his sword deep into the Dwarf's innards."
"Morning dawned pale and sad, and found Fram and Orin stone dead, yet bound together in their death grip, each skewered by the other's deadly blade. And many other such macabre pairs of dead Men and Dwarves lined the battlements. But there was no doubt as to the victor. Orin's people had put the lie to Fram's taunts of their cowardice, for they had attacked a people ten times their own in number, and holding a fortified position to boot. Nearly one-hundred and fifty Northmen lay dead – but so did all one-hundred and forty of the Dwarves. The Battle had gone to the Eotheod."
"The people mourned as they should, and performed the funeral immolations of Fram and his slain warriors according to their heathen rites. The necklace of Dragon's teeth was burned with him. The slain Dwarves they pushed into the waters of the Anduin, to find their rest on its muddy bottom. Freyr was but a toddler, but the surviving warriors, in memory of Fram's courage and out of loyalty to his House they ruled the people in council (though not without taking a substantial share of Fram's treasure for themselves as an honorarium in addition to the shares Fram had allotted them.) Thus matters stood until Freyr reached the age of manhood at sixteen. Then Freyr became the Cheiftain of the Eotheod, and from his citadel at Framsburg he carried on a line which became of royal blood in later years, and which still rules the people of Rohan to this day."
"Thus it was," concluded the storyteller, "that the ancestors of the Rohirrim gained the foundation of their fortune, though the price for Scatha's horde was paid with the blood of many of their people, Fram and Freya not least of all."
The crowd was silent for some moments, though it seemed suitably impressed, and the Bree-hobbits were tempted to give the old Man a round of applause for his tale. But they found themselves preempted by an angry outburst.
"What nonsense!" cried the Dwarf, slamming his mug of ale down on the table (and splashing it on several of the Bree-hobbits in the process.) He glared angrily at the storyteller. "This tale of yours is a slander against my people, old Man. To hear you talk, you would think that the towheads of the Eotheod had some right to the treasures of Khazad-Dum. They had none at all, curse the lot of them! The Rohirrim of our own day are naught but the heirs of thieves and arrant braggarts!"
"What I have spoken, I have spoken," replied the storyteller gruffly. "And the tale is not mine, but that of the Men of Rohan. I merely embroidered it a little. If you don't like it, I suggest you pay a visit to Edoras and take up your complaint with the King's Minstrel."
"Now now, gentlemen," interjected Butterbur, spreading his fat palms appeasingly. "No need for raised voices and angry words! I'm sure you're at liberty to tell your side of the story, Master Dwarf."
"He is indeed," declared the storyteller, cutting off the Dwarf before he could reply. "But not yet! I promised to tell you both of the national sagas of Rohan, and I mean to do so. For the tale of Fram," continued the old greybeard, "is a preliminary to Eorl's Saga, which I shall relate to you now."
The Dwarf muttered grimly in his own secret tongue, but the Men and Bree-hobbits ordered another round of ale (putting a broad smile on Butterbur's face) and listened as the storyteller, who had filled his clay pipe with more pipeweed from a leathern pouch and was now smoking it contentedly, began the second part of his story:
