Incunabulum 5: Orc War in Earnest
"We thought you had been killed," said Horthir. "Beorn found your horse wandering near the old ford two days ago and brought it back, hoping for a reward—needless to say, Thranduil didn't give him one. Was it orcs, then? I didn't expect them so far east."
"No, wargs."
"Really? A serious force?"
"About fifty or so. I was knocked off my horse and I thought it better to come back."
"I warned you against going alone," said Horthir. "But of course against wargs you would have needed large numbers, so it wasn't your fault, really. Perhaps it would be better to go by boat. We can accompany you as far as the river."
"No, that's all right," said Hrothmar. "I'm going back."
"You do not mean to go to Lorien?" asked Horthir with concern.
"I don't need to," said Hrothmar with as cheerful an expression as he was capable of making. "I'm cured. I slept last night for the first time in I don't know how long, and not a single nightmare. They're gone."
"That's fantastic," said Horthir. "But they may come back."
"No," said Hrothmar. "They're gone for good; I'm sure of it. I feel different."
"What made them go?"
"I faced my fears, that's all. –With the wargs. It's sort of a psychological concept, facing the thing one fears. Emeril could tell you about it, probably."
"But you've often fought orcs."
"Well, this was different. I was alone and had to face them by myself."
"Of course I'm happy for you," said Horthir. "But it seems too simple a cure. Anyway, I hope you're right. I don't want to have to be worrying about you while I'm off on campaign."
"You don't have to worry about me," said Hrothmar.
The explanation of his cure that Hrothmar had given Horthir was slightly different from the one he gave himself when he was once back in his forge and alone. He at last had a chance to think through everything he had been through and he had to admit that it was not so innocent as he had made it sound.
"It was simply a bit of nastiness that wanted to come out," he thought. "It wasn't really my own inclination. It was like something else was making me do it. Well, now it's out of me and I'm free of it and the nightmares and orcphobia and the rest. I'm all right now."
Whatever the explanation, his sleep continued to be nightmare-free and the relief this brought softened to a great extent the disappointment he felt watching the various fighting bands set out from Mirkwood without him. The war news sent back from the front was good at first. There seemed to be few orcs and their colonies were quickly broken up and destroyed. But after a week or so of propitious tidings a messenger arrived with different news: there were more orcs than expected and they needed reinforcements.
While this unexpected information was still being ventilated, Horthir himself arrived to discuss the problem with Thranduil. Hrothmar was not yet without hope that he would be sent to fight and so hung about the palace for most of the morning waiting for the conference to end. He wanted to talk to Horthir about the war and—well, just talk to him. Horthir was a comforting person to talk to and Hrothmar had been feeling shaken up for the past few days. He was having dreams again—not nightmares, but strange dreams that left him after waking with an odd feeling.
He was wandering aimlessly down a deserted corridor when he heard voices up ahead and found Findor and another Lothlorien elf conversing in low tones. He had heard Horthir's name in their discussion and stopped nearby to listen.
The two elves gave Hrothmar an uninviting stare for several minutes, but Hrothmar was not easily frightened off. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and leaned against the wall with a companionable expression. Seeing that he was not going to leave, Findor and the other elf changed their tactics and pretended not to notice him.
"Legolas is the fit one to lead. He's no wood-elf. And why shouldn't he, after all? Thranduil wants only to spite us."
"Legolas is no general," replied Findor. "But if Horthir were to fall out of favour, the king would soon dismiss him."
"Haven't you told him Horthir has bungled this whole affair?"
"That will not change his mind. Still, I have hopes."
"Hopes of what?" asked Hrothmar.
Findor gave him a long look, but deigned no reply.
Hrothmar had no time to speak to his brother on that or any other subject, for Horthir set out again immediately after finishing with the elvenking and Hrothmar's own duties were nearly doubled. He worked at his forge all day and half the night sometimes, turning out weapons of war; and as he did so he tried to beat out the troubles in his mind as he beat out sparks from the iron.
