Scene 1: Treachery at Sea
Finbor
leads the way onto the Easterling barge, guiding Grimmód below deck. His
companions follow with their steeds and the faithful mule. The lower deck
is dark and fairly cramped, being filled with the stowage; it also leads to the
outriggers where the oars are placed, ten to a side. A caller stands in
the center of the lower deck, shouting out the rhythm to keep the rowers
synchronized. The companions lash their animals to the posts at the rear
of the lower deck, the compartment designed to hold what little cavalry the
Easterlings transport on their naval expeditions. Returning above deck,
they find Morlach waiting for them. “Stay on top of the deck, and
keep out of trouble,” he growls to them. There are now a total of
about thirty Easterlings aboard the ship, about half of them warriors and the other
half savage mariners accustomed to pillage and plunder. They push the
Fellowship off to the side, preparing the barge to cast off. Some of them
climb up the ship’s one tall mast to man the sail, while most climb down
below deck to man the oars. A squad of warriors stands with Morlach at
the base of the sail, from which position orders are shouted to guide the
ship. Finbor studies the “hunters” trying to gauge their
skill and discipline from how they carry themselves. [Insight skill test,
untrained] However, Finbor has precious little experience with such cerebral
calculation; he is unable to get much of a feel for their ability, bravery, or
loyalty to their commander.
The
companions gather at the port side of the barge, standing at a low rail and
looking out at the north shore. With the Easterlings distracted by
business of their own, it is the last chance for the companions to talk in
relative privacy. Bergalad looks far to the east toward the Great
Wood. "We should expect to be confronted by my distant cousins who live
in these woods,” he says in a quiet voice, “and we should be
prepared to be met with a very ill-will. It will also not do to let on
too much about our quest, for if Dáma's words hold true the Angril has
power to tempt the hearts of Elf, Man, and Dwarf alike". It is a
somber assessment, yet all fear it to be true. Bergalad presses Frolin on
his ability to find the crystal shards. The Dwarven-sage nods slowly,
also casting his gaze to the distant east. Yes, when he concentrates he
can feel the pull of the shards – two of them apart, held separately by
different entities, nearly two hundred miles to the east.
Around
mid-day the barge is ready to sail. The ropes tying it to the shore are
cut, and the current carries the vessel into the river’s mouth and out
toward the
The
hours crawl by for the inexperienced sea-travelers, even though they are making
much swifter progress on the water than they could hope to on land. The
rowers are strong, the sea’s current generally cooperative, and the wind
favorable. One of the Bolcoth sailors emerges with a small barrel of beer
and a trencher of dried meat, distributing portions to the Easterling
crew. He begrudgingly approaches the Fellowship, offering them a swig and
a morsel. It is all that most of the companions dare consume, for their
stomachs are too badly stirred by the waves to suffer hunger. They look
upon Golaric’s men with some envy, for these men all appear to have their
sea-legs and bear the strains of the waves without complaint. Finbor
keeps a watchful eye on his friends, his shield braced and sword
ever-ready. Éogar matches his vigil, holding his spear and shield at his
captain’s command. Frolin leans casually upon his axe, little
concerned; Rard and Bergalad bear their bows but have slung them across their
shoulders, and do not expect to have to use them.
By
dusk the Easterling barge has been sailing for a full six hours, and Éogar
gauges they have traversed more than fifty miles already. The sun sits in
the western horizon, beginning to fade from high-day gold to late-day
orange. Rard warily hazards another gaze at the waves and the shore to
the north, and he suddenly jumps up nervously. “Oh, it is so
far!” he cries. Finbor pats his shoulder, trying to comfort
him. Bergalad and Éogar gaze out to the north shore, and exchange
concerned looks.
“He is right,” Bergalad states. “We
are at least three miles from the shore.”
“And
heading farther out and quickly,” Éogar warns.
Finbor
frowns tensely, striding half-way toward Morlach and his men issues commands
beneath the sail-mast. “Morlach!” the Gondorian warrior
shouts. “Have your mariners lost their wits? The Great Wood
lies along the northern shore of the sea, and yet the ship is pulling away from
the coast!”
Morlach
shouts a string of commands to his men in his own language, then turns to face
Finbor. He takes a few steps toward the man and says, “And since
when do the mighty lords of the West know aught of seacraft? Fool I name
you, Finbor of Gondor. You know nothing of these waters, and your command
would sink us. The northern coast is treacherous, full of shoals and
rocks to run aground. The only safe passage is deeper out to sea.
We must sail out of sight of land and guide by the stars tonight; in the
morning we shall face toward the north shore and will reach the Great Wood
before tomorrow eve.” The one-eyed commander turns his back on
Finbor and rejoins his men, once again hollering a barrage of orders in the
Bolcoth tongue.
Finbor
returns to his companions along the port rail, watching helplessly as the
northern shore vanishes altogether from sight. No-one in the Fellowship
possesses great knowledge of sea-travel, though Rard admits to rafting
experience upon the
Another
hour passes, and the day is beginning to give out. The sun in the west is
a twilight-orange, though it still casts a bright glow throughout the reddened
sky. A couple more hours of light, then will come the stars.
Suddenly, there is a flurry of action, as some men climb up the mast and some
men go below deck. It is nearing time for the dinner meal, perhaps some
more food and drink will be brought out. Several more warriors emerge
from below deck, joining Morlach and his troop by the mast. [Wisdom
tests, TN 10] Most of the Fellowship has grown accustomed to the Bolcoth crew,
inured to their presence and movements. However, Bergalad’s
Elven-senses are sharp and wary; his eyes are drawn up to the sailors who have
replaced the previous shift manning the sail. The Elf whispers to his
friends, “Be ready, but do not look! Those sailors who have climbed
up the mast are bearing long darts. I do not think they intend to throw
at fish…” Morlach, reinforced by a band of ten warriors,
leaves his station at the base of the mast and closes in upon the Fellowship at
the port side of the barge. All of the Fellowship stands firm; Éogar and
Finbor hold their shields ready and rest their hands on their weapons, Frolin
puts both hands on the haft of his axe, and Bergalad and Rard slowly slip their
bows from their shoulders.
Morlach
and his men fan out in a wide arc, flanking the right and left of the
Fellowship’s position against the port rail. They draw within five
yards and halt, fierce grimaces upon their faces. All of them are covered
by leather cuirasses; half of them carry wicked spears and the other half,
Morlach included, carry long curves swords. “Morlach!”
Finbor bellows angrily. “What do you want?”
Morlach
flashes a vicious smile, his one good eye fixed on the Fellowship.
“I want to offer my Lord Sauron a sacrifice. We are now far out to
sea, and your bodies will be swallowed into the deep. Sauron is a god who
cannot die, and may he smile upon this small revenge for the indignity
inflicted upon him. I cannot slay the king who broke the
“This
is madness!” Rard cries. “You need us to help you find
Baldur! Only we can locate and identify him.”
