(AN: Doubtless some of you were scratching your heads in the last two chapters about a Bree hobbit using the phrase "sure as Shire-talk" in casual conversation. Well, I have to admit that my intention was to have that phrase used in conversation, the way Brian Sibley used "filling up the corners" in his radio dramatization [possibly my favorite pre-Jackson adaptation], along with some other phrases. It felt like the characters were living in the world which Tolkien had made, and therefore felt a bit extra real to me. I may go back and edit that phrase out, if it still feels anachronistic, especially since we will be seeing actual Shire hobbits in later chapters.)
(In this little chapter, we encounter the Eglain from LOTRO as well as a character from the Edain mod. I do not own that [or Lord of the Rings or any of its affiliated and attributed works], but as a fan of the mod, I wanted to work some of their additions/editions to the Angmar faction into my story, since they helped to reinforce my interest in this part of the legendarium. Hope you enjoy.)
Thrown to the Wolves
Eventually the brothers fell asleep; Aradan was the first to drift off, as he was more than familiar with sleeping in less than ideal conditions. But Aranarth tossed and turned on the floor for many long hours until he finally went to sleep. Indeed, so long had he spent trying to fall asleep, that he slept past the cock's crow heralding the dawn, and only awakened when a delicious, decadent odor wafted past his nostrils. Upon awaking, he found Aradan awake, hunched at the table, and Finumbras busying himself with a large cast iron skillet over his little hearth-fire. The smell came from rashers of salted bacon, which the halfling was cooking for his guests: a delicacy to be sure, as only the very wealthy could afford to eat meat regularly. In addition to the bacon, three chicken's eggs were being cooked in the same pan, lined with the simmering grease from the strips, and the little kettle which had boiled their tea last night was simmering another delicacy, of which Finumbras was quite delighted.
Long ago, in a time that even then had been forgotten, a plant had been cultivated from the less arid regions of Far Haradwaith in the distant south and made its way north by trade to Umbar and Harondor. Though when the Dunedain had first encountered the Haradrim, they considered the plant poisonous and fell, as the Southrons had used it in their rituals, in the years of relative peace after the downfall of Sauron they had learned from them the recipe of a beverage made from the roasted seeds of the plant. That beverage had made its way north, in the days when there was much more free trade between Gondor and Arnor (and better relations): the Dwarves of Khazad-dum and Ered Luin enjoyed the beverage nearly as much as they enjoyed beer and spirits, and from them it had made its way into Eriador and, by and by, into the hands of the halflings.
Not that the halflings knew or cared of its origins: they enjoyed the beverage thoroughly, and considered it their own and thought a breakfast (or three) was incomplete without the beverage, which they called 'coffee', being drunk at lease once. It happened to have the remarkable ability to enliven the senses of those who had overslept: for this reason, more than anything else, it was prized as a breakfast beverage. Finumbras poured them each a cup, as well as one for himself, when he had served them breakfast. The food they ate with delight, but Aranarth disliked the bitter taste of the coffee: Aradan had no qualms about it one way or another.
Once they had finished their breakfast, the brothers took their leave of Finumbras Longtallow. They took up their clothes, which were now crisp and dry from laying out by the fire all night, and departed with many a thanks for his hospitality. Aradan offered to give the halfling compensation for housing them, which annoyed Aranarth as they needed that money for the Forsaken Inn, but Finumbras would have none of it.
"Truth be told, it was a merry time and I could not have asked for finer guests," he told them. "We hobbits are generous with our hospitality, and you are good folk. Give my regards to the King on your way back; or better yet, stop by again if you pass through Bree. I would greatly love to share a drink of Mr. Butterbur's ale with you, as well as a song or two, at the Prancing Pony."
Before they left, Finumbras insisted that he would send them away with gifts. They protested this, but he insisted. It was a custom of the dwellings of halflings to become crowded, especially with as large families as they often kept: and while Finumbras had yet to tend to his branch of the family tree, the Longtallows were numerous and many dwelt in the hole before him. In this case, the gifts that the halfling gave them were such as would be of some use to them on the road: a well-meant and well-done deed, despite the halflings' natural distaste for adventuring and traveling. In this case, it was the best gift that a halfling could give to anyone, as far as they saw it: food. A loaf of bread, some dried mushrooms, a seed cake each, and four large roots which he called 'taters.'
"A fine thing as anyone could expect to eat, and fills you up good and proper," he said. "I expect there might be some chance of lighting fires on your journey, if only to keep you warm at night. Throw one of these taters into the fire and have yourself as a fine a feast as you could hope to have, in the wilds at least."
Having said their farewells, they put on their boots, and walked out of the little hole. The rain had ceased and left the grass green and vibrant, but the streets were still muddy and there were yet clouds in the sky. Aranarth and Aradan stretched out to their full height and sighed pleasantly: the smell of the green grass after the rain was good, and Aranarth smiled. Some things, it seemed, were better to live through than to merely read about, and not all the lands outside of the libraries were unwholesome.
From the hill, they made their way back to the Prancing Pony and took their horses from the stables. Aranarth ran back inside to deliver another ten silver pennies to the good-man's son for their service. The horses looked healthy and well fed when they found them, and that was good; for the lands east of Bree were wild and treacherous, and haste was required, especially in light of such dangers as rumors foretold. Aradan gave his older brother a knee to stand on as he mounted up, then swiftly leaped into his own saddle.
They rode through the main street of Bree away from the Prancing Pony, even as the sound of a lute playing a merry tune was heard from the open door. From the inn they came to the Boar Fountain Square, the other place in the town of Bree as frequently trafficked as the Pony. Folk were about, getting their stands open for the day's work after yesterday's rain. They stared and gawked at the strangers, especially at the proud and strong Aradan, who kept his head held high as he took the front. Aranarth eyed the people from beneath his hood, which he had pulled down over his face: there was still a nip in the cool morning air, and he wished for the warmth of his cloak more than for secrecy.