He could not deny it any longer: the strange feeling that had controlled him on the night he met the wargs was again growing inside him and each day it became stronger. It was a desire for something, he did not even know what—a mixture of longing and fear… and a strange impulse to do something rather nasty. He wished Elvisir were there to talk to him and take his mind off of it, but as he was alone day after day the feeling grew on him.
The only company he had very much of was the men of Esgaroth who arrived periodically to collect their payment of elven swords. They were always inclined to talk but Hrothmar usually did not respond to their friendly inquiries.
"I'm a smith myself," said one of them in sanguine confidence of striking a friendship. "But I've never managed to get such a good temper as the elven blades have. A beautiful blade."
"It is incredibly sharp," remarked one Esgarothian who had just cut his finger on it.
"I like the filigree, but could you put a dragon on mine instead of flowers?"
Horthir pushed several individuals out of his way and entered the smoky forge.
"Hello, Hrothmar," he said. "I hate to pile more work on you, but I have some arms that need repair."
"Are you here?" asked Hrothmar in surprise, for he had thought his brother many miles away.
"Yes, for a few hours and then I'm off again." Horthir piled a collection of broken armour and weapons on the floor. "When you finish with those, I'll need you to deliver them to us in the mountains. That will you give a break, anyway."
"Thanks," said Hrothmar. "How's the war?"
"Going well, only we've been encountering a lot of opposition. We're going to need to touch Esgaroth for another five hundred men or so."
He stood for a moment, watching the Esgarothians who were deep in conversation about prior battles they had been in, orc, dragon, and otherwise.
"I'm to take that lot back with me," Horthir said. "They don't seem a very rowdy bunch."
"How can they be so cheerful about fighting when their lives are so short already?" said Hrothmar with sudden curiosity.
"They say death was a gift to men from Iluvatar," said Horthir. "Men believe that immortality lies in mortality—that to truly live one must be able to die."
"But they fear death, too."
"In a different way. They are not bound to this earth as we are. For them death is as much a part of life as birth."
For the first time Hrothmar wished he understood men. But he did not know exactly why and he soon forgot about it.
That night he awoke in a sweat, sitting straight up in bed and clutching the sheet so hard that his wrists hurt. He had had a nightmare again and this time it had been worse than the others.
He dared not even try to go back to sleep, but fled from the hut as if it were haunted by evil spirits. Outdoors the moon was reduced to a paring and the stars shone coldly. Hrothmar breathed deeply twice and then shuddered from head to foot.
He turned and followed the course of the river past the low huts and treetop dwellings of the other elves. Something had to be done. He could not live with nightmares and his desire to go to Lothlorien for treatment had not grown stronger since his last attempt. His cure had been temporary, as Horthir had feared, but it had at least been a cure—it might be repeatable.
He went to the stables where his horse stood sleeping on its feet. He led it out without bit or saddle far into the forest, leaped lightly onto its back, and set off at a gallop south-westwards. Far into the next day he rode, following secret elven paths, and rested only briefly before setting off again at the coming of night, southwards this time, towards the edge of Mirkwood.
He left the forest in nearly the same place he had met the wargs. The gently rolling ground stretched away before him just as he remembered it, but it was bare and deserted. Hrothmar was not sure just what he had hoped to find there, or if he had thought the place itself might somehow affect him as it had that other night. In any case his hopes had been vain and he was no closer to being rid of his fear.
He set off once more, aimlessly at first, simply because he did not wish to return home at once, but gradually he began heading more and more southwards. He reentered Mirkwood as the sun rose the following day. Here the trees were close together and creeping vines grew tangled over the ground, catching at his horse's feet. Strange pattering sounds echoed off in the depths of the wood but not a living creature was to be seen.
At length Hrothmar came to the foot of a hill. On the sides and top of the hill no trees stood, but only crumbling stone walls like broken teeth. All was deserted, but a feeling of menace hung over the place. It was Dol Guldur, the Hill of Dark Sorcery. Hrothmar did not know why he had come there or what he would do now that he had come, but it seemed that some intention had been fulfilled simply by coming. His horse was restless, but Hrothmar lingered, looking up at the dark ruin. Then, with an elven command bidding his horse to remain where it was, he climbed the hill on foot and passed through an archway.
