Mergyll-Dagnir: the blades of Westernesse taken from the Barrows and given the hobbits by Tom Bombadil. It was one of these that Merry used to strike Angmar during the War of the Ring, and which undid the spells that kept him in this world.
Lamma-nancasû – Song of Undoing
*Oath of Feanor: to retrieve the Silmarils or to go into the Dark, the Void. (This is where Maedhros is after he plunged into the 'fiery chasm'. See Through a Glass and Where the Shadows Lie)
**To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well: a line from the Doom (or Curse) of Mandos that doomed the Noldor for the kinslaying and disobeying the Valar. It is mainly aimed at the House of Fëanor but did extend to all the Noldor who followed, including of course Galadriel who came over the Helcaraxë, the Grinding Ice. See previous chapter for the whole curse.
Endoré: one of the names given to Middle Earth. Archaic First Age.
Ascatar-axo: the archaic Quenya name for this particular Palantir that was hidden in Amon Sûl and thought lost.
Nyrdh-fëa: the cord that tethers the soul to the body and which if cut, will kill the body and the spirit remain houseless.
Utúlie'n aurë. Auta I lómë: The day is here, the night is passing. It was the battle cry of the Noldor (attributed certainly to Fingon) so could be considered to have some Power.
Chapter 31: To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well
After he had vanquished Grippsenar, Maglor had stood upon the furthest point of the earthworks that formed the Iaun-Gynd. The storm had raged around him; lightning flickered and cracked over the barrows, rain lashed down and the wind whistled between the tall stones and flattened the long grass of the moor. Thorendaw had disappeared in the thickening fog and Þráinn, swathed in mist, was striding away Northwards over the wild moorland.
Cold fingers of rain and wind trailed through Maglor's hair and over his face as he threaded his way in pursuit of Þráinn through the tall stones that marched down the sloping hill of the tumulus at its northerly end and into the marsh. But Maglor had none of the weapons needed against such a foe for he had given his amulet to Elrohir and thrown the Mergyll-Dagnir against Grippsenar and thereby destroyed it.
The wind whined across the moor and leached the warmth from his bones, and the rain was icy cold.
Cold….Cold… Heart and hand and bone…
His foot slipped suddenly on a tussock, and plunged into the marsh's icy water. On hands and knees, he found himself staring down at the sphagnum moss and brown sedge. It looked burnt, he thought, burnt by the ice cold wind. The same wind that whipped tears from his eyes and whined through the long grass.
…cold be sleep under stone.
Nevermore wake…
How could he hope to fight Þráinn? He had nothing with which to fight him. Unmoving he remained staring down into the cold water of the marsh, mouth slack and eyes unfocused.
A heaviness settled in his chest and pressed down upon him; he was bowed under the weight of his grief for Eldarion, for Cardolan, for Arveleg.
The wind brushed his cheek and whipped more stinging tears from his eyes. It tugged spitefully at his hair and the cold nipped his fingers and ears though the storm itself had abated.
So much hope ended in dust and blood, like so much that he had begun well.
To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well…
High and thin, the wind whined between the stones, and then suddenly dipped as if it were a low moan from beneath the ground. There were grim, cold words in the wind; the night railing against the morning of which it was bereaved, and the cold cursing the warmth for which it hungered. His heart beat heavily in his chest and his blood slowed.
It is Þráinn, he realised slowly, and the Lamma-nancasû, the Song of Undoing. It is prising me apart.
…Never more to wake on stony bed,
never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead
In the black wind the stars shall die
and still be gold here let them lie.
Leaden weights seemed to bind him and he could not move for his limbs felt heavy. It was easier to remain here, staring into the icy water that reflected a cold grey sky.
At first, he did not notice that tattered ribbons of mist floated over the marsh, winding into the thin white shapes of Men, some riding the ghosts of long dead horses, some striding over the Moor on foot. Faintly, as if very far away and long ago, there was the flutter and snap of banners in the wind, the jingle of bits of many horses, and a ghostly murmur of voices.
Awake.
The horn is in the hills ringing.
The words were like a warmth over his ear as if someone whispered to him and he moved his head to listen. And far, far away the echo of a horn did indeed wind its way over the wilderness and echoed through the tall standing stones.
Still dreaming from the spell that Þráinn had cast upon him, Maglor turned his head towards the ghostly army, half expecting to see Eldarion standing nearby with his sturdy Cardolan mare, her dun mane and tail lifting slightly in the wind. But the ghosts hung for a moment in the daylight, swaying slightly in the wind, their eyes dull and flat and faces blank. Eldarion was not among them, but Maglor leaned in and listened more intently. There it was; the echo of the Last Prince was still here after all, in the cold clear streams of the Moor, in the skylark spiralling upwards and fluttering higher and higher, the lapwing calling, the horn's long note winding its way between the guardian stones and in the cold, clear air of the moor.