Eastward they passed through the gates of the town and were soon lost to the view of the curiosity seekers who followed after them. Now they set their course along the Great East Road: an old Dwarven road that was almost as old as the mountains. As far as Aranarth knew - for the Dunedain had little contact with the Dwarves, though there was good relations between them of old - this road had been built for the use of the Dwarves in their labors between the Blue Mountains and the Misty Mountains. Of old, it was said that this road crossed the mountains at the High Pass and went on into the east to further lands. But that part of the road was little used, and even this part was growing old of late, due to the many dangers.
The lands they were entering into were the farthest reaches of the realm of Arthedain; the Lone-Lands eastward were the frontier of many a battle in the long war with Angmar. For the present, they followed the Great East Road at a healthy pace, but Aradan kept his eyes looking about for any danger. The forest that lay north and east of Bree-hill, which Finumbras Longtallow had referred to in their long talks as the Chetwood, could still be seen covering the lands northward as far as the eye could see. By and by, the land north of them began to open up as the trees receded northward before a wide marshland. While they rode, Aradan thought that he could see a shape of some creature padding along through the fens to the north: a creature of vague dog-like shape.
"Do you think it is the wolves?" asked Aranarth.
"It may be," said Aradan. "Or it may not be. Keep that pennant close to you, brother: you may just be able to use it to fend off any attackers, should we be waylaid. And I will keep my sword loose in my belt."
They saw nothing more of the dog shape on either side of the road for some time as they went. But the weather did not clear up, and it seemed that there would be rain sooner or later on their journey. The sun, hidden by the wrack of clouds, was westering slowly but steadily, and there was heard the rumble of distant thunder. The brothers increased their pace, hoping to reach the Forsaken Inn before the storm overcame them. As they were nearing the end of the marshes on their left, they came across a grisly sight which shook Aranarth to the core and remained with him for the rest of his days.
First they heard the mocking cry of crows and carrion fowl of the worst sort gathered around a wain that had fallen on its side. Aradan brought his horse to a halt, drew his sword from its sheath, and swatted the crows away. As Aranarth came up after him, he soon realized the reason for his brother's actions. Three bodies were lying on the ground; they appeared to be the bodies of two men and an old woman. But they were dead, and their bodies were gray and bloated; the poor folk had large bloody gashes and rips across their bodies like the claw-marks of a very large animal. There was no sign of the horse that must have drawn their wain; likely it had long since bolted in terror.
So it was that Aradan and Aranarth came upon the victims of the wolves, as the rumors had foretold. It was a sad thing, in Aranarth's mind, that these poor folk should lie here, unburied and at the mercy of pitiless fowl. However, there was little that could be done for them: they had no spades, and the ground here was thick with the turf-roots, and could not be dug up or pawed away easily by hand. Stones they might have been able to carry over to them and build a cairn over them: but the work would be difficult, even for two healthy and strong young Dunedain, if there was not also the threat of storm and the onset of evening to trouble them.
Aranarth said nothing as they lingered by the bodies: the odor of decay was so strong that he deposited the contents of his stomach onto the grass by the roadside. Aradan did not laugh, for it was not the proper time or place for it, but he rolled his eyes: he had seen death in much worse kind, and while it troubled him no less, he was never made sick because of it. Out of courtesy for those who might come across them, Aradan, with his riding gloves on his hands, closed the eyes of the three fallen ones.
"It seems the stories were true," said Aradan. "These poor folk were mauled some kind of large beast: too big for an ordinary wolf. Perhaps there is a very large warg as their chieftain, or even a werewolf." Aranarth blanched: the memory of the wolf he had seen in the marshes was now coming back to mind. Were they being tracked even now? Wiping his mouth with his pocket handkerchief, he looked hastily about them for any sign of pursuit; all that could be seen were the distant specks of the crows circling overhead, waiting for the tall men with bright swords to depart so they could return to their feasting.
"Let us hurry on our way," Aranarth said. "I detest the emptiness, and the day is growing old. But, before we go, can we not do something for these poor folk?"
"Aye, that you can, brother," Aradan replied. "You know the proper fitting words for such occasions better than I do. Come now, and say something for these sad people before we leave."
Aranarth dismounted and made his way over to the bodies. It was grisly work, coming so near to the bodies that the smell almost overcame him. But duty was one thing which Aranarth valued: it was always prized in the tales he had read, and though he had little experience, now was the perfect opportunity to put into practice the noble things he had learned. Kneeling over the bodies, he placed his hand over them, careful not to touch their decaying flesh, and spoke in a quavering voice:
May the Breather keep the carrion fowl
From spoiling the places where your bodies rest
May the Mistress of the Earth, Aule's mate
Hide your bodies within her earthen breast
May Badhron the Just, the giver of Doom
In sullen halls keep you till the earth is new
Farewell to thee, lost to those who do remain
And may the grace of the Valar be with you
So Aranarth chanted over the bodies of the sorry folk slain by the wolves: it was a mourner's lament, such as the Faithful had preserved from the old traditions that were once held in high honor in Numenor for time beyond count. For this dirge called upon the Lords of the West, the Powers That Be as the Bregion, the Bree-landers, sometimes named them. Badhron was the name among the Dunedain for he whom the Elves called Namo and Mandos.
Having said the final words over these poor folk, Aradan helped Aranarth back into the saddle and then mounted up himself again. Then they betook themselves once again to their journey.