The place was definitely deserted. Hrothmar clambered up the stairs of a disintegrating tower, startling a flock of crows into the sky above, and looked out over the treetops of Mirkwood. One could see very far from that vantage point—farther, probably, than was natural, even for an elf. Northwards and westwards the land seemed to lie peacefully in the sunlight, but southwards Hrothmar saw a dank mist rolling up from the Dead Marshes, mixed with the clammy smell of the swampland.
As he stared at the phenomenon, his ears began to catch sounds carried up with the mist—voices and depressed screams that chilled his blood. He trembled and wished he had not come. He had heard tales of the Dead Marshes and of the terrible things buried there. It was rumoured that, if you were not careful, you could be lured down into the slimy pools and strangled by the unspeakable things that lay at the bottom.
He turned suddenly and his eyes darted over the area behind him. There was nothing there, but for an instant he had felt as if he were being watched. Hastily retracing his steps, he returned to the bottom of the hill, mounted his horse, and rode back into the shadows of the trees.
He reached the elven settlement a few days later, hoping he not been missed. No one, however seemed to have noticed his disappearance. News of the war had arrived but a short time before and, it being good news, everyone was elated. In the palace, Hrothmar bumped into a party of elves rolling casks down to the wine cellar.
"So what's happened?" he asked.
"There has been a great victory and thousands of orcs have been killed," replied one of the elves. "A rider brought the news not many hours ago. Thranduil is holding a feast to celebrate."
"Tonight?"
"Yes, we're getting ready now. Several fighting bands are back on furlough and more are expected. I think your brother's troop is arriving later this evening."
"Now doesn't seem the time for taking a break," observed Hrothmar.
"Oh, the orcs are beaten now, beyond a doubt."
The elf bent and gave a feeble push to the barrel.
"Why do the people of Esgaroth always send us such great casks?" he said.
The corridor being slanted, the barrel began to roll faster than the elf had expected and he had to chase after it without waiting for a reply.
Hrothmar turned and suddenly saw Findor several paces away, gazing at him with an inscrutable expression on his sallow face. Hrothmar could not fathom what the blond elf was thinking, but he seemed almost pleased about something. Without reason, Hrothmar's mind went back to the moment in Dol Guldur when he had felt as if eyes were upon him. Had Findor…?"
As he stared at him, Findor turned and strode away. Hrothmar stood, unblinking, trying to sort things out in his mind, when a hand was suddenly clamped onto his shoulder from behind.
"There you are. Where have you been? I couldn't pick the lock on your forge."
Hrothmar jumped six inches vertically and came down on Elvisir's toe.
"Oh, it's you," he said.
"Yes, it's me. You need to lose a few pounds. Come on and open shop so we can talk somewhere in peace. I want to show you a new song I wrote."
Elvisir's arrival was a tremendous relief to Hrothmar. At last he could speak to someone without worrying about consequences. Elvisir was the best kind of friend and knew how to keep his mouth shut when necessary. When they were once safely inside the smithy with the door shut, Hrothmar gave him an abridged account of his trip to Dol Guldur and his suspicions of Findor.
"He left for Mirkwood several days ago, so it's possible he followed you," said Elvisir. "He's been making no end of trouble for Horthir at the front, and Horthir sent him back with a blank message. But why on earth did you go to that awful place to begin with?"
"I was hoping if I faced some kind of fear, I'd get rid of my nightmares again," Hrothmar explained. "All right, I was desperate. But now I really don't know what to do. Do you think it would cause a row if Findor told?"
"What if he did? He can't prove anything."
"He doesn't have to," said Hrothmar grimly.
"How do you mean?"
"All he has to do is ask Galadriel to look in that mirror of hers."