We have heard the horn again in the hills ringing….
The horn calls us from the grey twilight, the ancient Kings of old…
A horse whinnied as if very far away, and there was a faint clink of ancient armour and the strike of hoofs on stone. Tendrils of mist clung to his limbs and hung over the grass and streams. A whisper wound about him. Awake. Awake.
He licked his dry lips. When had he stopped moving? When had he sunk to his knees?
Lifting his head he looked about himself. While he had been lost and dreaming, Þráinn had escaped his pursuit and was now far away on distant hills, a towering figure, armour and helm gleaming darkly, striding over the wilderness of the moor.
Cursing, Maglor stared after the Úmaiar in fury; he had let Þráinn gnaw away at him, prising apart his own azure-gold Song, digging into the guilt and grief that reasserted itself now that he was back here in Cardolan. It was only these long dead ghosts, the Guardians of the Iaun-Gynd who had awoken him and he thanked them gratefully, for without them who knew if he would ever have awoken?
Maglor breathed in, letting his lungs fill with air and letting his voice swell with Power. He shouted into the wind, 'Þráinn, you cannot escape me! I will come for you wherever you flee!'
For a moment the tall figure striding over the far hills slowed, and it turned back towards Maglor and raised its great sword as if in salute or a challenge. Þráinn's voice was the rushing of wind over the downland, tearing at the long grass, whipping Maglor's hair and cloak about him. Even the miles between them could not dim the Power in its voice and the ghosts hung for a moment in the daylight, and then dissipated before they were torn into long ribbons of mist in the rushing wind.
Þráinn shook as if with murderous laughter and its voice across the miles of wild and empty moor was ironic, malicious. 'Do you not swear it? No oath, Fëanorian?' *
Then Þráinn turned, its mane of darkness streaming behind it and the fog pouring from its shoulders like a cloak, and strode away.
Fool, Maglor scolded himself. He had lost all chance of catching Þráinn now, and Thorendaw had vanished in the fog like shadows in twilight.
Sheathing his sword, Maglor turned back towards the earthworks that were the Iaun-Gynd. The ghosts had vanished, but nevertheless he headed back towards the western cliff that was the steepest side of the Iaun-Gynd. There was a way down it that he remembered, and a hidden, secret way into the tumulus. It would take him quickly into the heart of the Sanctuary, for he knew that by now the Hobbits must be there and searching for their lost companions. At least he could lend them his aid. And fulfil his own appointed task of returning the Mergyll-Dagnir to their rightful resting place.
As he made his way to the western edge, he glanced down the long sloping back of the great earthwork to where he had left Elrohir, the child of Elrond who was so alike to Elros that it hurt. He knew that Erestor Närmófinion was there too; his longing and yearning called to Maglor, the air thrummed with it. But Maglor could not believe there was not also surely bitterness and betrayal. He knew also that Närmó had a ring of Power. Made by Celebrimbor, it called to his Fëanorian blood. But he could not bear to meet his old comrade, his dear friend, another lost son. Knowing the pain it caused too.
It is better that we do not meet, he told himself. Better that, should it come to it, he does not have to choose.
He climbed down the steep western side of the tumulus, glancing down to the stone circle below. He could see the horses on the far side of the circle and the outline of the two injured hobbits. But he could not see the Dwarf-lord or the Ringbearers, or indeed Elessar. They have gone within, he thought.
He was swift indeed, finding the menhir that indicated the hidden entrance, and plunging into the darkness of the Iaun-Gynd. It was oppressive and there was a constant, niggling wind that tugged spitefully at his hair, whipped over his skin and frayed the edges of his nerves.
Cursing softly, he fished about in the tunic beneath his hauberk for the one very small lampstone he had always managed to keep hold of, even in the worst of times. Instantly it glowed dimly, enough to light the way ahead.
There was a deep magic here. He felt it in the rock beneath his hand as he steadied himself, scrambling over the rockfalls and earth that had fallen into the tunnel. The people of Haleth knew more of the Earth than anything his people understood, even Fëanor, his own father with his alarca and astra, particles and physics. Only the Silvans seemed to understand, he thought. Perhaps it was they who had taught the Men of Cardolan that innate understanding of the Earth's power, and why they knew to build the Iaun-Gynd here, where the secret lines of Power connected Sarn Ford to Fornost, the Ford of the Bruinen to Mithlond. East and West, and North and South. The centre. The omphalos of those ancient tracks of the tribes who wandered before the great migration into Beleriand.
