Incunabulum 7: Into the Misty Mountains

Hrothmar and Halrodil, after recovering their confiscated weapons, followed Elvisir's advice and headed northwards to take a circuitous route back to Mirkwood. They went in silence at first for they knew their flight would soon be discovered and, although elves are skilful at evasion, they are just as skilful at detection and pursuit.

At last Halrodil spoke. "Do you really think Thranduil will turn us over to them?" he asked.

Hrothmar had been turning this very question over in his mind. What would Thranduil do? What would he or any of the other elves do if they knew the truth about him? He had been locked up in the elvenking's dungeons once or twice for short periods—generally for throwing things at people—and he did not care to make a prolonged stay in the dark grottos. But perhaps an even worse fate would be alotted him.

"You don't have anything to worry about," he said with an attempt to be consoling. "They won't do anything to you; you're innocent."

"So are you."

For a moment Hrothmar hesitated, but fought back the impulse to tell Halrodil.

"You look more innocent," he said.

They had gone perhaps a league further when both of their own accord stopped. Underfoot dry leaves whispered in a light breeze and through the half bare branches of the trees overhead the moon shone down, cold and full. The night seemed full of voices but they were of the sort that only elves can hear.

Halrodil looked from side to side and sniffed. His eyes met Hrothmar's.

"Yrch!" he said.

Hrothmar glanced down and saw his hammer, which hung in his belt, glowing at the edges. Without a sound both elves dropped to the ground among the tree roots and dry leaves and lay without moving.

From far off they could hear the sound of their feet coming nearer and nearer. The orcs were coming down from the northern mountains—to join the war, probably. Hrothmar remembered Horthir's warning and wondered that there had been no orc attacks on the camp. It was most likely that the orcs had been as disorganised by the battle as the elves had been.

They lay still and watched as the orc band passed, armour clanking, weapons rattling, here and there a bit of metal glinting in the moonlight. There was no speech, save for a grunt or squeal as someone stumbled or ran up against his neighbour. Hrothmar lay, his face in the leaves, fighting down a nauseating fear and trying to count the orcs that passed with a vague idea of collecting military information. He did not know how it happened or where it came from—the sudden fierce desire to follow the orcs, to know where they went. They passed before him in the moonlight, a dark army, and he suddenly wanted to follow them to the mountains.

He fought it back, knowing it was death to give way to impulse. Somewhere up the line there was a commotion. One of the orcs had stopped and disrupted the ranks.

"What's the hold-up?" shouted the captain, coming down the line.

"There's elves about," hissed the orc who had made the interruption.

Immediately there was an even greater disturbance in the ranks.

"How would you know?" demanded the captain.

"My elf-detector's flashing, that's how. Take a look for yourself."

"Miles away, probably."

"No, close by. Who'll help me look?"

Hrothmar and Halrodil understood none of what was said, but both sensed that they had been detected.

"What shall we do?" asked Halrodil.

Hrothmar made a sudden resolve, influenced strongly by the impulse still fighting within him. "Lie low," he said. "I'll draw them off."

He leaped to his feet and dashed off, sprinting at first to avoid arrows, but soon slowing to a steadier pace. He ran without looking back, and by the sounds behind him, he guessed the orcs were following him. He did not take notice of what direction he was running in and when he broke from the trees he was startled to find the Misty Mountains lying straight before him. He glanced back and saw the orc band in pursuit, spread out to block retreat in that direction. There was nowhere to go but straight before.

He ran on anyway, and something seemed to draw him towards the dim peaks in the distance. They lay white in the moonlight, their summits already snow-sprinkled, and they seemed to promise freedom and safety. Again he looked back, beyond the orcs, to where somewhere in the east lay Mirkwood and home. Resolutely he turned and set his face once more towards the mountains.

Elves can run faster than orcs, when not hampered by men or dwarves, and so Hrothmar's stunt was not really so foolhardy as it may have seemed. In fact it had been pulled often enough by elves before. But the farther Hrothmar ran, the stronger grew the strange urge inside him. He felt as if something were slipping from his grasp and the more he tried to hold onto it the faster it slipped away. The madness of the night of the warg ride was growing on him and he was rapidly becoming what Horthir had called "fey." The idea terrified him and he ran blindly; the only things he could make out clearly were the mountains above.