Morlach
spits a short, sinister laugh. “No,” he says, “I need
only one of you, little manling.” Without any further delay
Morlach shouts out his commands in the Bolcoth tongue, pointing explicitly to
Rard and then waving a derisive gesture at Frolin. Although the
Fellowship cannot understand his speech, his meaning is clear and needs no
translation: “Kill them all but NOT the halfling! And leave the
Dwarf for me!” There is a pair of sailors atop the mast who lift
javelins and prepare to take aim. Morlach’s warriors immediately
point their blades at the Fellowship and leap to attack, eager to draw
blood…
STAMINA
TESTS (for Sea-sickness, Weariness bonuses do not apply) [TN 10]
Bergalad:
5 roll + 1 = 6, failure (Weary -4)
Éogar:
15 roll + 3 + 4 Warrior’s Heart = 22, extraordinary success (Hale -0)
Finbor:
5 roll + 2 = 7, failure (Weary -4)
Frolin:
8 roll + 2 = 10, marginal success (Tired -2)
Rard:
9 roll + 2 + 1 Seacraft affinity = 12, complete success (Tired -2)
After
so many hours sailing upon the rolling waves, most of the Fellowship is weary
and slightly sick in the stomach. Bergalad and Finbor appear the most affected, Bergalad with fatigue and Finbor with
nausea. Rard and Frolin are somewhat less discomfited by the ordeal,
though still weakened. Only Éogar seems totally unfazed by the strain of
the voyage, the call to battle shaking all sickness and fatigue from his mind
and body. The companions stand side-by-side with their backs to the port
railing (left side of the ship): Finbor on Fellowship’s right flank, then
Rard and Bergalad, then Frolin, and Éogar on the left flank nearest to the bow
of the ship. The ten warriors with spears and scimitars are five yards
away from the port railing but preparing to leap to the attack; Morlach is
among them, opposite Frolin and Éogar. The two sailors on the mast with
javelins are perhaps six yards back and six yards up (for an effective range of
eight yards distance). The barge is a little over thirty feet wide port
to starboard and sixty feet long aft to bow.
Scene 2:
Many
leagues across the
Éogar,
ever-wary, is the first to react to the phalanx of Easterlings descending upon
his position. The Rohirric warrior lands a superior blow against the
spearman closest to the bow, cracking through the foe’s leather cuirass
and lightly wounding the man. Éogar continues his advance and slams into
the injured opponent, pushing him against the rail. Though it is a simple
act of balance to avoid spilling over, the wounded enemy is clearly untrained
in such feats of nimbleness and falls overboard, splashing into the water
below.
Rard
is right behind Éogar. “We hobbits have beaten Sauron
before,” he taunts his foes. “Let’s see how you like my
sting!” The hobbit quick-draws an arrow and fixes it in
Halgo’s bow, shooting at one of the Easterling’s atop the
mast. The arrow strikes the foe’s leg, a superior hit; no more
agile than his compatriot, apparently, the man loses balance and plummets over
twenty feet to the deck blow, seriously wounding him. His dart long gone,
he looks in no condition to continue the fight. Rard reaches for another
arrow, and shoots hastily at the other man on the mast: another superior hit,
and the man is lightly wounded. However, this fellow manages to keep his
balance, dart still in hand.
The Easterling scimitar-men leap at the Fellowship,
three upon Finbor, one upon Frolin, and one upon Éogar. Even
overextended from his flurry of actions, Éogar is able to deflect the attack
with his shield. Frolin prepares to parry but the sword-strike is badly
aimed and flies over his head. Finbor, meanwhile, is compelled to try to
parry all three attacks, and outflanked he is more vulnerable to their
blows. They all wield their scimitars in two hands, full-force
strokes. Even at his least skillful Finbor is able to deflect the first
blow with his shield. His display of expertise is far greater against the
other two swordsman, extraordinary parries followed up
by shield-bashes. The swordsmen are off-balance from their clumsy blows,
and it is enough of an advantage for Finbor to slam his shield into the first
foe, lightly wounding him. When the third man’s sword bounces off
his shield, the Easterling fails to parry the Finbor’s shield as it slams
into his chest, also lightly wounding him.
A
moment later, the javelin-man who fell from the mast lets out a pitiful
moan. He pushes himself onto his feet and staggers toward the hatch that
leads below deck, grabbing the ladder and tumbling down to safety below.
The other javelin-man takes aim at Bergalad and looses his dart, but his aim is
off and the nimble Elf safely avoids the flying blade.
Finbor
and Morlach are next to respond. Overextended from his flurry of parries,
Finbor can only hazard an awkard thrust at the man in front of him. "Cursed Balchoth" he mutters, "Herubrand for Lamedon!"
Herubrand the blade pushes through the Easterling’s clumsy parry and
bites into his leather breastplate: it is a vicious stroke that seriously
wounded the man. Morlach, at the same time, charges at Frolin, hate in
his eyes. The Easterling commander’s momentum carries him right
into Frolin, but the Dwarf is set to receive the charge. With great
courage, Frolin manages to catch the scimitar on the edge of his axe, forcing
the blow aside. [1 Courage spent, 1 point remaining]
Next,
Bergalad pulls an arrow from his quiver and shoots at the man still standing
upon the mast. The shaft sinks into his leg, seriously wounding him and
causing him to plummet from atop the sail; he slams into the deck below and
cracks his head against the wooden planks, a mortal injury.
A
moment after, the spearman fall upon the Fellowship – one thrusting at
Finbor, one grabbing at Rard, one stabbing at Frolin, and the last thrusting at
Éogar. Their spears are gripped in two hands, pushing with full
strength. Finbor, badly overextended, attempts to block yet another blow
with his shield, but the spearpoint slips through and lands a superior blow
against his upper body; his mail absorbs the impact, but the blow still dazes
him slightly. [18 damage, Dazed -1] The spearman attacking Frolin
thrusts viciously at the Dwarf, and only by his
remaining courage is Frolin able to drive the spearpoint aside with his
axe. [1 Courage spent, 0 remaining] Éogar is as badly overextended
as Finbor. When the spear strikes at him, he has little hope of dodging
aside: a superior blow punches into the scale corslet over his gut, bruising
the flesh underneath. [24 Damage, Dazed -0] At the same time, the
final spearman reaches out with his right hand to grab Rard; he quickly learns
that it is easier said that done to lay hands on a hobbit, whose natural
nimbleness is enough easily to avoid the clumsy grope.
Frolin,
finally able to take the initiative, is already extended by his parrying.
He is able to hazard a quick and awkward chop at Morlach, but his axe falls
short and misses the wicked Easterling.
*
* *
Blessed
with luck, Frolin quickly regains the initiative and follows through with
another blow against Morlach. He delivers a superior blow, and only with
tremendous courage is Morlach able to parry the Dwarf’s vicious
axe-stroke. [2 Courage spent!] Frolin recovers from the swing and
holds his axe at the ready, to parry the inevitable blows coming his way.
Éogar,
pinned against the rail by a spearman and a swordsman, turns his wrath on the
spearman in between him and Frolin – and Morlach! His first thrust
is a superior blow against the man’s belly, puncturing his cuirass and
seriously wounding him; the follow-through is a superior thrust into the
Easterling’s neck, dropping him to the deck with a mortal injury.
Morlach
hisses an angry curse at Frolin and chops at the Dwarf with his scimitar.
The blow is not particularly skillful for this aged warrior, and Frolin is
just barely able to defect the sword with a parrying blow from his axe.
Rard,
seeing so many foes closing in on all sides, tries a risky maneuver: he dives
through the legs of the man trying to grab him! [Opposed Swiftness/Dodge
tests] The hobbit easily tumbles past the man and scurries onto his feet,
trying to jog to the other side of the ship where a couple water barrels rest
against the starboard rail. [Run test, TN 10, -4 for number of foes,
halved to -2 with Fleet-footed ability, +3 from Courage = complete
success] Summoning up his Courage, Rard manages to weave around all of
the big men in his way. He breaks for the barrels at the other side of
the ship, laughing gleefully as he taunts them with tittering cries of,
“Attercop, Attercop!” Some bit of Bilbo’s nonsense he
read in a book in Cousin Merry’s library… Once behind the
barrels, Rard quick-draws an arrow and fits it into his bowstring. [1 Courage
spent, 1 point remaining]
Eight
of Morlach’s men remain standing, through three
of them have been injured by Finbor’s swift-striking sword.
