Incunabulum 4: White Warg
Hrothmar pondered his decision during the sleepless night that ensued, but arose the next morning as firmly convinced as ever. He went out into the fresh air and noticed an unusual amount of activity in the elven settlement. In fact, upon reflection he realised that there had been a lot of bustle the day before, only he had been too nervous about his psychiatrist appointment to notice it then.
The activity increased the closer he came to the elvenking's palace, and entering it, he found elves hurrying up and down the corridors, most of them carrying some kind of burden which was usually weapons of some sort. He found Horthir, after a good amount of looking, just leaving the great hall where Thranduil sat in state.
"Hello, Hrothmar, I was just about to come down to the forge to see you."
"Are they assembling the fighting bands already?" asked Hrothmar.
"Yes, Elrohir and Elladan are impatient to begin the war. I've been run off my feet since yesterday morning. Oh, by the way, I've been placed in command of all the orc-fighters. Thranduil told me night before last."
"Well, good for you. I hope you nominated me to command a company."
"No, sorry. I mean, I did, but Thranduil said no. You're needed here, actually."
"Why? I'm not the only smith in Mirkwood."
"You're the best. And I'm not buttering you up, either. You see, we've talked to the men of Esgaroth and they've promised to help us fight the orcs. We're to pay them in swords and other armaments, so you see, you'll be very busy here."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Hrothmar, visibly disappointed. "But I was rather hoping to get in on some of the fighting—it's the only time I ever get to wear a cape. You don't think Thranduil is making me stay here because he thinks I'll be afraid of the orcs, do you?"
"Of course not. It has nothing to do with that. Everyone knows you fight well. And speaking of that, how did your appointment go yesterday? I hope you went. I meant to come down and go with you—moral support, you know—but I was too busy."
"Well, I didn't need any moral support. I was fine. And you got mixed up about what you told her, too. I didn't collect bugs—that was Halrodil."
"It was? Oh, I thought that was you. Well, what did Emeril say about your case?"
"She can't help me," replied Hrothmar.
Horthir looked concerned. "She can't do anything at all? Did she give you a referral or anything?"
"Did you talk to her?" asked Hrothmar suspiciously.
"No, that was just a guess, but I must be right, then. What did she say?"
"She told me to go to Lothlorien and see Galadriel—but I'm not going."
"She thinks Galadriel can help you?"
"I can't go," said Hrothmar desperately. "I'll be too busy here—making weapons, remember?"
"No, I'll speak to Thranduil. I'm sure he'll let you off for a week or two. This is important."
"But she might not be able to help me either. And anyway, I'm not going."
"Why are you so afraid of doctors?" asked Horthir patiently.
"She's creepy. I'm more afraid of her than the orcs."
"You've only seen her a few times. Well, we'll talk about this later. I've a lot to do just now. I'll be down at the forge around noon to explain about the Esgaroth weapons—see you then."
Halrodil and Elvisir made a visit to the forge a short time later and found a crowd surrounding the hut. They were men from Esgaroth and they had brought plans and drawings of the weapons they wanted Hrothmar to make for them, but Hrothmar had locked them out. He could be heard banging away inside the hut.
"Hello, maybe you can get him to open shop," said one of the men to the two elves. "Thranduil told us to come down here, but he told us to go jump in the river."
Halrodil knocked on the door, but got no answer. "Hrothmar, it's me," he said. There was a nearer bang and the door shook as some hard object was flung at it from within.
Elvisir pushed him aside and put his mouth to the keyhole. "Hrothmar, open up, you silly dope. Stop sulking."
Hrothmar's voice came from within, but the only word they could make out sounded something like "morgul".
"Come on, let us in," repeated Elvisir. "I looked up how to cure orcphobia on wikihow."
The banging stopped and Hrothmar opened the door. "Don't let any of that foul brood in," he said.
"They're not foul," said Halrodil, as the two entered. "They're our allies."
"What are you so steamed about?" asked Elvisir.
Hrothmar recommenced banging without replying.
"You haven't been having a row too, have you?"
"Who's been having a row?" asked Hrothmar, looking up.
"Findor again," said Elvisir. "This morning—only this time it was with your brother."
"What about?"
"Oh, supplies or something like that, but of course the real reason is that Findor doesn't like being second in command and wants to make a fuss. Pity you missed it—it was quite a show. I'm surprised you didn't hear Horthir's yelling."