He had reached the slopes at their base and the ground became rough and full of hidden pitfalls. Swift streams and steep gorges opened up unexpectedly, forcing him to change direction more than once, and ever behind him he could hear the orc horns sounding. The mountains, instead of inviting as they had seemed at first, now appeared determined to swallow him up. He gave one desperate, despairing look over his shoulder, back across the plain he had traversed, and wondered if Halrodil had gotten away all right. Then his foot caught on something; he plunged forward and looked ahead only in time to see the earth fall away beneath him as he tumbled headlong into space. He threw up his arms and gave a cry which echoed through the rocky cliffs, hollow and haunting.

He lay in dark unconsciousness for what seemed a very long time. But it was really only a quarter of an hour perhaps before the orcs found him and he was roused by their rough hands into a trance-like stupor. He could not understand what they said, nor answer the questions put to him. They slung him on the back of the largest orc and the band set off again, entering by a narrow tunnel into the mountain.

Hrothmar was not certain of anything that was happening until a challenge rang out in the dark tunnel and voices began to speak in the common tongue, customary in orc parlance whenever there were different tribes involved.

"Halt!"

"All right, all right, don't shoot. Which of you fleas is in charge?"

"I am."

"We want to see the Goblin King. Take us there double quick."

There was a patter of bare feet in the passage ahead and the party began to move again. They emerged at last into a chamber of sorts, crowded with orcs, and were led up to a large orc who was seated on a great stone chair.

"What goes on?" he demanded.

"They want the Goblin King," the sentry explained.

"The ghash you do. Didn't you slugs get the news? He was killed over a year ago—by dwarves and a wizard."

"Who's in charge here, then?"

"I'm captain for this sector. What have you got there?"

His eye had fallen on Hrothmar, who had been dumped on the floor upon the orcs' arrival.

"We're reinforcements from the Grey Mountains. We got a prisoner, but he's ours, so keep your hands off."

"All prisoners to be turned over for questioning. Those are orders."

"Whose orders?"

"My orders!"

"You won't touch him. Call yourself a captain? My eye! Take us to your superior, louse. I wasn't born yesterday."

With a howl of rage the orc captain flew upon the leader of the band and a brief spat ensued. After a fair amount of blood had been let, the captain called it off and climbed up onto the back of the stone chair, out of reach of the orc swords.

"All right, I'll prove it," he shouted. "See here."

He tugged on a chain hung round his neck and held up to view a brass button. It was standard rank insignia for all orc chieftains in the Misty Mountains—these buttons had once been general private property, but had inevitably been taken from small orcs by bigger orcs until only the highest officers could boast of possessing one. They wore them on chains forged round their necks and too small to come off except by decapitation (to prevent theft). But of course the badge meant nothing to the foreigners from the north. They seemed agreeable to continuing hostilities and for a while the issue was hotly debated by both sides with swords and pikes.

When at last order was restored (which was not until the Grey Mountain chief was killed), the orcs decided to take a closer look at the prisoner.

"'E's still alive. He'll be some fun."

"I got him," piped up another, "so I get first dibs on his clothes."

"It was me what first knew he was there," said a lean orc, pushing the others out of the way. "Besides, they wouldn't fit you, snaga."

"Shut up," said the captain. "I'll do the deciding as to who gets what. You Grey Mountain leeches had better look sharp or you can all go the way of your chief. Reinforcements aren't so dear that we'll go taking any lip from the likes of you."

With that he began a careful assessment of Hrothmar's person. His weapons were all thrown into a corner, the orcs handling them as if they burned their hands. His clothes were more to their taste, and they would have removed them quickly enough if the captain had not kicked them back.

"What's this?" he asked, jerking a chain from Hrothmar's neck. He fingered Elvisir's good-luck charm and Hrothmar had a moment's remorse when he remembered how unkindly he had parted from his friend. In fact, he was beginning to wish he'd stayed in the cage.

"What is this?" the captain repeated, holding the charm before Hrothmar's eyes. "Speak, centipede, or I'll stick you like a pig."

"It's a charm," said Hrothmar with an effort. His head still swam and his throat was dry.

"A what?"

"A—you know—an amulet sort of thing…it's to ward off evil spirits."

The orcs drew back with exclamations of fear and advised the captain to burn it. But he held it fast with a suspicious expression.

"You're a liar," he said. "I've heard of these sorts of things. They give you special powers or turn you invisible."

"Not that one," said Hrothmar.

"Lies! But we'll get the truf out of you, don't worry. Bring up the rack, lads!"