Smelling blood, the four men who surrounded Finbor several moments before
repeat their assault, chopping and stabbing at him furiously in a flurry of
rapid blows. Only the seriously wounded man is hesitant, chopping at
him just once. Finbor is badly outflanked, a vulnerable target for
all their blows. Seven blows rain down upon the Gondorian warrior, and
amazingly he manages to parry six of them with his shield! Twisting and
turning with great skill, overextending himself again and again, he manages to
block all of the scimitar blows: two of his parries are so extraordinary that
he is able to follow-through with shield bashes, but in his weakened state he
is unable to hit with the brawling attacks. He is even able to deflect
one of the spear thrusts, but the second blow pushes past his shield and cuts
into his shoulder. [8 damage, Injured -3] The swordsman locked in melee
with Éogar launches a mighty two-handed attack, but the Rohirric warrior is
easily able to dodge the heavy stroke. Two of the spearman advance to
where Rard stood, thrusting powerful two-handed blows at Bergalad: the Elf is a
nimble target, though, and he is easily able to dodge aside and avoid their
spears. However, the Elf is backed up against the railing and has no room
to load or shoot his bow, which is now a vulnerable encumbrance in his hand
rather than a weapon.
One
of the swordsmen, however, breaks from the line and turns toward Rard, growling
something very angry in his native speech. He clumsily runs away from the
grand melee, slowed down by the pitching of the ship and the flailing limbs of
the combatants, but he covers enough distance to approach the barrels.
Only a couple yards away from Rard, his holds his sword in his left hand and
prepares to leap upon the hobbit as soon as Rard tries to slip out from behind
his makeshift cover.
Bergalad
drops his left hand to his side, getting his bow out of the way. He
quickly reaches for a sheath at his belt, drawing a long-knife dagger,
preparing to defend himself in close-quarters as best he can…
* * *
As
the battle on the Easterling ship rages on, Éogar is the first to regain the
initiative. He brings his spear to bear on Morlach and quickly jabs at
the man. Morlach flails his scimitar but fails to block the spear, which
cracks into his leather cuirass and leaves a dazing bruise. Éogar follows
through with another thrust, but this time Morlach is able to catch the shaft
with his blade and drive the spear aside.
Bergalad,
alarmed to find himself pinned against the railing by two
spearman, attempts to overrun their position and escape. [Strength
opposed tests, complete success] With the strength, or fortune, of the Eldar,
Bergalad manages to struggle past the spearman in front of him and jogs to the
past in the center of the ship. The Elf takes cover on the opposite side
of the wooden pole, putting his knife in his mouth, slinging his bow over his
shoulder, and preparing to climb up the ropes and rigging.
At
the other side of the ship, the hobbit Rard watches the scene in dismay.
“By all the turnips in Buckley Proudfoot’s garden, that’s a
mess!” he sighs. He is relieved when he espies Bergalad overrun the
spearmen and escape to the mast. Heartened, he pops up from behind the
barrel, an arrow already notched. After taking aim at the Easterling
trying to capture him, he shoots at the man’s sword-arm. At
point-blank range, it is an easy shot against the poorly armored Bolcoth, a
superior hit that sinks deeply into his flesh. The foe is lightly
wounded, gasping in pain as he grabs at the shaft stick in his right
shoulder. The hobbit beams a proud smile, quick-drawing another arrow for
his bow.
"Did
you not learn your lesson in the last war, One-eye?" Frolin growls at
Morlach. "Easterlings are no match for the folk of the
West!" Seeing his foe already extended in dealing with Éogar, the
Dwarf lashes out with two precise strokes of his axe. Morlach is able to
block the first stroke with his scimitar, but he cannot recover in time to
parry the second superior blow. The axe cuts through his cuirass, drawing
blood beneath and leaving him visibly wounded.
Before
Finbor can regain the initiative, his antagonists swarm him again. The
spearman quickly reverses his spear and swipes at Finbor’s legs with the
butt, trying to trip him. Twice, Finbor is barely able to square his
shield and sword in time to block the pole jabbing at his ankles. Finbor,
reserving the last wave of moment for an attack of his own, suffers the wrath
of the three swordsmen. They hack into him viciously with powerful,
two-handed blows. His armor absorbs most of the first blow, but the
second superior hit cuts deeply into his torso and the third blow is nearly as
bloody (33 total damage, Near Death). The mighty warrior cries
out in pain, two visible gashes torn in his mail corslet revealing a
mortal wound deep in chest. Finbor slumps down on one knee, dying…
The
spearman whom Bergalad overran spins about angrily, bracing his spear and
charging down the Elf. Bergalad, using the mast for cover, just barely
manages to avoid the fast momentum of the thrusting spearhead. The other
spearman who had been trying to contain Bergalad instead leaps to the aid of
Morlach, seeing his captain badly wounded by Frolin. The Dwarf, already
fully extended from his attack on Morlach, tries in vain to block the spear
thrust; the blade slides past his arm, leaving a small cut in the flesh (8
damage, Dazed). At the same time, the remaining swordsman facing Éogar
kicks at the warrior’s ankle, trying to trip him. Éogar tries to
dodge, but apparently he is caught off-guard and stumbles into the
Easterling’s kick. Fortunately, he is too swift to be felled by the
blow, and both men remain on their feet. The swordsman rebounds with a
quick swashing blow. Éogar, now overextended, tries to dodge but cannot
avoid the blade; it slides off his corslet onto his arm, slicing open the flesh
(9 damage, Injured).
At
the other side of the ship, the swordsman trying to capture Rard gives chase
and tries to slip around the aft-side of the barrels. “Come on
then, let’s see what you can do!” Rard taunts, stepping away from
his grasping hand. The man circles around the barrels, and Rard tries to
dodge aside, but this time he feels a tug on his cloak collar – he has
been grabbed! The swordsman, grimacing darkly through the pain in his
arm, pulls the hobbit closer to him…
Back
along the port-side of the boat, the situation looks bleak for the
Fellowship. Bergalad has been pursued to the mast by one of the
spearman. Éogar and Frolin, both hurt, are locked in combat with a
wounded Morlach and two of his men. The four Easterlings who have cut
down Finbor are leaving him for dead, preparing to charge down Frolin and
Éogar. Suddenly, the valiant Finbor leaps back up onto his feet, despite
his mortal wounds. [Valiant Bearing test,
complete success] Finding a new well of courage deep within his heart, the
Gondorian warrior uses what little momentum remains in his body to sweep three
of the Easterlings surrounding him. Loosing a dying war-cry, Finbor
slices his blade Herubrand through the neck of the swordsman to his right,
carries the slashing stroke into the side of the spearman who tried to trip
him, and finishes the arc by cutting through the bowels of the swordsman
nearby. The first swordman falls overboard in two pieces, head and trunk
splashing into the water separately; the second swordsman falls dead onto the
death, innards spilling onto the wooden planks; the spearman howls in pain,
seriously wounded and falling back in fear. Finbor, whose might among the
Men of Gondor rivals the famed Boromir, spits up blood and expires limply onto
the deck.