"He looked mad enough to hit Findor," said Halrodil.
"And now Horthir's mad at all the Lothlorien elves," said Elvisir. "When I asked him why you weren't going to be in my company he was incoherent."
Hrothmar brought down his hammer so hard he hurt his hand.
"Well, why not?" asked Elvisir.
"Thranduil's making me stay here," said Hrothmar with two fingers in his mouth. "I have to make weapons."
"But you'll miss all the fighting."
"I know. It's not fair—even Tauriel is in command of a fighting band, and she's a girl."
"They won't let me command one, either," said Halrodil.
"That's rotten," said Elvisir. "I'm not in command of one, either—I'm in Findor's—but it's awful that you won't be able to come."
He sat down and began to sort through his music with a disappointed air.
"Well?" said Hrothmar.
"What?"
"You said you looked up how to cure orcphobia on wikihow."
"Oh, yes. It said to try hypnotism, and it had a link to Galadriel's website."
"That's no good!" said Hrothmar in frustration. "I thought it was going to be some kind of home remedy, or something."
"Well, apparently that's the best cure. I'm sure it's not that bad, and just think how much better you'll feel afterwards."
"It's afterwards that worries me," said Hrothmar.
Both of Hrothmar's parents had died (of unnatural causes, because elves can't die of natural ones), and Horthir, being the eldest and taking his responsibilities as such very seriously, had made most of the decisions for his two younger brothers ever since. They did not often appreciate him telling them what to do, but they nearly always did it. That is why, despite his strenuous protests, Hrothmar rode out the next evening on his way to Lothlorien to see Galadriel about his orcphobia.
He went alone, although Horthir had tried to send another elf with him for safety. Hrothmar did not think there was much danger of meeting any orcs and he wanted to be by himself. He was rather afraid that getting hypnotised might be an embarrassing procedure and he didn't want anyone else there to see it done on him.
He had made good time and by evening on the second day had nearly reached the edge of Mirkwood. He had intended at first to cross the River Anduin at the old ford, but changed his mind when nearly out of the forest. For all its drawbacks, Mirkwood gave him a feeling of safety and concealment and he determined to continue south until he got closer to Lothlorien.
The night was deepening and the moon had just begun to rise, throwing long shadows across the leaf-strewn soil. Hrothmar rode in a deep revery, thinking of days long past and days more recent; the events of his varied existence and all the stories he had heard crossing through his mind in un-ordered succession until he had almost forgotten where he was and where he was going. He was recalled to reality by his horse, which stopped abruptly and began to sniff the air, flicking its ears this way and that.
Hrothmar looked about him and was struck by the unusual silence. Not an object, animate or inanimate, stirred and not a sound broke the stillness. He clutched the reins more tightly and thought at first that his hand trembled, but found, as he shifted in the saddle, that it was his horse that was shaking. Then, from far away he heard the sound of pattering feet, nearly half a mile away, but growing rapidly nearer.
Without warning his horse bolted. Hrothmar clung on and ducked as tree branches swept over him, snatching like fingers at his long elven locks. His horse plunged through the clinging underbrush, Hrothmar doing his best to guide it through the most open part of the terrain. Then above the sound of his horse's hoof beats he heard a breathy panting and looking back he saw dim shadows racing along behind him. They were wargs from the Misty Mountains, drawn by some evil influence far from their customary hunting grounds.
There was no place of safety nearby and his only course seemed to be to run and hope the wargs weren't hungry enough to follow him far. For a moment he regretted not having a bow. He looked back again and as he did so a tree branch caught him hard on the side of the head and knocked him from the saddle. He threw up his hands and caught hold of it and hung kicking for a moment, then hauled himself up onto the limb.
"Oh, my stars; oh, my stars," he gasped feverishly, clutching at the trunk of the tree. "Oh, Elbereth."
He looked down. The wargs had passed on in pursuit of his horse; he could hear their footfalls growing farther away, but at home as he was in trees, he did not feel very safe in this one with that many wargs about. He clung to the trunk and tried to calm his shattered nerves. He was rather glad there had been no one about to witness his funk. He was ashamed of it, but even yet he could not quite pull himself together.
His breathing slowly grew easier and he began to consider his options. He did not want to stay there, but he did not want to run away from wargs on foot, either. He looked down, and as he did, he suddenly saw a dark shape just beneath the limb on which he sat. It did not move, but its very immobility was of an animate, sentient nature. It was a great warg, sitting back on its haunches, and although Hrothmar could not see its eyes, he could feel them fixed on him.