Light flared briefly over the walls, and he looked for the rough cut emblems of ancient Cardolan marking the way; spirals, and trails of stars that echoed the heavens as they used to be millennia ago, but that Maglor still remembered. They evoked in him a yearning, and guilt over the terrible missed opportunity, for it had been Maglor himself who had wrung the promises from Arveleg to restore the Palantír in return for Eldarion's allegiance. But Angmar had struck too quickly, and Arveleg had been slain before he could redeem his promise, Eldarion lost before Maglor could reach him.
Angmar had known all their plans. All their defences, Maglor thought as he had more times than he could remember. Someone had betrayed them. Someone long dead, nothing now but bones and dust. Unpunished. Unremarked.
Bitterly, he brushed a hand against the roughly cut spirals. When Angmar had laid siege to Cardolan, Maglor himself had sent urgent messages pleading for help but Imladris was already been besieged, and both Lindon and Lothlorien tardy and unwilling. Too late did they join the fight for Cardolan had already been devastated.
He had hated Cirdan and Galadriel for that. Thought them cowardly. Willing to sacrifice Men until Elrond had exhorted them to drive Angmar from Carn Dûm. Too late. His feet scuffed against the rough, uneven rock as he scrambled over rockfalls and boulders.
To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well,** he reminded himself heavily. His own bitter regret seemed to hang tangibly in the still silence.
At last, he reached a junction of several tunnels. Some would run into burial chambers, he thought, and some were longer passages, like ribs along the central spine that ran from east to west. He thought Elessar would most likely lead the hobbits along the main spine of the Iaun-Gynd, that went from the entrance of the tumulus and drove east to west through the Chamber of the Prince, where Eldarion's torn and broken body had been laid reverently by those few survivors, long after the slaughter had ceased and Angmar been diverted north to Carn Dûm.
He was deep beneath the hill now, going deeper into the Iaun-Gynd. The air too had changed, was colder, drier. The rough-cut spirals and stars no longer marked the walls but gave way to the smooth, cut stone and elaborate carvings of the later period of Cardolan, great spirals like galaxies, and the constellations were different from those in the older passage that were made by the people who had only later wandered over the Ered Luin and into Beleriand, and then become the Haladrin.
He felt the wind on his cheek, fingering its way through the dark from the eastward tunnel, the direction of the entrance to the Great Barrow. Cold. Bitter.
And then he realised; this wind did not come from the sea, or across the moor. This was the cold emptiness of the Abyss, it was from the vortex that the Úmaiar had opened. The Lamma-nancasû, the Song of Unbeing, pulled at the spirits and fëa of those warm and living creatures beneath the earth. He felt it tugging hungrily at his own bright fëa. It would devour him if it could.
Thorendaw was here somewhere.
His feet kicked something that clattered noisily.
He almost dreaded to look down.
In the lampstone's soft light, a small dome of smooth ivory. A child's skull. Fragile and thin with age. It was on the floor, not laid on a shelf with its ancestors to look after it wherever Men go in death. Its little skeleton was nearby, the long femurs were not with its rib cage. He paused only very briefly to wonder how a child had been left here alone and imagined its terror, its pathetic crying unheard.
He could do nothing for this child and yet he paused and stroked a hand over its skull, imagining the soft hair and thought he perceived a small ghostly hand reach out to him, as if to put its hand trustingly in his. Ribbons of grey mist wrapped themselves about him as if seeking warmth. Unbearably, he remembered small chubby hands reaching for him, clinging to him, the heaviness of a warm child asleep. He wished he could scoop the little ghost up into his arms and press its head under his chin, for the urge to protect was unbearable.
Suddenly the spiteful wind whined unbearably through the tunnels. It was a bitter cold that froze his fingers and numbed his lips and squeezed tears from his eyes. But it tore at the little ribbons of grey mist and sucked them into the dark.
The child had gone. No trace remained but empty bones. The fragile skull rocked slightly in the dreadful wind.
Maglor stood for a moment aghast. And then fury took him, and he opened his mouth as if he might scream. Instead tears blinded him.
To evil end….
The bitter wind suddenly rose up in howling laughter.
Do you become one that but endures here in Endoré? Do you grow weary of the world as with a great burden, Maglor Fëanorian? Then shall you wane, and become as shadows of regret?*
Silently, Maglor drew his frost-white sword, smothering its brightness with a glamour that also smudged his presence, his own bright fëa and Song, and dimmed the lampstone to a mere glow at his feet so he moved through the darkness almost unseen, unheard.
'Do not think to trap me so easily!' he declared into the dark. 'I will have you, Thorendaw, and I will not stop until I do. I will send you to the dark, to your masters.'