Nightfall was fast approaching and the shadows growing deeper when they espied, along the Great East Road, a lone building rising up out of the wide, empty, shadowed lands. Thither to the brothers now brought their horses, hoping that they might spend the night here. For this was the Forsaken Inn: when it was built no one knows, for even in that time the memory of its first founding had been a closely-guarded secret, and in after-days that knowledge had been lost forever. But it was believed by the Dunedain that at one point, possibly before the fall of Cardolan, there had been a people whom the two surviving kingdoms of Arnor had recruited as mercenaries to defend themselves against the encroaching threat of Angmar. They had settled here on the frontier between the two kingdoms and Rhudaur, and they owed allegiance to which ever kingdom could pay them enough. As the years grew long and evil, these people, who bore the wolf as their banner, began to dwindle in number from the endless warfare. Most of them feared and hated the men of Carn Dum for the slaughter of their folk, and few would ever have dared to join Angmar against their old allies; therefore they became a wandering people, living still in these barren lands and hunting the wild beasts of the wilderness. Some of the less scrupulous and more desperate resorted to banditry and scavenging, but on the whole they were tolerant of the Dunedain, as long as they could pay them.
Some among these wandering folk had banded together and built an inn to make money off of travelers going east and west. It was tended by these wandering, lost ones, whom the Elves and Dunedain now called the Eglain. Every now and again, a family would move in, take over the management of the inn, and dwell there as its proprietor for however long the money was coming in. At times of war, traffic to and from the inn would dwindle, and another family would quarrel with the preceding one to wrest control of the inn for themselves. Now, with the fall of Cardolan and the diminishing of Arthedain, traffic to the inn had almost ceased, and there was no point for the Eglain to quarrel among themselves for its control. It was now owned by a small collective of such Eglain as could defend their house and maintain the inn, which was falling yearly into disrepair.
The inn was located some distance away from the Weather Hills, and built after this fashion. Unlike the Prancing Pony, which had an upper story, a stable, and rooms for halflings, the Forsaken Inn had tunneled downward. The lands hereabouts were wide and empty, and there was not much to hide the inn from unfriendly eyes save for the hills themselves. The top story, the one closet to the ground level, was somewhat lower than the typical houses of Men, with stairs leading downward into the turf. Stabling for horses, ponies, and wagons was provided in a shallow cave in a rather steep hill that stood to the south of the inn, whose door faced northwestward.
As the brothers approached the inn, they could see the lights from the low windows, and from a lantern hanging from the entryway of the stables. A stable-hand ran out of the cave and greeted them. Aradan told them that they would be staying the night, and asked to have their horses put up in the stable as they went to pay the good-man. Once they had dismounted, they made their way to the door of the inn to go down inside; but as they walked down the steps, Aranarth heard the howling of a wolf. It was far off, but too close for Aranarth's liking: he quickly followed after Aradan into the inn.
At the bottom of the steps, they found a wide room with warm light flickering from several candles and a hearth on the eastern side of the steps. To the right, the room extended backwards with many long, low tables with chairs and stools for the use of guests: made low, likely, for the use of Dwarves, their only regular customers. There was a tunnel with wooden steps going downward opposite the main door, and there the guest rooms were built, below the level of the common room. On the western side of the room was the bar, where a weather-beaten man was wiping down the counter with a dirty cloth. The brothers approached him and, after a little discussion, handed over thirty silver pennies for the stabling of their horses and their own food and bed: a tidy sum, but the good-man did not live up to the title of his office.
The innkeeper threw the cloth onto the table, called out to one of his servers - a pretty young maid with silk ribbons in her hair, which was the color of ripe wheat - to watch the bar while he showed the guests to their rooms. She curtseyed to the brothers, then giggled with her hand over her mouth as she hastily ran to the counter: she was young, and the brothers were fair to behold. Aradan smiled, but Aranarth said nothing: now it was his turn to show up his brother, who so often sneered at him for his lack of experience and training as a fighter.
Following the innkeeper, they went down the narrow, winding steps into the bottom floor: they were now wholly under the earth. Down the hallway he led them to the end thereof, and showed them a room with two beds for them. They thanked him, and he muttered something which they could not hear: it might have been a malediction in an unknown tongue, but they were tired and road-weary and cared not as long as they were permitted to spend the night here unmolested. They cast off their cloaks, Aradan set down his weapons, Aranarth placed the banner along the wall in the room, then they returned to the common room for a bite of supper before bed.
The common room was relatively empty: the Forsaken Inn had definitely seen better days and more customers. The innkeeper, having reached the common room before them, took the little broom and took up the task of sweeping the floors. The young maid behind the bar had finished rubbing down the counter, and had, at the innkeeper's requests, gone to the hearth to stoke the fire in preparation for cooking a hot meal for their new guests. Three Dwarves, with their deep hoods cast down low over their heads, were in a corner talking to themselves amidst tall pints of ale. Aside from the brothers, no other guests were present in the common room.
Several minutes after sitting down, the pretty young maid ran off to the larder and returned with food for the guests: bread and butter and pints of beer. They thanked her, and she flashed Aradan a most welcoming smile before she ran back to the hearth. Aranarth rolled his eyes and chuckled, and Aradan scowled. Neither of the brothers knew much about the ways of women: Aradan loved the battlefield more and cherished a host of armed men over the warmth of a maiden's bosom, and Aranarth, despite his looks, had betaken himself to study and poetry. If things had been different in Arthedain, doubtless there would have been many young maids flocking after them, especially the strong and doughty Aradan. Yet Aranarth knew that Aradan was no match for him when it came to fair-speech, and he could recite such poetry that (he believed, at least) would woo any maid to him. It was the only point in their lives wherein both of them were untested, and where both thought they were (without proofs) the better of the other.
"Why are you laughing, scholar?" asked Aradan, calling his brother 'scholar' with a sneer. "I need not eyes to see that she fancies me."