The orcs hastened (none too reluctantly) to obey while the captain pocketed the charm. Hrothmar's fear at this point was overpowering, his psychopathic fear of orcs mixed with a very natural fear of a painful death. He struggled to speak.

"Wait!" he cried. "Wait! Don't kill me."

"We won't," said the orc captain. "—Not yet, leastways. Not until you tell me what this fancy thingem-bob is for."

The orcs had brought up a horrible-looking apparatus so indicative of gruesome torture that Hrothmar nearly fainted at sight of it.

"No, no," said Hrothmar desperately. "I can help you. I can…I can make things for you."

The orc captain paused in the middle of unclamping the shackles of the machine.

"What kind of things?" he asked.

"Swords," said Hrothmar hastily. "Beautiful…shiny swords—like that one—and knives, too…and armour."

The orcs looked at the glowing weapons in the corner with interest.

"And can you make collars?" asked an orc (iron collars were the most crucial pieces of orc armour). "—Wiv fire writing on them?"

"Hold up," said the captain. "We can't keep him alive. He might escape and tell his stinking elf friends where we are."

Hrothmar saw his chances growing slim again, but the captain had given him an idea.

"Wait," he said. "I can tell you where the elves are camped—and how many there are—everything you want to know."

The captain took a step towards him. "Where?" he asked.

"Promise you won't kill me, first."

For several minutes Hrothmar and the orc captain had a stare down, but at last the orc agreed. It was too tempting an offer.

"All right. Spit it out. But it'd better be the truf, or you're going to wish you'd never been born."

Hrothmar did not know how far he could trust an orc, but it was his only chance, however small. Still he hesitated, for betraying one's kindred was the unpardonable sin for any elf. He seemed to stand on the brink of a pit staring down into the darkness, and for an instant he knew that he did not have to step off the edge.

But the pain of his brother's death came over him in a rush and with it his hatred of Findor and the other Lothlorien elves. Strangely, with his anger was mixed the feeling that had guided him to Dol Guldur—an urge to do something low and nasty. He no longer tried to fight the impulse. It was as if he suddenly slammed the door on his old life and it was an act both satisfying and freeing.*

The orcs, once Hrothmar had told them all he knew, began to arm and sent messengers up and down the various passages to call up the rest of the armies. It was their chance to make a clean sweep and knock out the elven forces that had harried them close to extinction and they did not mean to waste it. Hrothmar was left in a dark corner with two orcs to guard him.

For long hours he lay there, and in the darkness the full meaning of what he had done sank into his mind. Even if the orcs did not kill him he could never go back to live among the elves. He had betrayed his own kinsfolk and the deed could not be kept secret forever—sooner or later the truth would surface in Galadriel's mirror.

A very long time later the orcs returned, bringing tidings of victory. They had not totally defeated the Lothlorien elves, but they had put them to flight and for a time would be safe from elven attack.

"Well, they were right where you said they were," said the captain. "But they were expecting us and we hardly surprised 'em at all. We only killed a handful."

"What about one with blond hair and hollow cheeks?" asked Hrothmar.

"How should I know? They all had blond hair. You told the truf on that score, but you still haven't told me what this shiny stone is for. We've still that account to settle, my lad!"

The orc captain kept his word to the letter and did not kill Hrothmar. But he refused to believe that the charm did not have special powers and so Hrothmar, kicking and pleading, went onto the rack.

Of course there was nothing to tell. Hrothmar's powers of invention were taxed to the utmost, but nothing he said convinced the orcs and his ordeal continued in the deep caverns for many days. Indeed, it was months (for orcs are persistent) before the orc captain was finally persuaded that whatever the stone's powers were, Hrothmar was not aware of them.

And so they put him to work forging orc swords. Kicked and cuffed, he hammered away in the lowest pits with scarcely a rest, until his skin grew grey from the smoke and his eyes grew bleared and red. His hair, which he had always been proud of and had been fond of tying in elven knots for good luck, became thin and fell out. His nails grew long and his hands grew knotted and claw-like.

And so the years passed over him, uncounted beneath the mountain. Hrothmar did not know when the sun rose or when the snows melted from the mountain slopes. He forgot the elven speech, he forgot the ways of elves or the light of the sun, he even forgot his own name. The orcs could not pronounce it. They called him Grobber.

* This would be a good time to call yourself so you can listen to your "Let It Go" ringtone.