*
* *
“Finbor!”
shouts Éogar, his voice full of wrath, as his friend falls in battle. The
Rohirric warrior ignores the swordsman on his flank and leaps at Morlach,
grabbing at him with his shield-arm [1 Courage
spent]. The wounded Easterling chief desperately tries to drive Éogar
back with his scimitar, but in his wounded state he cannot fend off the
attack. Éogar pins Morlach to the ground with his shield, raising his
spear over his head and aiming it at Morlach’s throat. “Tell
your men to back away, Morlach!" Éogar threatens, intimidating him at
spear-point. [Intimidate test, opposed by Willpower; extraordinary
success for Éogar, 2 Courage spent, 0 remaining] Bloodied from wounds and now
grappled by the formidable Éogar, Morlach utters a pitiful gurgling sound from
his throat, eyes wide in terror. Wholly unmanned, he babbles panicked
commands in the Bolcoth tongue.
Frolin
and Bergalad are both ready on their feet. In case the Easterlings get
any different ideas, Frolin holds his axe to chop at the nearest man who fails
to back off. Bergalad leaps up onto one of the dangling ropes, pulling himself up the mast and out of reach of the spearman below;
he holds both his bow and knife, ready to punish the men below if they do not
yield. The Easterling who has grabbed Rard pulls the hobbit away from the
barrels only to see his chief pinned and held at spear-point. The little
hobbit struggles in vain to escape the grab, but the Easterling dares not
manhandle Rard any further.
Morlach
repeats his string of commands, even more fearfully. One by one, his men
left standing lower their weapons and back away. The spearman wounded by
Finbor’s dying stroke limps to the aft of the boat, followed by the
spearman trying to catch Bergalad. The remaining wounded swordsman who
had been facing Finbor slowly retreats aftward, along with the other swordsman
and spearman who had been engaged with Frolin and Éogar. The swordsman
stuck by Rard’s arrow is the last to relent; giving Rard a very dirty
look, he throws the hobbit to the deck and warily joins the group at the aft of
the boat. Rard gets back up and scurries over to his friends at the port
railing, gazing in horror at Finbor’s bloodied supine body lying on the
deck.
“Finbor…”
Rard murmurs, tears pouring from his eyes. “You can’t be
dead, you just can’t!” Staring at the body, the little hobbit
suddenly gasps and looks at Frolin. “I just saw him breathe!
He’s not dead yet!” Finbor Angbor’s son coughs up
blood, barely able to draw breath, hovering on the edge of alertness and
unconsciousness, life and death.
His
six surviving men, half of them injured, now at the far aft-end of the ship,
Morlach looks around in abject fear. He dares a glance at the mortally
stricken Finbor, then looks up at Éogar.
“I have done what you asked,” he pleads. “Spare me!
Éogar
bores his fuming gaze into Morlach, holding his spear to his neck.
“Order this boat to sail back to the north coast. Do it
now!” Morlach shrieks out an Easterling name, and warily one of the
sailors emerges from below deck. The sailor looks fearfully to the
warriors gathered at the aft, and then to Morlach. Morlach blathers a string of panicked words, and the sailor nods
quickly and charges back below deck. A moment later the oars dig into the
waves once more, and the steering board cuts a sharp arc in the water; slowly
the barge swings around nearly a half-circle in direction, facing north.
As the wind and oars drive the ship back toward the northern coast, Éogar
senses the change in direction and is certain his dictate has been followed.
Morlach
breathes hard, wide eyes riveted on the tip of Éogar’s spear.
“It is done, now let me go!”
Scene 3: Crisis at Sea
Attacked
at sea by the treacherous Morlach and his squad of hunters, the Fellowship has
prevailed but at high cost. Finbor lies on the deck, near death.
Éogar has pinned Morlach down with his shield, holding his spear to the
Easterling’s neck and ordering him to call off the attack. Morlach
desperately commanded his men to withdraw, and the surviving hunters tentatively
fall back to the aft of the ship, their weapons lowered but not
relinquished. Éogar demands of Morlach, "Did Golaric set you to this
task, or was this your attempt at revenge for your
failings in the War of the Ring?"
Morlach
breathes heavily, his eyes shifting back and forth from Éogar to the
spearhead. “I know my master’s will…” is all that
Morlach will say in response.
Éogar
lifts up Morlach and lowers his spear, still tightly grasping the one-eyed
man. "How far is it to shore? How far to
where your traders meet the elves in the south woods?"
Morlach, badly wounded in the fight, grimaces in pain. “It is
less than a league to the nearest shore, though if you try to follow the north
coast you will run us aground on the shoals!” he growls.
“Keep us at least a mile from the shoreline! Nearly fifty more
leagues separates us from the Elven-shore of the Great
Wood. If you spare me, and if the wind favors us, I can guide this ship
to the Elven-shore by nightfall tomorrow.”
Éogar
pushes Morlach down against the port rail. "You will remain here
with us," he orders. "Watch him, Rard. Keep your bow
trained on him and if he moves, put an arrow through his remaining
eye." Éogar calls up to Bergalad atop the mast to remain where he is
and to cover the foes with his bow.
"Have
the men toss their arms overboard," the Elf calls
back in Westron, "lest they try such treachery again."
Frolin
fixes Morlach with a cold stare, then he stoops down,
picks up Morlach's sword, and tosses it over the railing into the water.
"Rard!" he calls out, “gather their weapons and throw them
overboard. But keep a few spears, we may need them. Then bind their
hands and feet. I must see to Finbor."
Rard
protests, “Let's not dispose of their weapons just yet. Just gather them
under our control. They are of value…if we survive."
"No.
Pitch them, except for a couple of spears," Frolin replies gruffly.
The
hobbit sighs, knowing there is no going against the Dwarf when he is so
determined. Rard keeps his bow pointed at Morlach and says to Éogar,
"Have them throw down their weapons!" Éogar nods, pointing his
spear again at Morlach. The bloodied Easterling chief curses, spits out
blood, and finally shouts out a weary command to his men. The six
remaining hunters babble angrily in their native tongue, shaking their weapons
in protest. Bergalad shouts out, “Ai!” in warning from atop
the mast, pulling his bowstring taut and aiming his arrow at the head of the
front-most man below. Éogar takes a few steps toward the men, menacing
them with his spear. [Intimidate combined test, complete failure]
Enraged,
the Easterlings rush at Éogar, certain it is better to cut him down and slay
his friends rather than lay down their arms so readily. However, Bergalad
already has an arrow trained on one of the swordsmen and sends his shaft
through the man’s neck, killing him. The Elf draws another arrow
and hastily shoots at the swordsman next to him, and from his advantageous
position is able to pierce the man’s bowels, dropping him with a mortal
wound. The four remaining men rush Éogar, who stands with his spear at
the ready and strikes as soon as they are within reach. His first thrust
drives into the chest of the enemy spearman who had previously been seriously
wounded, piercing his heart and killing him; his second strike tears in the
belly of the adjacent spearman, seriously wounding him. Crying in pain,
the gutted spearman drops his weapon and falls back, sinking to his
knees. The remaining spearman jabs twice at Éogar, while the remaining
swordsman unleashes two swashing blows. Despite his injury, Éogar, master
of evasion, is able to dodge all their clumsy strikes.
Frolin
and Rard look on in horror but are unable to intervene. Rard desperately
threatens Morlach with his bow, and fortunately the Easterling chief is too
badly hurt to dare defy him. Frolin stays by Finbor’s side, fearful
to leave his dying friend for even a moment. Meanwhile, Bergalad shoots
two more arrows at the foes assailing Éogar: both shafts strike true, lightly
wounding the remaining spearman and swordman (and leaving him with 16 arrows in
his quiver). Before the Easterlings can recover, Éogar manages to get the
jump on them and strike again: his first blow seriously wounds the spearman,
and his second blow seriously wounds the swordsman. Seeing three of their
comrades slain by Bergalad and Éogar, and noting their own serious injuries,
the two rash hunters drop their arms and kneel down next to their compatriot
who had already surrendered. The abortive insurrection has been put down
by Bergalad’s skill and Éogar’s bravery, and as luck would have it
with no further injuries to the Fellowship.