He knew Thorendaw was here in the tumulus now and that Thorendaw also knew where Maglor himself was. There was no more need for secrecy. He cast a hand over the lampstone, so it flared brightly and began to stride over the smooth stone, keeping track of the wind that led him to his foe.
'I am coming for you, Thorendaw,' he cried. 'I will not cease until I have sent you into the Abyss.'
But he intended to have the Mergyll-Dagnir in his hands before Thorendaw found him.
As he moved swiftly now through the tunnels, he was aware of other Songs winding about him, curling and huddling into him as if they wanted his warmth. These were not Úmaiar; if they had been Elves, he would have said they were houseless, but these were the hauntings of Men bound yet to Arda for some great reason. He listened as he moved through them, aware of the distant sounds as of battles fought long, long ago, of the murmuring of rituals forgotten by everyone and yet the stones remembered them still. These were the ghosts that had awakened him on the moor and saved him from Þráinn's Undoing.
Ah, the long darkness, cold, cold dark
Silent graves, empty bones.
So long dead, for what is beneath the earth devours our bones.
Long have we lain beneath the earth,
Forgotten, forlorn.
No longer do the children of Men come and our People are lost and wandering.
What is beneath the earth imprisons us, devours our bones.
So long since we felt the wind on our face, the grass under our feet, smelt the golden gorse and purple heather
The Song lay heavily on his heart; these were the ancient guardians of Cardolan, the ancestors who merely slept and awaited the Dagor Dagoreth armed with the Mergyll-Dagnir and, as Arveleg and Eldarion had intended, Ascatar-axo. He was half aware of them keeping him company as he scrambled over a rockfall that had spilled into a smaller chamber where there were many orc bones. He kicked at the bones as he passed and held his sword before him but there no rill of blue fire limned the sword and he moved faster now. Strangely, there were also threads of green-gold and bronze that lay upon the air. They reminded him of spider's webs in the morning that are spun across the grass. They shimmered and swayed like river weed in a bronze-gold stream. He could hear the clear melody of a Song. An Elf. Silvan, he thought.
He had found Legolas Thranduillion.
He emerged suddenly Into a high-roofed chamber where two passages branched off and the walls were elaborately and richly carved with labyrinthine spirals. But in this chamber the Elf's Song surrounded him so that he felt like he had emerged from the darkness into a pool lit with sunlight but deep and green with riverweed and beech leaves floating on the surface. It stopped him so that he looked about in wonder. There was a rare sweetness that enveloped him, and the melody he had heard earlier was now in its full glory; a lush melody of the Wood, the great beech trees unfurling their leaves in Spring, the small wildflowers and ferns, the copper-bronze forest river splashing over slate and granite and pooling in leafy dells where the small trout flashed and turned and dived into the shadowy rocks of the deep water.
Ahead of him at the centre of the Song, was the fëa of an Elf in the translucent green-gold light, half-naked and with wild swirls of colour over his shoulder and upper arm, curling about his torso and waist like the ancient silvans of Ossiriand. The fëa had turned towards Maglor with astonishment, and in its hands were two long knives that flashed and poured with blue and silver light.
'You are Legolas Thranduillion,' he said gently, overcome with sadness for Elrohir who must grieve when he knew of his beloved's death. He was about to speak more, to give the ghost some comfort if he could, when he saw beside it, the fading ghost of a Man reaching out to him. A blue stone flashed upon the ghost's breast and Maglor recognised it with heart-wrenching grief.
Eldarion of Cardolan. The Last Prince.
Eldarion's Song, so faint now, was that which Maglor had heard above, on the marshes at the northern end of the earthworks; the wind over the moor, skylarks flying upwards and fluttering higher and higher, lapwings calling, a resonance in the stones themselves, an echo of trumpets. Sorrow. Grief. Loss.
Eldarion's eyes, now upon Maglor, were astonished and rejoicing and accusing, and awful in his despair all at the same time. 'Vanwë!' His voice was almost lost in the ages past and Maglor could barely hear him.
Stunned, Maglor stepped forwards, one had outstretched to greet Eldarion, to swear he had not known, that he had not intended… all that had happened. But the words stuck in his throat, and he could not speak except to say, 'Forgive me.' As he always said, had said over and over and over but it was never enough. He sank to one knee before the Last Prince's Ghost. 'Forgive me. I did not reach you in time. I did not…'
He felt the chill of Eldarion's hand near his shoulder and looked up blinded by tears.
'I thought you long gone,' Eldarion said, his voice sounded very far away and Maglor saw that his ghost was fading.