"She fancies your coin as gratuity for her service," Aranarth replied, rolling his eyes.
"You know nothing of women."
"Neither do you, little brother. And for the love of Father and Mother, you will not pursue her."
"Why not?"
"I may not know any more about women than you, but I know of our customs and traditions. You may have just come of age, but you are far too young to be thinking about marriage. Even were you of age, it should be a Dunadan woman to whom you would pledge your troth; and not as a fleeting fancy, but to be bound to her for life." As it had been among the Faithful in Numenor that was, the Dunedain of the North imitated the Elven rules and regulations when it came to courtship, which, among other things, prized the mutual purity of both the man and woman, as well as faithfulness to each other, and frowned upon fornication. This practice was also maintained in Gondor, and it had been used by Castamir the Usurper to win many to his side during the Kinstrife: he had claimed that Valacar had given into base desires in marrying "a wild woman of Rhovanion" rather than a Dunadan woman, and slandered Eldacar as "base-born", among other less than pleasant epithets.
While they were thus in discourse, the door of the inn opened and a large man came thundering into the common room. His presence caught the attention of all within the room, and they were more than a little put off by him. He was taller than the Dunedain brothers, with huge bare feet and a thick snow white beard. His clothing was most unusual, for he wore bones (of what animals I know not) sewn together upon his shins, arms, and shoulders, and his coat was of many wolf pelts sewn together. For a hat, he wore the head of a wolf upon his head, with the lower jaw removed: it gave the impression that he was one giant wolf himself.
Straightway the innkeeper put down his broom and, running over to the counter, picked up a club which he patted menacingly against his other hand. The large man paid him no mind, but walked over to a table near to the Dunedain brothers and sat down without so much as a word. The Dwarves returned to their business, but now they spoke only to each other in their own secret language; all Aranarth could pick out were names that had been recorded by others, for the Dwarves taught their own language to none outside of their own folk: the words Khazad-dum and Tumunzahar. Otherwise, it was all unintelligible to his ears, even as the Elves and lesser men found the Adunaic tongue, almost completely forgotten among the Dunedain, to be harsh and uncouth. But more worrisome than the barrier of language, the large man had brought his chair up to the table where the brothers sat.
"Can I help you?" asked Aranarth in a quavering voice. The sight of the large man unnerved him.
"I have been wandering these lands for many days," said the large man in a deep voice that quivered with age. "There are evil things in the wild country, preying on the weak and helpless. I hunt, and I am weary from the chase and came to this inn."
"Who are you?" asked Aranarth. "Are you a Wild Man?"
"Wild? Some might say that," the large man began. "Indeed, from Wilderland I am come, and the land south of Gundabad was once my home. But my people come from farther south in the valley of the Great River, between the River and the Mirkwood."
"You seem rather eager to talk with us," asked Aranarth. "Wanderers in these parts would be wise to show less eagerness, especially in these days of evil and war."
"There are no secrets between dead men," the large man said, and immediately the brothers disliked him. There was an unwholesome stench upon his breath that reminded Aradan of the bodies they had encountered along the wayside. Now that he was uncomfortably close to them, they could see that his bony bracelets bore large claws, like the claws of a bear or wolf, that sat above his hands; about his neck, hidden by reason of his beard and the wolf pelts, they thought they could glimpse an iron collar and hear chains rattling.
"We are not dead, not yet at any rate," Aradan replied. "But if you mean us harm, then I think you should leave."
"You are marked men," said the large man. "The Witch-King has sent his wolves after you: the rumor of them is heard from the Mountains to Bree. None escape their grasp: and the Lone-Lands are empty and barren. You will be spotted on the Great East Road and hunted down, and in some wild place, far from aid, you will be slain; and the eyes of your King will look on and weep, unable to aid you."
"If we are marked," Aranarth replied slowly. "And there is no way to escape the wolves of Angmar, why come to warn us?"
"You really don't know the peril you are in, little boys," the large man said. "But old Drauglin knows. He has seen many winters, on the other side of the Mountains, and here in the pretty little land of Men. He knows what happens to those who are the Witch-King's enemies, who fall into his grasp. The weak he sends to work his mills and forges as slaves, or for the twisted work of the witches who serve him; for those unhappy ones, it would be better if they had died a swift death than fallen into the hands of the Iron Crown."
"So that's why you're here?" asked Aradan. "To warn us away from our mission? Well, you will find that we are not so easily intimidated. We know of the danger ahead of us, and we are not afraid."
"Who says I am here to warn you?" asked Drauglin, with a sinister laugh. Aradan's hand slowly moved toward the dagger in his belt: the only weapon he had not removed in their room, for he had one even as Aranarth had his, though he had removed his.
"Alright, that's enough!" the innkeeper said, striding over to the table and brandishing the club at the large man. "Get out, now! Leave, or we are going to have trouble, you and I."
"More trouble than you can manage, little man," the large man rumbled, without turning to look at the innkeeper. Aradan swiftly drew his knife and placed it to the large man's throat.
"You heard the good-man," he returned. "Leave now, or you will face both of us. I doubt those hands can move as fast as my blade, and those bones you wear won't protect you from the good-man's cudgel. Now get out."
The large man gave Aradan a sinister grin that told him he feared no blade; but instead of attacking, he held up his hands and rose to his feet to depart. The innkeeper, shorter than Aradan but broader, followed after the large man with his club in hand, and Aradan with his knife. At the bottom step, the large man halted and looked at both of the brothers in turn.
"One night or another, the hunt will claim a life: because you did not listen, it may be yours." With that, he climbed out of the Forsaken Inn and was seen there no more.