*
* *
Frolin,
impatient at this distraction, shouts out, "Just tie them to the rail,
somewhere we can keep an eye on them. Don't send them below. We do
not want their friends down there to help them. Keep Morlach seperate
from the others." Rard immediately grabs a coil of rope from near
the mast and cuts it into four lengths. He first approaches Morlach, who
has clearly given up any thoughts of resistance, and binds his hands tightly to
the rail. Next, with Éogar’s assistance, he compels the disarmed
and Easterlings to the rail toward the aft of the ship, binding the seriously
hurt men’s wrists and ankles to the railing. The little hobbit ties
solid knots, having learned this sea-craft art at Buckleberry Ferry on the
Éogar
joins Frolin, who kneels beside Finbor. The warrior says, "I am not
skilled with wounds of this degree. Your skills as a healer may be our
captain's only hope."
"I
have no skills to aid him, but I would expect the elves we seek will have among
them some with the healing gift,” Bergalad says. “The
difficult task will be to convince them to aid us. I wonder if any of the
bounty siezed from Marsburg was placed upon this ship, for I recall the council
of that city saying the elves of the wood had a tongue for their wine. It
would do Finbor and our cause well if we came bearing such a gift".
Éogar
turns to Morlach and demands to know if there is any of the tribute wine aboard
the ship. Morlach nods wearily and says, “King Golaric gave us one
barrel as reward for our labors. It has not even been tapped
yet.” Éogar instructs Morlach to order a pair of his men remaining
below deck to carry the wine barrel up onto the deck – and to guide the
companions’ faithful steeds up from below as well. Morlach shouts
out the series of instructions, and after some consternation audible from below
a couple sailors cautiously emerge from up the ramp. They warily set down
the barrel, and over the next couple minutes guide up Hildwyn, Grimmód, Cúroch,
and Barion the mule. Their task accomplished, the sailors flee back below
deck, apparently spreading word that indeed Morlach and all of his hunters have
been slain or captured.
Meanwhile,
Frolin is busy at work tending to Finbor’s mortal injuries. The
Dwarf pulls out the bottle of wine given him by Galleth, uncorking the bottle
and taking a stiff swig to fortify his body for the coming ordeal. He
also opens Finbor’s mouth and pours a draught down his friend’s
throat, knowing that the cordial will dull the tremendous pain suffered by
Finbor. Finbor soughs gently, calmed by the warm drink. Frolin,
making use of his bundle of healing supplies, cleans Finbor’s wounds and
works to staunch the lethal bleeding, hoping at least the stabilize his dying
friend.
"It
is my fault he fell to so many blows,” Bergalad laments.
“I fled to the mast where I thought my bow would be of
use…” The Elf touches Finbor’s blood-stained hair,
singing in a soft voice to soothe Finbor’s spirit. He sings in
Sindarin of battle and victory, of the mighty duel between Fingolfin and
Morgoth the Black Enemy, of the Elf-king’s great deeds that day before
his death. Finbor hears and understands the Sindarin words. He
knows well the legendary tale, and his heart is gladdened by the song.
Frolin
decides that he dare not risk attempting to treat Finbor’s severe wounds
in so dangerous an environment. At best, he can staunch the bleeding and
stabilize Finbor long enough for him to receive treatment in a safe
haven. Frolin intones words of magic learned from the Elves of Mirkwood,
a healing spell. Possessed of healing hands, the Dwarf
works carefully and diligently on his dying companion. In
desperation, at one point he turns to face the Uttermost West and calls out in
Khuzdul, the secret tongue of the Dwarves so rarely heard by outsiders,
"Mandos! Allow him to stay in these lands a while
longer!" [Healing test, TN 15: 7 roll + 3 skill modifier + 8 spell +
5 Healing Hands + 1 from Galleth’s vintage for Finbor – 2 for being
on a ship (negated by healing kit) = 24, superior success] After many
minutes of concentration, Frolin succeeds in stopping Finbor’s blood loss
– at least for now. Finbor is stable though still near death.
Frolin sits back in exhaustion, wearied from the efforts of his healing
hands. [Stamina test, TN
Éogar
says to Frolin, “Do you think he can make it?"
"I
think his only hope is to get him to the elves," he replies in a low
voice. "He would probably not survive a journey overland. I
fear our only option is to sail to the Elven-shore." The Dwarf
explains that Finbor is still slowly bleeding inside, that his bones are broken
and innards torn; without skilled leechcraft in a safe haven, infection will likely claim Finbor’s life within a
week’s time.
Éogar
expresses his doubts that the Easterlings can be trusted long enough to reach
the Elven-wood. Though Morlach and his hunters have been defeated, well
over a dozen sailors and warriors remain below deck. "We can ride
the rest of the way," he says. "Your stabilizing skills will
keep Finbor alive enough until we get help. If we remain here, the
Easterlings below deck may strike us now that we are a wounded group.”
Frolin
shakes his head and responds, "He will not survive such a journey.
He cannot ride and by the time we carried him to safety he will have
died. And who knows what dangers lurk in that wood. The only way
for all of us to reach the elves alive is by sail."
Rard,
angry and distraut, suggests putting the Easterlings ashore and trying to sail
the ship themselves. "It's better than those Easterlings wanted to
give us!" he shouts
Bergalad
says quietly, "It is a tempting idea, Rard, but we must be cautious not to
push our advantage too far. We are still greatly outnumbered and our only
points of bargaining lie in Morlach's fear and his crew's willingness to follow
his words.”
Rard
retorts, "I do not think we want to ride through the western part of the
forest. How stable will Finbor be? Up to riding for several
days? And I'm proposing we outnumber the sailors we keep
aboard…" The hobbit sighs, unable to persuade the
others. Furthermore, it is clear to him that the Fellowship alone cannot man
this vessel. Only Rard has any knowledge of sea-craft, and by himself he
cannot man the sail. Even more, the vessel needs the rest of the crew to
man the oars. No, without the remaining Easterling crew the ship would be
dead in the water. It seems the Fellowship’s only hope is to keep
Morlach alive to shout out commands to the Easterlings below deck,
who will steer the boat northeast to the Elven-shore of the Great Wood.
*
* *
Frolin
asks Rard to cut away a portion of extra sail long enough to bear
Finbor’s body. The Dwarf then breaks the points off of the two
captured spears, reducing them to standard poles. When
Rard returns with the fabric, they work together to bind the mast-cloth to the
spear-poles, building a makeshift stretcher to hold Finbor. When
placed on the stretcher, Finbor moans softly and opens his eyes, regaining
blurry consciousness. Finbor is able to speak again and move somewhat,
though any serious exertion will irritate his wounds and re-open the mortal
bleeding…
In
the last fading light of the day, as the Easterling ship once again draws
within close sight of the northern shore, Frolin attempts to treat the wounds
of the others. Knowing that his raw skill alone is not enough, he invokes
the Elven-spell of healing once again, knowing that any further use of magic
will weary him. First, he attempts leechcraft on the injured Éogar.
[Healing test, TN 15, marginal success] The Rohirric warrior’s cuts
are cleaned and bandaged, and with time and long-term care the remaining damage
will heal naturally [14 damage healed, 19 damage remaining, Dazed].