'Where would I go?' Maglor said simply and smiled painfully for he had come too late to the battle to do anything more than witness the dreadful slaughter, unable to help, unable to do anything but watch the atrocity of Eldarion's death, a spear in his chest, and he had been wrung upon it, his death slow, lingering and Angmar himself had prolonged it. And now, was he too late to prevent the fading that he saw so clearly before him now?
'Then you must know that all our efforts were in vain?' Eldarion was saying as he gazed at Maglor's face almost hungrily. 'But you escaped? Or are you returned by the merciful Valar?'
Maglor simply shook his head, unable to comment upon any mercy of the Valar.
'Thank Elbereth.' Eldarion leaned closer, his eyes almost fever-bright with hope, and said 'Did you hear the Horn? Is it the Dagor Dagoreth?' His voice was breathless with elation and excitement. 'It is the blood of Elendil that raises us. He had called us, and we come!'
A murmuring whisper echoed around the chamber and only then did Maglor see those who had awoken him upon the moor. Trembling and tattered ghosts of Men that hung back in the shadows at first, but now they came forwards, crowding about him as if hungry for news. Thin banners fluttered although there was no wind and he thought he heard a distant clash of swords, the whinny of horses and the din of battle far off. These then, were the guardians of the Draken Eldarion Hårfagre that Maglor remembered from that Age ago, sworn to stand with Eldarion in the Dagor Dagoreth against Angmar, alongside Arveleg, but who they believed had betrayed them.
'My dear friend,' Maglor could barely speak at first for the emotion, gratitude at finding Eldarion, giving him this chance to atone, and deep grief for what had passed. But speak he must. 'I too heard the horn of Cardolan. But it is not the Dagor Dagoreth,' he said. 'There is so much I must tell you.' For he had yet to tell of the reason why Arveleg had not kept his promise, and that even after all this, Ascatar-axo was here, in the Iaun-Gynd and within reach, and his heart leapt that he might still keep Arveleg's promise.
But before he could continue, Legolas shifted restlessly, his translucent face was drawn, and his eyes tightened as if in great pain. 'I must go,' he said in a strained voice. He glanced at Eldarion, and the Man nodded briefly.
'We go to the Chamber of the Prince,' said Eldarion with no trace of self-pity that he spoke of his own tomb. 'It is where they have laid him.'
It was only then that Maglor saw the shimmering cord, floating like the fronds of a willow over the forest river from Legolas into the dark passageway ahead. Legolas' nyrdh-fëa, that kept the soul still tethered to the body.
He looked back to Legolas with rekindled hope. 'You live yet!' he exclaimed. 'Indeed you cannot not linger. An Úmaiar haunts these passages. Thorendaw. But my path lies with yours and I will go with you,' he explained. 'And you should know too that your friends search for you.'
Legolas lifted his head in sudden hope and the sweetest smile kindled his face so that Maglor could understand how Elrohir had come to fall in love with this child of the Greenwood
'Erestor of Imladris is here,' Maglor continued. And then, very gently, he said, 'And with him are the Sons of Elrond.'
If there had been any doubt about the love between Legolas and Elrohir in Maglor's mind, it vanished with the sudden deepening of the Song and the Elf's fëa glowed like the sun shone into the deep pools of the forest river. His lips parted with a breath of absolute devotion, and his long green eyes widened in adoration so that Maglor saw how Legolas Thranduillion would follow Elrohir to the Ends of the Earth, die for him, live for him, lay himself down for him. As Fingon had for Maedhros.
It touched Maglor deeply and he resolved that he would do all possible to return Legolas to Elrohir's arms.
An Oath unfulfilled even now, a promise and another, and another, a little voice gnawed at him. To evil end shall all things turn that you begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.
It is not the same, he told himself. No one will die.
But before he could speak, sudden agony cracked across Legolas' fëa like red lightning, and little threads of green-gold tore away.
Legolas gasped and bent forwards. He spoke through gritted teeth. 'I have to… get back to...'
'Yes,' Maglor said desperately. 'Yes. And I will go with you.' Alarmed, he reached out to Legolas, brushing the outline of Legolas' shoulder, spreading the azure-gold of his own Song into the red cracks. They turned purple like bruises and then deepened to green-gold. 'It is Thorendaw that does this,' said Maglor urgently.
Legolas nodded, his eyes wide and still fixed upon Maglor's face. 'And what of Hrungnîr?'
'Hrungnîr?' Maglor asked abruptly.
'Hrungnîr was hunting us,' Legolas explained.