Hrothmar had not told Elvisir about his adventure with the wargs, but the remembrance of it was bothering him. Dol Guldur was bad, but the warg ride would weigh far more heavily against him if anyone found out about it.
The elvenking's palace was full of music that evening and the wine flowed freely. Everyone had been invited, but Hrothmar alone had not showed up. He hung about outside the palace within sight of the glow of the festivities, but could not summon enough gaiety to feel like joining them.
A restless feeling was growing within him, and another feeling which he knew well—an awful, sickening fear. He did not believe as the others did that the orcs would soon be defeated-what of those voices in the forest? And even if they were defeated, he had known all along that killing the orcs was not the answer to his problem.
At last he left the settlement and strode through the forest, following elven paths. He walked aimlessly, but some impulse seemed to lead him northeast until, after about an hour's walking, he came to the edge of Mirkwood. The land lay in half shadow under a moon that had fattened to a thick crescent. To the northeast loomed darkly Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, and farther south (for Hrothmar stood on a high point of ground) could just be caught a gleam of the Long Lake with the river flowing into it.
But Hrothmar stared northwards, towards the Grey Mountains, as if waiting and listening for some word or signal. All was silent. At length he shook himself and shivered, as if awakened.
"It's useless," he muttered. "There's nothing here."
And he wondered what he had been looking for.
He had turned to go when suddenly, carried faintly on the wind, he caught a sound. He turned back and swept the open country, searching for movement. There was nothing to be seen, but again he heard the noise, faint and far off—the sound of a wolf howl.
For a moment he stood, unable to move. He could see nothing, but the sound was there and the strange feeling of the night in the forest with the wargs came rushing back to him. He turned back and began to follow the sound northwards, hesitatingly at first, but soon at a run. As he ran the land rose and dipped before him in innumerable hollows, and when he had gone several furlongs and crested a small hill he saw emerging from one of these depressions a bevy of shadowy forms, running westwards in the moonlight.
The foremost shadow raised its head and bayed and the rest of the pack answered in chorus. Hrothmar ran faster. The wolves had not yet seen him and held on their course. In the back of his mind Hrothmar knew that what he was doing was suicide, but somehow he seemed unable to stop himself. He ran on, scarcely seeing or hearing anything, until a sudden blow between his shoulders sent him plunging headfirst into the grass and he tumbled to the bottom of a gentle slope.
For a moment he was too dazed to do more than blink. Then he felt someone catch hold of him and pull him into a sitting position.
"Sorry, old man, but it was the only way to stop you."
"Horthir!"
"What were you trying to do?"
Hrothmar struggled and tried to regain his feet.
"Stop; you can't," said Horthir, pinning him down.
They were fairly evenly matched in strength and for several minutes grappled with each other in the grass. At last Hrothmar fell back panting and the wild look slowly died out of his eyes. He groaned.
"You've gone fey," said Horthir. "I didn't think that could really happen to somebody. What's wrong, Hrothmar? What's happened?"
Hrothmar sniffed and rubbed his nose. It left a dark streak on the back of his hand, and looking at the stain in the moonlight he realised it was blood.
"You'd better tell me," said Horthir. "Are the dreams back?"
Hrothmar nodded.
"Is that why you went to Dol Guldur?"
"Did Findor tell you?"
"I had hoped he wasn't telling the truth. You're not trying to face your fears at all, are you? You're looking for something else."
"Let me go," Hrothmar groaned, attempting to get free of his brother's grasp. "Leave me alone."
"I won't let you destroy yourself," said Horthir desperately.
"Why not?" muttered Hrothmar. "It would be better."
"No, there is still hope of a cure."
Hrothmar stopped struggling, and Horthir went on hopefully. "If you fear the Lady Galadriel, I won't make you go to her. I'll speak to Lord Elrond. He is very wise. He may know what to do."
Hrothmar entertained no hopes, but for his brother's sake, subsided into passivity.
"Hrothmar, I'll do what I can for you, but promise me you won't do anything crazy," said Horthir.
Hrothmar sniffed again and clamped a handkerchief over his nose. "I probise," he muttered.