For a moment it seemed that every nerve connection in him had gone dead. He tried twice before he was able to move his hand to the haft of his knife.
"Snap out of it," he thought to himself—but did not dare to say it out loud. "Look, it's just one. I can handle that."
But the darkness and solitude filled him with a horror that could not be conquered by any amount of mental exertion. He clung to his perch, the sweat creeping from under his hair, and a horrible panic filling his mind.
Then a strange feeling passed over him, such as he had never felt before. It was as if a shudder had run down his spine. Like the other elves he was able to communicate with speechless things in a sort of wordless dialogue, although his talent ran more in the direction of stones and minerals rather than trees and plants, as the other elves' did. Now suddenly, although he had no idea how it came about, he found that he could understand the warg beneath him as if it had spoken to him. He seemed to feel its wild freedom; its fierce delight in the chase; the strange, unearthly lure of moonlight. And as if awakened, something dark in his soul replied.
The warg stood up, its neck craned back to stare up at him, and wagged its tail. Hrothmar did not know afterwards what he said—he had a vague sensation of a sort of feral excitement—and leaning low over the branch, he dropped lightly onto the animal's back.
The warg took off like a stone displaced on a mountain slope, but after three spasmodic springs settled to a steady lope. Dark shadows materialised on either side until they were in the centre, and slightly in the lead of, the pack of fifty or so. Hrothmar clung desperately, with his eyes straight ahead. He had no idea where he was being taken, but his fear no longer incapacitated him; instead it filled him with a wild energy.
They broke from the cover of the trees and raced across smooth grassland, grey in the light of the full moon and stretching away on either side clear to the edge of the dark sky. The wargs ran like grey shadows and like a flock of birds in unison. Hrothmar looked down and saw that the largest one, which had seemed so dark beneath the trees, was as white as the moonlight and he himself clung to its back like a spot of ink on a sheet of paper.
The pack had left off chasing Hrothmar's horse and turned, as if led by some call, to the open country. They ran for leagues across the gently rolling land without once pausing, until at last they were running up the steep slope of a hill on the top of which the round moon seemed to sit, perched like a silver onion. They reached the crest and then at last they stopped where the ground fell away in a rocky bluff. Just below lay the River Anduin, broad and shining, and far beyond all dark on the horizon lay the Misty Mountains.
The largest warg came to a stop so suddenly that Hrothmar tumbled off onto the grass. He sat up and looked about him at the wargs, some standing, others flopped panting on the ground. None of them seemed eager to eat him. They were moonstruck, and in a moment the air was filled with their long, wavering howls.
The concert continued for a brief space and then faded away slowly and the night was still again. Then from far away, as if in answer, an orc horn sounded from the west in the direction of the mountains. The wargs snapped to attention like pointers, staring off towards the sound. Then they turned their heads in harmony and stared at Hrothmar, as if awaiting some word of command. It was of course the most foolish thing in the world to ride off on his own in search of orcs, but Hrothmar was as moonstruck as the wargs and a strange desire sprung up in him to follow that summons from the mountains.
He leapt onto the back of the white warg and the pack shot off again straight down the bluff, leaping from rock to rock and dislodging quite a few on their way. Hrothmar saw vaguely the rocks hurtling past, but the moonlight on the water below hurt his eyes and he could not see much else. Suddenly the white warg leaped out into empty air and Hrothmar felt himself falling for what seemed a long and sickening moment before at last being plunged over his head into foaming water.
He came up blowing and shaking the water from his eyes. All around him the bright river was speckled with swimming wargs. Hrothmar clung desperately to the white warg's fur, but it was wet and slipped from his grasp and the rapid current began to bear him downstream. Elves may be good swimmers in many senses, but they are not strong enough to fight a strong current. Hrothmar realised the uselessness of trying to reach the far bank and let the river bear him along until he washed up at last on a snag, nearly a mile downstream.
He clambered onto the bank and collapsed on the grass, feeling more tired than he could remember ever feeling before. For hours he lay there gazing upward, dizzied by the moon and the wheeling stars, until at last their light was swallowed up by the light of dawn.
Two days later Horthir and a band of elves found him near the edge of Mirkwood, working his way back on foot.