Maglor's heart quailed. Suddenly he realised; Thorendaw had not fled from him, had joined Hrungnîr. Of course they would not so easily abandon the Iaun-Gynd. Maglor cursed himself for his arrogance. He had not driven off the Úmaiar. Þráinn had lured him on so that Thorendaw could join Hrungnîr and together they would take back the Mergyll-Dagnir and destroy their enemies. He had no doubt now that Þráinn would return to repossess the Barrow Downs.
He sighed heavily. Was this where it ended for him? In the Abyss after all, screaming in the Void with the other devoured souls of the Barrow Wights as his Oath* condemned him?
'Do not fear,' he said with immense kindness to Legolas. He drew his frost-bright sword; it glittered with cold hunger. 'I will go with you to the Chamber of the Prince and then we will find your friends.' He licked his lips, finding they were dry. 'Your friend, Strider, has Ascatar-axo. I cannot defeat Hrungnîr and Thorendaw without it,' he said emphatically. He held Legolas' gaze. 'None of us, not me, not you, not Elrohir or Strider will survive.'
Legolas looked at him earnestly and then nodded. 'My lord, then we will do this,' he said and there was a light in his eyes. 'Your name is Vanwë, lord? Then you were here when…' He glanced at Eldarion. 'You were here when Arveleg swore the Palantír to Cardolan.'
Maglor stared at him. 'Yes.'
Legolas nodded. 'I am going to help you.'
Disbelieving, Maglor could not speak for a moment. It had been so long since he had become an exile from his own kind that he did not know what to say or do. He merely nodded and said, 'Then whatever else happens, if we encounter either Thorendaw or Hrungnîr, or Eru forbid both, you must return to reclaim your body and bring Ascatar-axo to me.' He paused at Legolas and Eldarion's appalled gaze that they should abandon him. 'Ascatar-axo is the Palantir,' he said. 'I have to tell you of Arveleg,' he began but suddenly his own sword blazed a warning and he saw too that the blades in Legolas' hand were rilled with blue flame. Maglor heard their sharp little whispers of protection and warning, and a towering figure strode through the darkness and emerged into the high-roofed chamber. Its long mane floated thickly from beneath its dark helm, and its pale eyes were starved, and gleamed in cruel fury.
This was not Thorendaw. This must be Hrungnîr, thought Maglor. Trailing from its fist like a leash, was the green silk light of Legolas' nyrdh-fëa.
It yanked hard upon the shimmering cord. 'Come, Dragûr.' Its voice was cold, dead. 'You will feed me before I fall upon my enemy.'
Legolas cried out and stumbled into the chamber. The ghostly army that had hung back until now wavered and a murmur rose up.
'You are no longer of use to me, and I have much to avenge.' The Úmaiar wound the cord tightly about its fist and pulled again, shredding the threads so little bits of green-gold floated away into the dark, falling like dying cinders Eldarion gripped Legolas' hand and tugged at him but it was not enough, and Legolas was dragged relentlessly towards the Úmaiar. Yet he was no defenceless victim and even as he fell forwards, Maglor saw that he was switching the knives in his hand to attack, and his teeth were bared not only in pain. Like the mist, the ghosts of Cardolan streamed about him too, weaving a dense fog that almost hid him.
'Hrungnîr!' Maglor cried, his voice made deep and resonant, like a bronze bell, like thunder over the mountains. A summoning. He stepped from the glamour he had cast over himself and swiped his sword through the darkness so that silver sparks flew from its frost-white blade. 'Hrungnîr. I will vanquish you as I vanquished your brother, Grippsenar. Or do you fear to face me?'
Hrungnîr turned toward Maglor as if he had not known he was there. The Úmaiar seemed to take stock of the Elf lord before him, letting the nyrdh-fëa fall slackly in its fist and Legolas almost collapsed in the relief from the agony. He was on his knees, breathing hard, the knives glittering furiously in his hands and the ghostly mist swathing him protectively.
Maglor glanced quickly at Eldarion who was already running in a half crouch beneath Hrungnîr's gaze towards Legolas. Quickly, Maglor stepped towards the Úmaiar, swinging his sword lazily, carelessly arrogant.
'Makaluarë Kanafinwë Fëanorian…,' said Hrungnîr in a low, cold voice. It drew its great sword with a dry scrape of steel, but in doing so, it let fall Legolas' nyrdh-fëa, which immediately curled about Legolas, a shimmering veil.
Hrungnîr took a slow, menacing step towards Maglor. Its helm and armour gleamed darkly. It had no face, only pale eyes full of hate. 'Murderer.'