If the brothers had hoped that the innkeeper would be grateful to them for helping him get rid of the large man, they were mistaken. In fact, he blamed them for the man's appearance, and said that it was very suspicious that he spent so much time talking with them. No matter how many times Aranarth denied being in league with him, the innkeeper did not believe it. He had half a mind to send them out at once, but the young maid intervened on their behalf. It seemed that she was his daughter, and she told him how 'the strong one' (that is, Aradan) had come to his aid in driving away the large man. The anger of the innkeeper assuaged, he allowed them to stay the night, but demanded that they depart at first light and he would not permit them to stay for even a morsel of breakfast.
After they finished their meal, the brothers retired to their room. Aranarth remained awake all that evening, disturbed by the memory of the large man, who remained in his mind long after he had departed. Apart from his size, the smell of his breath, his wild looks and threatening manner, there was something else unwholesome about him. He seemed almost pleased with the terrible things he had seen in Carn Dum, if Aranarth was any worthy judge of one's voice: at any rate, he did not seem disturbed or terrified by the things he spoke of in their discourse. Also the name he had given as his own, Drauglin, had stirred in Aranarth memories from the old tales he had read throughout the years. In his mind, it seemed that no one who was up to any good would take the name of a wolf-demon, the hound of the Great Enemy of old.
Aradan fell asleep soon, but Aranarth's sleep was troubled by the howling of wolves and giant men who turned into wolfish monsters before his eyes. Their sleep was suddenly disturbed by a fierce pounding upon the door of their room. The innkeeper was at their door, demanding that they depart at once and trouble his house no longer. The brothers arose and took up their things, all the while the innkeeper continued pounding on the door and did not cease until they opened the door and walked back up the stairs. The innkeeper followed close behind them, his club still in his hand as though he hadn't put it down all night; behind him walked his daughter, who waved farewell at the strangers.
When they at last made their way out of the inn, they found the grassy lawn between it and the Road disturbed, as though there had been a great stampede that had stirred up the turf. The stable-doors, they found, had been locked in the night: and for good reason too, for the horses were filled with fright and their neighing could be heard as they exited the inn. The poor stable-hand had not slept a wink all night, and stumbled as he opened the door and brought out their steeds. They thanked the young man and Aranarth gave him an additional five silver pennies for his trouble. Aradan offered to help his brother mount his horse, but he said he did not need it: after a little effort, he climbed onto the saddle with a confident smile. After three days he was starting to get the hang of riding, despite being sore beyond belief after each day.
They rode off as swift as the wind, for now they were leaving the lands of civilized Men and entering the wide and dangerous Lone-Lands beyond. Drauglin's words might have been a threat, but they bore some kernel of truth: beyond the ruins of Amon Sul, they could expect no help from Arthedain to rescue them. Even the Bree-folk would take many days to journey out here, if they felt compelled to help: but they would not leave their home for any gold, nor hazard any danger except to defend their own. Dwarves would be few and far between on the Great East Road, and they would be of little help: there were many miners, traders, and craftsmen among Durin's Folk, but few or no warriors, as there had been no need for war in almost two thousand years. It was said that Elves still dwelt in a hidden valley somewhere in Rhudaur, between the Bruinen and the Misty Mountains: but they were estranged, even from the Dunedain, and their paths had gone in different directions.
The brothers would be on their own.
Hours passed and they met nothing on the road and heard nothing save for the distant sound of birds. But the apparent calm did nothing to ease Aranarth's fears: he expected to see or meet something after what happened at the inn, and the silence only made him feel as though there were hidden enemies stalking them just out of sight. Aradan, meanwhile, was unperturbed by the silence; little put worry into his heart, and his confidence made Aranarth feel somewhat sure of safety. There was no point in being fearful as long as Aradan had a hope of surviving.
By midday Aradan brought them to a halt. To the left they could see a line of hills rolling off away northwards far beyond sight. Close at hand they could see the last hill sitting forlorn above the rolling green plain: a crumbling crown of stones sat on the top of that hill. It was still a long way off, and they could make little of any details, but the sad stony head-cap of the hills caused Aradan to lower his head in reverence.
"What is it?" asked Aranarth.
"Amon Sul," he said. "The Bree-Folk call it 'Weathertop'. Here lies the end of our kingdom; now we go forward into dangers unknown to either of us." He had been as far as the Weather Hills only once, and had seen Amon Sul from a distance westward. This was the farthest eastward he had ever been, despite how far he had traveled in his time riding in the train with the King's knights.
Aranarth said nothing, for his thoughts were wrapped up in the stories he had heard about the tall tower. Stories told that it was so high that if one climbed to its top, they could see eastward the Misty Mountains, northward the icy bay of Forochel, westward the Tower Hills, and southward, as a tiny black speck on the edge of sight, the tall tower of Angrenost at the end of the Mountains. But that was a long time ago, and the armies of Angmar had burned the tower and scattered the rubble, or hauled it off for their own building. Little remained of the tower but its foundation, even in these days.
As for the eastward journey, Aranarth was already farther than he had ever gone and was feeling quite homesick and forlorn.
"Do not be afraid, big brother," Aradan said. "I will see to it that you return to Fornost in safety."
"We have our errand ahead of us," Aranarth replied, trying to pretend that he was stronger than he felt. "We must accomplish that first before we can think of heading home." With that, he put the staff of his pennant in the ground and removed the banner of Arthedain from off it: onto it now he fastened the white cloth that had bound it up as a flag of parley. Aradan seemed put off by the gesture.
"It was Father's order," Aranarth explained. "That we proceed after Amon Sul under a flag of peace. He spoke to me privately before we left Fornost."
"On the battlefield," Aradan answered. "A white flag means surrender: I swore that I would die before I let that fly before the enemies of Arnor."