Frolin also attempts to treat his own dazing cuts and bruises. [TN 10, +3
TN for working on himself, complete success] The Dwarf manages to clean
and patch his own scrapes, and the minor bruising that remains will recover
naturally [10 damage healed, 4 damage remaining, Healthy]. Frolin then
turns his attention to Morlach and the three surviving hunters, cleaning their
bloody injuries and bandaging them as best he can; Morlach is still visibly
injured even after the leechcraft.
Night
falls on the evening of July the 16th, and the Easterling ship
drifts close to the northern shore of the
“It
still lies well over a hundred miles to the east,” Morlach says.
“I cannot guide this ship tied to the rail. I must stand by the
mast and watch the sun, and I must keep watch of the shore so that we do not
hit the shoals. The rowers below deck cannot steer the ship by
themselves, and without my word the sailors will not come forth to man the sail.
You must untie me and help me to stand by the mast, if you wish to sail to the
Wood-folk’s shore.”
Scene 4: Song of Sorrow
On
the morning of July 17th, the Fellowship remains aboard the
Easterling barge en route to the Elven-shore of the Great Wood. It was a long
and tense night, keeping an eye out for treachery by the Easterlings remaining
below deck while at the same time watching over the mortally injured
Finbor. Finbor awakens and opens his eyes, looking into the concerned
faces of Éogar and Frolin, his companions on the road from the start in Minas
Tirith. "I'm sorry, my friends…" he whispers in a sore
voice. "I’ve failed you. I've lead you into this trap with
open eyes, and I've paid for my folly."
"Hush,
Finbor,” Frolin says comfortingly. “You led us nowhere we
would not have gone on our own. Your wounds are grave, but not
mortal. You will live to win many battles and father many strong
sons." The Dwarf shares a private worried look with his other
friends. He knows the wounds will likely prove lethal, lest they are
fully treated soon.
As
the sun rises in the morning sky, the Fellowship commands Morlach to get the
boat underway again. However, the Bolcoth war-chief protests that he
cannot navigate while tied to the rail – he must be led back to the mast
and permitted to give orders to the rowers and sailors, who will only work by
his command.
Éogar
unlashes Morlach from the railing and raises him to his feet roughly, pushing
him toward the center of the boat. "Sail the ship to the Elves, but
keep us within sight of the shore – we will not be betrayed by your
pathetic attempt for vengeance again. You can free your men once we
arrive at the wood and disembark." He looks back at Finbor and then
again, darkly, to the one-eyed Easterling. "Sail swiftly, Morlach,
for your life is tied to Lord Finbor's."
Morlach
snarls at Éogar, grimacing in pain from his wounds received the evening
before. “My life is a small price to pay for slaying that accursed
lordling,” he hisses. Rard angrily leaps at Morlach, grabbing his
ankles and lashing them together with sturdy rope, holding him on a
leash. He may be free from the rail, but Rard will make sure he is not
going anywhere!
Éogar
turns to his compatriots and says, "Rard, Frolin, and I shall take turns
watching these barbarians. We have the warriors tied, but we must make
sure Morlach is not planning something yet again." He looks coolly
toward Bergalad and adds, "Let the Elf return to the crow’s nest for
now to think about his cowardice. He had best prove useful in speaking
with his kinfolk."
Rard
squawks in irritation, "Cowardice? Because he
doesn't fight with a sword? I suppose I am in that category too
then!?!"
Éogar
shakes his head and says, "Courage has nothing to do with choice of weapon,
Rard. You did not flee when Finbor expected you would guard his back; the
Elf did. I have little doubt of your courage Rard. Finbor and the
rest of us can always count on you in a pinch."
Bergalad
lowers his head in shame. "Éogar is correct to chastize me, Rard,
though it was selfishness and not cowardice,” he says with a sigh.
“In battle I thought only of where I would be in the strongest
position. I did not consider the tactics of the whole. And my
action may have cost Finbor his life. Hear now as I swear an oath that I
will do whatever I must to ensure the healing aid of the Elves of the Great
Wood for Finbor. It is my fault his injuries are so dire".
"Then
I too should be chastised,” Rard laments. “I tried to draw
some men away and ran to the other side of the boat so that I could shoot my
bow." He glances at Éogar and Finbor. "I am sorry, sirs, for
the wounds you have taken. Master Finbor ...." His little eyes
begin to mist, and he cannot complete his sentence.
"Enough," Frolin cuts in. "There
was no cowardice here. Poor judgment perhaps, but no
cowardice.”
Bergalad
turns to make his way back to the crow’s nest, giving Éogar time to cool
his temper. Rard follows Bergalad for a short distance, asking him about
the Elves they expect to encounter when they reach the shore of the Great
Wood. Bergalad pauses and responds, "My people have been sundered
many times in ages past. I know nothing of the Elves of the Great Wood
except that they have been long separated from the elves of Mirkwood and longer
still from those of Lothlorien. It may be I can determine something of
their long-past history when we encounter them, but I confess that I fear
I may not even be able to speak with them in the ancient Elvish tongue" Bergalad heads over to the mast, climbing up the pole
to the crow’s nest high above.
Rard
returns to Éogar and Frolin, who are watching over the supine Finbor upon the
stretcher. The hobbit asks his friends what they should do once they
reach the Elven-shore. He gives Morlach a dubious looks, and suggests
that they take him with them to visit the Elves. "I don't like him
at all, but I'd like to know where he is than to have him do something
sneaky,” he says.
"I
would sooner carry a viper in my pack than travel any further with that
wretch!” Frolin growls. “No, Rard,
Morlach will return to his master and explain how he failed. Once we
enter the woods we will be quite safe from the Easterlings."
Anticipating
that the Fellowship will need supplies when they finally leave this cursed boat
behind, Rard strolls away from his companions intent
upon finding some extra rations, tools, and possibly even arrows from among the
Easterlings’ wares. However, there is precious little kept on the
deck: only the company’s animals and the captured wine cask brought up
from below. When the hobbit tries to venture down the ramp below deck, he
finds nearly two dozen anxious and dirty Easterlings blocking his path.
There are only a few weapons left among them, but they quickly form a nervous
phalanx to block the path, ready to fight to the death if the intruders try to
violate their last refuge. Rard quickly backs up the ramp and returns to
his friends, realizing that he won’t get anything else from these
Easterlings without a fight to the death. They are panicky and irrational
at this point.
*
* *
When
Morlach gives the word, the rowers take their places below deck and push the
boat away from the small, sandy islet where it had rested for the night.
At the call of their captain, they strike their oars into the water and begin
to churn the sea, lurching the barge forward.
The sailors emerge from below deck and scurry up the mast to the arms, manning
the sail. Bergalad, armed with his bow, keeps a careful watch on them
from above. Down bellow, the others keep guard over Morlach, watching him
suspiciously. The Easterling stands by the mast, calling out orders to
the rowers and the sailors and marking the ship’s course, gauging its
progress by the sun. Quite frequently he commands the ship to sail
further away from the coast, insisting that it is necessary to avoid
treacherous shoals. After a reasonable amount of time passes, Éogar
always orders him back toward the coast. Morlach scowls at him but does not refuse, nor does the Bolcoth captain try to delay the
voyage. If anything, he pushes the rowers to redouble their effort and
orders the sail flown at full to take advantage of the stiff breeze – it
seems he is just as eager to get the Westerners off his barge as they are eager
to take their leave. The barge sails across the
Morlach
does not pause to rest his men any more than is absolutely necessary, and by
the middle of the afternoon the tall eaves of the western Great Wood are in
sight. The barge stays several miles away from the north shore, so it is
difficult to get a good glimpse of the mysterious forest that is the subject of
so many rumors. Only the far-sighted Bergalad can see the forest clearly
from here, but it is too dense and overgrown for him to perceive inside to any
helpful distance. Frolin spends some moments gazing out upon the distant
wood, concentrating, intoning the enchantment that allows him to sense the
power of magic. He again senses the presence of the two crystal shards,
and of the malignant demon-creature possessing one of them and the unfamiliar
ancient power near to the other, but the impressions are even more overwhelming
to him at so close a range.