Maglor was too used to hearing the word in the mouths of his own people and it slid off him without effect. 'I do not know you, Úmaiar,' he replied insolently. 'You are no one. Hardly worth my trouble. Have you been left here while your masters do the real work of battle above?' He took a step forward, so he was only a few paces from the Úmaiar that towered over him as had the Balrogs of old. But where the Balrogs were fire and had whips, the Úmaiar were cold shadow. No less dangerous. 'You are a mere scavenger, seeking the souls of the unwary who stray too near this haunted place. You have no honour.' He moved toward the Úmaiar, drawing its gaze to him and away from where Legolas and Eldarion now crouched together amongst the protective ghosts that tried to shield them.
'A minion only,' he said contemptuously. 'A thrall.'
'I am Hrungnîr,' intoned the Barrow Wight. 'And I will bring you a longed for death.'
It towered above Maglor, and he had to look upwards to see its pale and dreadful eyes, gleaming and hungry with anticipation. He could hear in its voice, in the wind that whipped its long dark mane, the distant sound of screaming, the souls ripped apart and devoured, lost in the Dark.
He drew his own Song about himself more thickly, weaving the notes of azure-gold into an armour as lithe and shimmering as the mail that he wore against his own skin.
'So many have said before.' He smiled thinly. From the corner of his eye, he could see now that Eldarion and Legolas were creeping along the wall towards the passageway, and the ghosts of Cardolan wove a veil about them, hiding them as much as they could, from the Úmaiar's dreadful gaze.
'I do not think that YOU will claim such a title,' Maglor said quickly, as arrogantly as expected and half turned as if he might walk away insolently, flourishing his sword, so it flashed and glittered and drew Hrungnîr's pale and hungry eye away from Legolas and Eldarion. But he did not only speak to goad Hrungnîr; he tested the resonance of the chamber, listening to how the echoes came back and judging how he might use that too.
'I say again. You are no one. Scavenger!' Maglor made the last word ring and listened to the way the word reverberated and spun about the high domed chamber 'Thrall!' He turned on his heel now and strode away from the Úmaiar. 'Snaga is what they call you,' he called back over his shoulder. 'And so I name you.'
There was a roar from behind him and a shrieking wind swept around Maglor like a hunting beast of Morgoth that had cornered its prey. Maglor shifted his weight and rooted himself to the stone, darting a glance beyond the towering figure of Hrungnîr to see that Legolas and Eldarion had gone.
At last, he thought. He uncloaked his fëa, so it was bright like a beacon, brighter even so that it gleamed and shone on the steel of his sword. But there were too, the tattered remnants of the ghosts of Cardolan that had stayed with him. And if they were insubstantial, their hearts and Song lent him courage.
'Utúlie'n aurë. Auta i lómë,' he chanted in a low, powerful voice that sent the long ribbons of Song ringing into the darkness, echoing up into the high dome of the chamber. The wind howled and yammered and swept upwards in pursuit, pulling Maglor's hair upwards, whipping tears from his eyes.
'You fool yourself, thrall, if you think to have Maglor Fëanorian!' he shouted into the wind and the long notes of azure-gold curled around the wind, seeking to strangle it into silence. The chamber filled with light. Hrungnîr cringed and lifted its arm to shield its eyes.
'I will send you whence you came, as I did your kin, Grippsenar,' he declared.
Hrungnîr suddenly threw up one arm and swept its cloak of grey fog and mist over the chamber, so that it billowed softly like a grey sea, smothering the light. A horrible murmuring, whining chant gnawed at Maglor, digging into the grief and guilt. He breathed in and the fog rushed into his mouth and filled him.
Cold.
Cold be heart…. Nevermore wake….
Hrungnîr leaned over him through, and slowly Maglor lifted his gaze to see a mouth opening above him. It was no maw filled with teeth to rend and tear. Worse. The Void opened. The Abyss, a deep emptiness where there was nothing but the distant screaming of souls being slowly devoured.
The screaming of those souls leached a little of his own and he saw threads of azure-gold drift and float around him into the fog softly billowing through the chamber.
It shocked him; Hrungnîr alone was surely not more powerful than he?
And then he realised. Thorendaw was close. He cast his senses out like a net, listening, and there, lurking in the darkness in the tunnel running north to south, he found the creeping whining murmur, the coldness and malice that probed with unseen fingers beneath his own armour of Song and prised at him, tearing off little shreds of being one by one so he barely noticed.
He whispered again and again, 'Utúlie'n aurë. Auta i lómë,' and as the refrain's echoes spiralled upwards through the thick billowing fog, it began to dissipate. He reached up and drew the azure-gold light and wrapped it about himself, like a cloak or armour.