"We are not going to surrender," replied Aranarth. "We are going to parley. If it makes you feel any better, as soon as we are done and we have crossed the Mitheithel, I will give you the banner to tear off this coverlet and hoist Father's standard in proud defiance."
Aradan chuckled. "We shall make a soldier of you yet, big brother."
They now turned eastward and continued along the Great East Road. But no sooner had they left the hill of Amon Sul but things started to grow steadily worse for them. The sky, which was still overcast from the day before, was starting to threaten rain; thunder could be heard afar off north and east, coming down from the Ettenmoors and away towards Carn Dum. The east wind was blowing fierce and strong, as if to hinder their progress. It was cold and biting, and the brothers soon had their hoods pulled up and their heads bowed almost to the necks of the horses to keep the hoods from flying off in the wind. In this miserable state they rode on for many hours, holding to the road as best they could. As noon gave way and the sun was westering, the wind began to howl with the voices of wolves.
Not one wolf, as they had heard before when they came to the Forsaken Inn, but many voices. They were howling to each other, speaking in their fell and wicked language.
"Do you hear that?" asked Aranarth.
"Yes," Aradan replied. "And it does not bode well for us. Stay on your guard, brother."
Hours passed and the voices of the wolves became distant, but did not cease. Very soon another problem was looming its head before them: they had still had two days of travel ahead of them before they reached the Last Bridge which crossed the Mitheithel, the Road was being dogged by wolves, and to make matters worse, it was getting on to evening. Sooner or later they would have to stop for the night and rest, if for nothing else than to keep up their strength: they had a bite while riding from the Forsaken Inn and they had been sparing with the water in their skins, but they would need to eat at least once more in order to keep on their feet.
At last the sun turned the western sky into a fiery haze: they would have to find camp immediately or risk being benighted. Aradan pulled his horse off the road and led Aranarth towards a small cluster of trees off to the right of the Road. Here they tied the reins of the horses to the trees while Aradan gathered twigs and branches to build a fire. In a few minutes, a small blaze was crackling beneath the trees and the brothers were eating a light meal and resting their legs and backsides from four days in the saddle back to back. Aradan elected to go on first watch and Aranarth stretched himself on the turf, wrapped in his cloak. For several hours, he tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep on the cold hard ground: his lack of travel was becoming painfully obvious to him. Darkness fell and their fire burned low, and still sleep eluded Aranarth: therefore he offered to stay up and watch while Aradan slept.
"Might as well put my sleeplessness to some good use," he said.
"Very well," Aradan sighed, rolling his eyes as he wrapped himself in his own cloak by the fireside. "Let the fire die and call me when you cannot keep your eyes open."
Aranarth sat up and kept his eyes trained on the darkness about them. The fire cast a faint orange glow on the boles of the trees around their campsite, but between them the darkness was deep. The moon was hidden beneath a murky wrack of clouds, and his light was faint and cast little upon their glade; and one could not count the hours under the darkness as one could in the day. Yet in the darkness, hearing was keen; and what Aranarth could not see, he could hear. Sometime after Aradan had fallen asleep, he could not tell how long, Aranarth became distinctly aware of the sound of many footsteps running around their camp. Their horses neighed and stamped with fright, and therefore, even if he had the skill, he could not discern what was encircling them.
Fear gripped Aranarth and he shook Aradan awake. As soon as he was awake, Aradan took hold of his sword and kept his ears perked as the sounds carried on around them.
"What is it?" whispered Aranarth.
"There are many things around us," Aradan replied in a low voice. "They are just walking in circles around the camp. I don't think they will attack us, but they might be spying on us."
Just then there was a long, loud howl and the sound of footsteps faded. Aradan looked about the fading light of the fire but saw nothing.
"It is good that you roused me when you did," he said. "Let us keep the fire alive until morning: in the wilderness, fire may be our only hope against wolves or anything else."
Before going to sleep, Aranarth gathered twigs around their campground and stoked the fire. He found falling asleep even more difficult now, for fear of the things encircling their camp. At length he felt the warm, soothing fire bring down his eyes and wrapped himself in his cloak and attempted to fall asleep again. The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the cold gleam of white eyes out of the blackness of night.
Aranarth woke before the sun; he was wet and cold, and the fire had died. Rain had fallen upon them in the middle of the night, and they were now being thoroughly soaked. Aradan was up as well, and he was keeping a grim and silent watch: there would be no inn for them, no warm fire by the hearth in Finumbras Longtallow's hole to dry their hands, feet, and clothes. They were in the Lone-Lands in the early watches of the morning, far away from hearth, home, or hope of aid.
Sunrise was still some ways off, for she would have to climb over the tops of the Misty Mountains before her fiery gaze fell upon the Lone-Lands, even without the storm. Yet the brothers said nothing to each other: Aranarth, at any rate, knew that what he felt - absolute misery and homesickness - would do nothing to improve the mood, and would certainly set Aradan against him; and he knew, or guessed, that the rain had not put him in a pleasant mood. Therefore they remained silent, drenched as they were, and watched the steadily fading shadows.
At last there was enough light to travel. The brothers ate a small but very damp meal; their food had become soaked and most of it would probably have to be discarded before it spoiled. Once they had eaten, Aradan sent Aranarth to get the horses ready while he examined the ground around their little camp. Shortly Aradan came over to the tree under which the poor horses were sheltering from the rain.
"It's no good," he said. "The rain has washed away most of the tracks. But there were some footprints, very large and deep in the turf: they looked like they could be made by a man, but one of very large size and not wearing boots."
"Do giants live in these parts?" asked Aranarth.
"Giants?" chuckled Aradan. "What, you don't believe those rumors that Dwarven travelers tell of stone-giants in the Misty Mountains? That's just something they tell you to get a quick penny or two from you. But trolls have been known to come down this far, especially in winter when heavy snow comes down out of Angmar. They wouldn't have left these footprints, though: a troll's footprint is flat, nearly round, and toe-less."