By
dusk, as the sun begins to sink down in the western sky, the barge turns
sharply to the northeast, following the curve in the shoreline as it turns to
meet the far eastern coast at the point known as the Elven-shore of the Great
Wood. Morlach seems intent upon reaching its relative safety by
nightfall, and apparently his rowers agree with him enough not to protest the
inhuman strain his orders put upon their bodies. The barge now is much
closer to the shoreline, less than half a mile. The tall, ominous copses
of the western wood are clearly visible, though no signs of life can be seen or
even heard. The whole area is seeped in shadow as the sun drops lower in
the western sky, though this region is so dominated by the fearsome forest that
even in broad daylight it might seem darkened and veiled. For some time
all that can be heard is the sound of the threshing oars, their only goal to
reach the northeastern shore. Then, suddenly, a haunting, echoing,
stentorian dream-call fills the air, full as a rushing river but as ephemeral
and ghostly as a mirage. A great cry of fear emanates from below deck,
and the sailors atop the mast quail anxiously; even Morlach shudders visibly,
snapping an order to his men to row even harder.
“It
is the Singer…” he hisses to his watchers. “To
hear his voice is an ill-omen, a portent of doom.”
The
sound forms into music with rising and falling tones, coalescing into voice.
The voice is indistinct yet powerful and clear, a high baritone of unsurpassed
strength and beauty; it must be very far away from here, many miles, yet it
fills all the sky like a falling rain. Distant words can be perceived in
the haunting melody, for the voice saturates the minds of all who listen, but
their meaning is inscrutable to most. Yet, their theme is as clear
as the clarion call of a trumpet: it is a song of mourning, of lament, of loss
for that which can never be regained. Éogar and Frolin and Rard look at
each other in confusion, none of them able to recognize the heart-wrenching
words. Finbor gazes up at the sky, his breathing labored; though even
this learned warrior cannot understand the words, he recognizes the sound of
another wounded soul, of one whose hurt transcends
time and healing. And he weeps, his tears of sympathy washing his
blood-stained cheek.
Bergalad
climbs down from the crow’s nest, passing the trembling, paralyzed
sailors on his way down to the deck. He rushes back to the rest of the
Fellowship, his sharp hearing attuned to the song swelling the air around
him. [Language: Quenya test] The Elf listens in silence for many moments,
then shakes his head slowly. The others look to
him, asking if he recognizes the voice. After all, a voice so mighty, so
enchanting could only belong to one of the Eldar! Bergalad says in an
enraptured tone, “I do not know this voice. It is greater than
any I have ever heard before, and my heart trembles to hear it. My people
the Sindar are renowned as the greatest singers of Middle-earth, yet not even
the fairest-voiced Sea-elf who blends his song with the sound of Ulmo’s
waters can rival this Singer. I cannot say for certain that he is of the
Eldar, but I can say that his words are in the High-elven speech of old
that is called Quenya.”
“Can
you understand what he is saying?” Frolin asks, for even the Dwarf is not
immune to the majesty of the Elven-song.
Bergalad
closes his eyes for a moment, awash in the beauty of the sound. He looks
back to the Dwarf and replies, “Not well. I know only the essence
of the ancient Eldarin tongue, and this song uses an accent and dialect foreign
to my ears. If ever this language has been spoken in Middle-earth, it has
not been heard in centuries untold.”
“So
beautiful…” Rard murmurs. “And so
sad. Why is his song so sad?”
The
Elven-minstrel smiles softly at the hobbit and says, “He sings of loss,
of a beauty unsurpassed now forever gone from this world, a beauty too pure to
be possessed. He sings of sacrifice, and pain, and a burdened heart that
cannot be healed… I do not understand the rest, nor can I bring my
heart to try.”
The
forlorn Singer continues his song past dusk, past twilight. It is only
after the ship passes two more leagues to the northeast that the song beings to
fade, eventually vanishing into the distance like a shimmering shadow.
Only when the Singer is no longer audible do the Easterling rowers slacken
their pace, groaning from the pain of the exertion. They lift oars and
let the current and wind carry them onward. At
this point both the northern coastline and the eastern coastline of the
After
another hour or so, the ship approaches the flat, open beach at the
northeastern fringe of the
Éogar
orders Morlach to bring the ship to the shore, and to debouch the Fellowship
safely on land. "Leave us,” the Rohirric warrior
demands. “I will not send a message to Golaric with you, for you
have chosen to be a dishonorable liar and coward. Know that the free
people of the West are not. If Golaric holds to his peace with the
Dorwinions, we will see that Baldur is brought to justice. Now go!
If we meet you again in lands not of your own, my spear may not hold back its
strike."
Morlach
nods grimly, but does not say any words in reply. He gestures for his men
to lower the planks, permitting the Fellowship, their animals, and their
supplies (including the surrendered cask of Dorwinion wine) to leave the
ship. Once they are upon the shore, Morlach orders his men to close up
the barge and row along the coast to put some distance between themselves and
the companions from the West. Carefully bearing Finbor
upon his stretcher, Frolin, Éogar, Bergalad, and Rard move farther up the
beach. Night is now fully upon the land, with fiery stars out in
force and a slivered moon in the sky above. Further off the beach the
terrain becomes densely forested – the presumed haven of the Elves of
Rhûn. The Fellowship must camp here upon the beach, or else venture into
the Elven-wood at night.
Scene 5: The Unwilling?
The
companions from the West tensely watch the Easterling barge row away along the
shore, only daring to relax once the boat is out of sight. Éogar,
however, is quick to remind his friends to keep on guard: the treacherous
Easterlings could always return in the night. He looks grimly down at the
mortally stricked Finbor lying on his stretcher, the dying man drifting in and
out of consciousness. If an attack came, the company would be in a bad
way.
"I
suppose we should camp here for the rest of the night,” Frolin says,
looking about the pleasant beach, happy to be on solid earth once more.
“I do not wish to venture into yon Elven-wood in the dark."
The Dwarf then begins to walk about the shore, gathering driftwood for a fire.
Éogar
nods slowly in agreement. The warrior from Rohan, asserting a
determination not yet seen in him, takes charge of the situation.
"Frolin, see to Finbor,” he says. “Make sure he is
comfortable and stable. Rard, prepare a fire for us: it will either
attract the elves or deter wolves and spiders. Bergalad, rest for now;
your senses will be well-suited for guard tonight and conversation
tomorrow. I will stand watch for the time being; my wounds are not severe
enough to affect me."
Frolin
takes a moment’s umbrage at the command but then hands the wood he
gathered over to Rard. While the Dwarf kneels at Finbor’s side,
washing his wounds, checking his bandages, and helping his friend drink some
water, Rard and Éogar continue to comb the beach for wood for a fire.
Their search draws them closer to the fringe of the greenwood, tall and ancient
and dense. Fortunately, they find a few fallen timbers outside the high
canopy and do not have to venture inside the shadowy copses. They return
to the campsite upon the shore, where Rard is quickly able to get a good fire
blazing. Frolin can’t help but mumble under his breath,
“Nobody builds a better fire than a Dwarf, it is well known!”