Hrungnîr threw back its head then and roared in frustration, drawing its long broad sword it leapt towards Maglor who threw his own blade upwards, so it locked with the great sword that was his own length at least. The two blades clashed loudly, sending sparks flying upwards. Maglor pivoted on one foot and whirled about, his sword flashing and thundering against the heavy blade of Hrungnîr. And even as he did, he sent notes spiralling upwards into the domed roof of the chamber, so the vibrations shivered through the air. 'Utúlie'n aurë. Auta i lómë,' he chanted with increasing power and vibrancy, fortifying the azure-gold armour against Thorendaw's furtive Song of Undoing.
Hrungnîr's sword came crashing down upon him. As he stepped back and then lunged swiftly under Hrungnîr's shield, he felt the juddering impact of his sword upon the dark armour and stepped away quickly and moved before Hrungnîr could launch his own attack. He sang again, his voice filled with Power and sent a loop of sound spinning across the space between them. It lashed against Hrungnîr and the Úmaiar reeled backwards. Maglor sent another loop of rich sound hurtling into the yawning darkness where Thorendaw lurked.
At the same moment, he leapt forwards with his sword high and slashed down across Hrungnîr's pale and bitter eyes. Dark viscous spurted from a gash in its face that was not a face and Maglor did not know if it was blood or not, but Hrungnîr staggered back, its head thrashing from side to side and yammering in pain.
Maglor leapt forwards, slashing left and down before Hrungnîr could recover and the Úmaiar fell heavily against the rock, glaring at Maglor from beneath its dark helm. It roared and lurched upright.
Maglor glanced briefly into the darkness of the passage south where Thorendaw hid and the threads of azure-gold lifted and floated. How he wished he had the Palantir for it would blast the darkness away, ignite the air so the corruption in the Song burned away, like cinders.
'Thorendaw!' Maglor cried loudly into the dark, leaping back from Hrungnîr's sword and darting around the back of the Úmaiar. 'Do you think you can hide from me? Do you think that I cannot hear your Song of sneaking and theft? Are you so craven that you hide in the shadows?' He made his voice scornful and mocking as the Skalds of Men so that the Song prodded at Thorendaw, unmasked him. 'Thorendaw, I summon you!' he declared, and the darkness slid from the Úmaiar like shadows at dawn. 'Ah, I see you crouching in the corner like the beaten thrall you are!'
The darkness seemed to shift and tremble and there, Thorendaw stood as the shadows slid from him. The pale eyes gleamed with cold triumph.
'Here I am,' said Thorendaw.
As he lifted his sword again and smashed it against Hrungnîr's, he fought Thorendaw with the Song, prising apart the notes of the Undoing and knitting them into a denser harmony. Steeling himself, Maglor repeated endlessly his low chant, the litany of Power, of light and air, of the wind from the Sea, of bitter cold frosts that were simply that and not the hand of death or the coldness of the grave.…the graves of all those lost here beneath the Iaun-Gynd, the slaughter that he had contributed to with his misguided attempt to bring unity to Arnor.
To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well
So it was, it is, and so it will always be…
He found the ghosts of Cardolan standing about him suddenly and their Song of the wild moor, and the high blue sky lifted and strengthened him again. For a moment, they hid him and he skirted the edge of the chamber, a moment to breathe, to rest. He hoped that Legolas would be swift for he did not know how long he could hold out against two of the Úmaiar, for he could not allow them to follow Legolas.
He was almost upon Thorendaw and lifted his sword high, crying scornfully, 'You think to Undo me!' He emerged suddenly from amongst the ghosts and struck at Thorendaw. His sword slid along the Úmaiar's blade but Maglor thrust his knife into its thigh. Thorendaw let out a roar of pain and clutched the wound that bled profusely.
Maglor smiled thinly and whirled about, slashing his sword through the air to meet Hrungnîr's blade and at the same time, he sent another reel of Song swirling upwards to disrupt the dreadful whining of the Úmaiar.
'You! Thorendaw! 'Maglor cried, 'Who ran from me when I slew Grippsenar, your lieutenant? And where is your Captain? Where is Þráinn? He has fled over the moors to Fornost! I will hunt him down when I have finished you.'
And then the darkness shifted. From it came a horrible voice that was the opening of a tomb. It was dry and cold and at the sound of it every hair on Maglor's head stiffened.
It came from the tunnel which he had come himself only a little while ago; a dreadful sound, from faraway, an anguished screaming of many voices. Maglor half turned his head without moving his eyes from Thorendaw and Hrungnîr.
It is I, Þráinn, came a voice. I come.
Then Maglor knew then that Þráinn's flight over the moor had been a ruse and he had returned. He let out a slow breath of defeat.
He could not fight them all.
This was the end then. He would indeed be consumed by the Dark, and there would be Morgoth waiting.
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