"Have you ever seen a troll before?" asked Aranarth warily.
"No, and I am glad that I never have," Aradan replied; there was no mockery in his voice, for apparently he seemed to regard trolls with the same wariness as Aranarth, and had no scruples about their mutual fear of them. "The knights say that their fathers and their fathers' fathers told stories of their own: stories of trolls wreaking havoc on whole companies of Men. Few weapons other than a spear can pierce their hide; our knives carry a special enchantment, but it would be madness to get that close to a troll. What do your tales tell of them, brother?"
"From what I've read," Aranarth said. "Trolls turn to stone in the full light of day. But from what you described, it seems a fool's errand to try and fight one until morning, especially if they're encountered at night."
"Then let us trust to our luck," Aradan said as he mounted up into the saddle. "And pray that no troll harms us in our way. We may yet have to face trolls once we cross the Mitheithel: Rhudaur is not called the Trollshaws for nothing, after all."
Aranarth was relieved that his brother did not think that it was a troll that had been stomping around their camp last night: but the howling had frozen his blood, and the sight of those eyes filled his sleep with evil dreams that still lingered in his memory even in the light of morning. Were it not for the large footprints, he would have assumed that it was the wolves they had heard rumors of that were tracking them. The thought of large bootless footprints brought unbidden into his mind the memory of the large man they had encountered at the Forsaken Inn.
Once they mounted up, they took to the road once again. The rain continued to pour down, and the brothers were nearly blinded from cold drops flying in their faces as they rode. The sky above was covered, the light was dim, and all around them was gray and unclear. Amid the pouring rain, they could see dark shapes about on their left and right; the howling they had heard before that had chilled their bones was now heard all around them. They were in a great blurred moving ring of howling shapes; as the hours went and the rain poured on, the ring became more substantial. If they came to a stop, the ring withdrew until they were just out of sight. When they cracked the reins and continued, the ring slowly closed in and continued to follow them.
The fifth day of their travel was coming to an end. Far to the west the clouds came to an end, and the sun sent her last rays almost parallel to the space between the storm-clouds and the earth, shining upon the Lone-Lands. Above the din of the rain, the brothers could discern another sound that was louder than the rain: the rush and roar of a mighty river, swollen with rains. Before them they saw only trees before them growing steadily thicker as they made their way up into the Trollshaws: no outward sign of any river. The last rays of the sun fell upon the tall pines and illuminated in fiery shades of auburn three distant arches made of stone.
"Praise the Valar!" cried Aranarth at the top of his voice. "Do you see yonder arch far ahead of us?"
"Yes, brother," Aradan replied. "That must be the Last Bridge, and the rushing we hear the Mitheithel: you need not wonder any more why the Bree-folk call it the Loudwater anymore."
"We should not cross the bridge yet!" Aranarth replied. "It is no use flying heedlessly into the dangers of Rhudaur beyond the bridge with those cursed wolves on our tail."
"Then we shall make our stand here and send those wolves howling in pain back to their dens," Aradan replied, drawing his sword from its sheath.
"What about me?" asked Aranarth. "I am afraid I am not of much use to you in a battle."
"But you are not wholly useless," Aradan replied. "I will dismount and fight on foot: take the horses under the trees and make sure they do not flee in terror. Rhudaur will be much more dangerous if we go on foot. Whatever happens, make sure that we do not lose our horses and stay in the saddle if you can. If these wolves knock you off, they will make short work of you. Use the staff of your pennant if they get too close."
Aradan dismounted from his horse, and took off his saddle-bag the bow and quiver of arrows, where he had stored them throughout the journey. Aranarth brought his horse over to Aradan's horse, took the reins, and led them back into the clump of trees they had seen. Aradan followed behind warily, eying the land westward where they had last seen the ring of figures. The closer they got to the river, the less likely they were to be flanked.
Darkness fell upon them: the rain slackened to a light drizzle but did not relent. There was no wood dry enough to light, nor would a spark catch in the rain that fell. Aranarth feared for his life and the life of his brother, for there was still the threat of the wolves; and in this darkness, there was no hope of surviving an assault, as was sure to happen. Suddenly in the eastern sky the clouds parted, and through the trees came the light of the moon, pale and clear. It was as though some power that no longer wished for rain now opened a faint window in the heavens and let light shine through. Both Aranarth and Aradan thanked the Valar for this, for now there was some light to aid them.
But the moonlight only made their fears grounded. Its pale glow showed seven figures walking on all fours toward them in a semi-circle. They halted, as if waiting for some call or command. The largest of the beasts strode forward, and its white mane glistened in the moonlight. It advanced towards Aradan, who fit an arrow into the string of his bow but did not bend it.
"Shoot it now!" Aranarth muttered to himself from where he hid. No use in crying out, for that would give him away, and he was already having quite a lot of trouble keeping the horses calm.
"Begone, hound of Angmar!" cried Aradan. "Take one more step closer and I shall stick you full of arrows like a pin-cushion!"
The large wolf halted and let out a long howl: the horses neighed in fright and Aradan's was bucking at the reins in Aranarth's hand. Two of the wolves now turned their snouts towards the grove of trees. Aradan had to act, and he had no time to wait for them to strike first. He bent the bow, aimed, and sunk an arrow into the chest one of the two wolves. There was a yelp, and then a growl from the large wolf that advanced at him. Before Aradan could bend his bow, he was thrown to the ground by the large wolf, and the bow fell from his hands. Three more wolves broke ranks and charged at him, seeking to make a quick meal out of the tall warrior now that he was down. One bit down on his left arm as he was throwing it up to protect his face, and he could feel sharp teeth digging into his flesh. Another circled around to the back, dove in to the right shoulder and got its teeth caught in his mail coat. The third came at Aradan from the right side but caught his boot in its snout as he thrashed about, trying to free himself: it backed away with a yelp. His right hand groped for the hilt of his dagger and thrust it into the throat of the wolf at his left arm; the beast opened its maw in pain, and Aradan was able to pull his left arm free of its jaws. He swung wildly with the knife and caught the beast at his right shoulder in the eye: so intent was it on its kill that it tore away from him suddenly, sending steel rings and yellow wolf teeth flying as it jerked back from the blow.
Meanwhile, Aranarth could tell from the frantic stamping of the horses that one, or two, of the other wolves were stalking them. One of the beasts leaped out of the shadows and snapped at the legs of the horse. But the poor beast could see better in the dark than Aranarth, and sent a swift kick with its hind legs, crushing the wolf's skull. Meanwhile, the other one flitted unseen through the shadows of the trees: only the horses' frightened neighs told Aranarth that they were not out of danger yet. A breeze passed through the trees, chilling Aranarth to the bone by reason of his wet clothes and sending a hail of large, cold droplets onto him and the horses. The branches swayed, and the moonlight caught on the foul, matted fur of one wolf crouching for the attack. He gripped the reins of the horses in one hand, and the other desperately tried to keep a tight hold on the wet staff of the banner.
Aradan was back on his feet and searching for his foes. The wolf that had taken a boot to the face was now bounding back into the fray, snarling with wrath. Aradan picked up his sword, stepped aside from the leaping wolf, and drove the blade into its back: the beast whined and fell to the ground, dead. He looked about again, panting heavily, and saw one shadow vanishing into the darkness with an agonized whine but no more howling: the one who had torn out its teeth from his shoulder. He saw no other shape except the largest wolf, watching him with secret malice from the shadows. Why had it not attacked with the others? A wolf pack would surely have attacked as one and overwhelmed them.
"Face me, monster of the north!" Aradan challenged. "I shall send you to Udun along with your mongrel fellows!"
Suddenly the large beast reared up very tall on its hind legs. Its head was hidden from the moonlight, but Aradan could hear something coming from its direction that sounded like a voice, and a familiar one at that.
"One life or another makes little difference," the voice said. "The hunt shall take what belongs to it."
But Aradan was not wholly forsaken. The voice had been heard where Aranarth stood off against his own wolf, and suddenly into his mind there came racing back the memory of stories of old wolf-demons of the Great Enemy from before the founding of Numenor. Beasts that had troubled Beleriand that was and had now passed away beyond the Western Seas.
"Werewolf!" he shouted out with a loud voice. "Don't let it bite you, brother!"
The large figure bent down again, and the shadow shrank until it was once again a large wolf. It charged at Aradan before he could counter himself and was thrown again to the ground. Now it charged towards the horses, and Aranarth, fearing for his life, kicked the flanks of his horse, holding on for dear life with one hand while the other kept hold of the other horse's reins. They took off into a fierce gallop through the trees, just in time as the large beast crashed into one and sent it falling down towards the clearing. The beast ran after them and felt the sting of a sword along its hide.
But this beast was no ordinary wolf: the bite of a blade, even a sword of tempered steel, had little effect upon such a monster save to rouse its attention towards the one who had wielded the blow. Aradan saw the beast's eyes gleaming with murder as it turned back to him, and he with nothing more than a sword that had proved to be useless against it. Once again it leaped at him, bearing him to the ground and thrusting him against something hard that had not been there before: he was pinned against the bole of the fallen tree. Foul breath belched out of the beast's mouth as its large snout was inches away from Aradan's face: he felt sure to feel the harsh bite of its large fangs tearing through mail and flesh at any moment.
With his left hand still clutching the knife, he drove it into the beast's right eye, and felt his arm almost torn out of socket as the beast thrashed madly in pain. Large branches of the tree were snapped and broken off as it tried to rid itself of the awful bite. At last, knowing that he would surely be devoured if he held on, Aradan let go of the knife and fell onto a large branch that broke off from the tree under his weight. He was a little disoriented from the struggle, but as his wits returned to him, he saw the beast had recovered and was crouching on its hind legs, readying for another attack. Yet Aradan knew of no might that could pierce its steel-like hide if his sword could not: no might save that of the beast itself. He seized the branch he had fallen upon with both hands: it was as thick as the leg of a man and very heavy.
"Valar give me strength!" cried Aradan as he hefted the mighty tree limb.
Even as he turned the thick branch about, a huge mass flung itself upon him, fell, and pinned him under its great weight. Aradan could not move, and he could barely breathe. His mind started to go black as he feared that he had slain his foe only to fall with it.
(AN: This chapter ended up being very big: and the next one will be even longer! I had a bit of setup for Drauglin, who took as his name the name of one of Morgoth's wolves, but it was seemingly over too quickly. The other villains in this story will have more setup and time devoted to them: and yes I said "villains" in the plural, as Er-Murazor the Witch-King will not be the only villain present. I wanted to make him a Gauradan, since they looked like Edain's depiction of Drauglin, but decided against it since they are only Wild Men and not Skin-Changers.)
(The little chant for the dead was an invention of my own. Like in Servant of Darkness: the Quiet, I felt that I should exercise my skill as a poet, since poetry is part of the epic tale as the Professor relayed it to us. I specifically wanted something like this, which would be evocative of the tradition of Last Rites, as an honorary homage to the Catholicism of Tolkien's upbringing [though not mine]. The name of Badhron came from New Notion, but the honorifics/kennings for the other two refer to Manwe [the internet's favorite punching bag] and Yavanna.)