The
little hobbit, quite prudently, quickly gets to work preparing a later
supper. “It’s been a while since we have been able to have a
hot meal!” Rard notes dutifully. He unpacks his pots and utensils,
cooking a healthy portion of the trail food. Gleefully, he opens a little
crate which he sneaked off the Easterling barge, eyes wide at the sight of
fresh lemons and various spices. Inhaling the scent, he cuts open a lemon
and squeezes it into the cooking mix, adding a dash of spices for full-bodied
flavor. As he dishes out the fare to his friends he comments,
“Nothing spectacular, but worthy of us.” Before he partakes
of his own portion, though, Rard is sure to feed Finbor, spooning the dumplings
and sauce into the mouth of his incapacitated friend.
Throughout
the night Finbor drifts between sleep and a waking state. When he is
alert, he is uncommonly open and shares sweet memories from his younger years
with his companions, talking with Bergalad about the time that the great
minstrel Farandil, most renowned of the harpers of Lebeninn,
visited Calembel. To Rard he describes the great banquets Lord
Angbor organized for the closing feast of the yearly Sheep's Fair.
"When all this is over Rard, you must come to Calembel with me and you
will sit on the place of honour on my father's table." With Frolin
he will tell of the majesty of the
With
the fire crackling brightly, casting red-orange light across a wide stretch of
the beach, the companions ready themselves for a night’s sleep, hoping
they will be able to find the mysterious Elves of the East upon the
morrow. Éogar insists on a double watch throughout the evening, in case
the Easterlings return or something worse emerges from the Great Wood.
Bergalad, who has spent the past several hours resting and meditating quietly
on his own, dreaming under bough and star, will stand guard for the rest of the
night; Éogar, Frolin, and Rard join him in alternating shifts. With
Finbor already in a deep sleep upon his stretcher, Frolin and Rard turn in,
too, and Éogar takes the first watch. In the quiet of the night, during
the first watch, he says to Bergalad, "All of us rely on you to gain aid
from your kinsmen. They may be distant relations, but they are your kin
none-the-less. This may be Finbor's only chance to survive."
"I
know well what I must attempt,” Bergalad confides, though a hint of
uncertainty is heard in his voice. “For the sake of the oath I have
sworn to Finbor and for our greater quest I will do what I can, but I fear
these 'kinsmen' of mine will find they have little more in common with me than
with Frolin. The lore and history of this branch of elvinkind is not
known to me and that means the divide between them and my own people is old." The Elf pauses for a moment,
realizing to whom he is speaking. "And I do not use the word 'old'
in the sense of men, but 'old' in a sense only the most venerable of my own
people could appreciate. Nevertheless if these people see any spark of
kinship with me, I shall use what diplomatic skill I have to fan it into the
flame of friendship. All
that hangs in the balance deserves no
less."
Éogar
nods and replies, "We know little of these Elves. Only
that the mysterious Blue Wizard could not even muster them to aid against the
orcs years ago. Perhaps their hearts have been saddened by the
Singer we heard earlier, and it has left them weary and unwilling…”
Bergalad
tends to the fire throughout the watch, rousing Rard when Éogar begins to show
signs of fatigue. The hobbit rubs his eyes, crawls out of his bedroll,
takes up his bow, and joins the Elf at the campfire. Éogar wearily lies
down upon his bedroll and quickly drifts off to sleep. Rard keeps watch
with Bergalad for several hours, checking his desire to chatter with the need
to remain vigilant. It is well, for Bergalad already seems troubled at
heart. The Elf most often stares at the Great Wood, murmuring thoughts to
himself in the beautiful, sonorous tongue of the Sea-elves that has given
place-names to so much of Middle-earth. Suddenly, Bergalad hisses words
in the Common speech to Rard: “I hear voices in the Great Wood.”
Rard
tenses up, straining to listen as best he can. He turns left and right,
looking for approaching shadows, but even with his sharp eyes he cannot see
anything. He, too, then hears the voices – faint at first, but soft
and fair like a rolling breeze. The volume grows and more and more voices
join together, a murmur that builds to a chat that swells into song.
Voices male and female, but all fair and light, form a celestial choir under
the night sky, an ephemeral canticle in the forest shadows. The hobbit
reflexively quakes, gripping his bow tightly – nothing like this has been
heard in the Shire, not since that last company of High-elves passed through
Woodhall, their hidden sanctuary. Bergalad reaches out to touch
Rard’s arm reassuringly, gesturing for him to lower his bow.
“They do not sing to frighten us,” he whispers, “for I sense
they wish to be heard. They are calling their number together, to draw us
to them.”
The
hobbit swallows hard and says, “Is it a spell?”
Bergalad
looks back to the wood and says flatly, “I cannot say.”
Rard
whimpers once, then looks over to Éogar and
Frolin. Just as he starts to speak to rouse them, both suddenly
awaken. Almost as if in a trance, they rise and walk over to their
friends at the fire. Bergalad rises with Rard,
and the four friends stand close together, the song now readily audible and
filling the night air, as if rising to the slivered moon above. Only
Bergalad remains unfazed, the others perceiving the approaching choir as if in
a dream. Dozens of shadows emerge from the depths of the wood, tall and
slender, marching in time to the song. As the advancing phalanx nears the
flickering campfire, the shadows take on sharper forms – the graceful
visages of fair Elves, light of eye and with hair of gold or light brown.
More than anything they remind Frolin, Rard, and Éogar of the merry Wood-elves
of Thranduil’s realm. Éogar gazes at them, observing women among
their number, and murmurs breathlessly, “Mithalqua…”
They Elves are clad in garments that are primitive compared to the crafts of
the West, hides and pelts and cloth woven of wild flax, yet even the humblest
raiment seems fair and delicate, lovelier than even a prince’s robes in
Rohan or Gondor. Their arms, too, are primitive – spears that are
little more than fire-hardened stakes, knives of bone, hatches of stone, yet
all are held with a grace that may prove fierce and fell. One among them
draws closer still, coming within twenty feet of the campfire. He is
garbed nobly, though still in the fashion of his folk, but carries no
weapon. He is tall, very tall, with hair of silver that falls to his
shoulders; his face is fair, as if he were little older than Éogar, yet his
eyes are ancient as the forest or the sea.
Finbor
moans fitfully from his stretcher nearby, drawn to consciousness by the song
despite his grave wounds. Frolin, shaking his head as if shrugging off a
daydream, turns to Bergalad, urging him to speak to these Elves who have
appeared unlooked-for, drawn to the Fellowship’s fire by happy
fortune. Suddenly, the chief Eastern-elf says something in his cool,
piercing voice, words as sharp as swords and hard as iron. The companions
of the Fellowship stare at him, momentarily stunned. The Elven-chief
regards each of the four friends standing in turn, studying them
cautiously. Not surprisingly, his full attention rests on Bergalad, to
whom he speaks again stern and lordly words. “His speech is so
distant and foreign to my ears…” Bergalad murmurs quietly, his mind
racing in uncertainty and his heart pounding in anxiousness.
Scene 6: A Desperate Favor
Some
hours before dawn on July the 18th, as Bergalad and Rariadoc watch
over their slumbering companions camped out upon the wooded beach of the
Elven-shore, a party of the strange Eastern-elves emerges from the Great
Wood. The Elves sing a stirring lay as they approach. Éogar,
Frolin, and even Finbor are awakened from sleep, and the Rohirric warrior and
the Dwarven-sage rise to join the Elf and Hobbit as if in a trance.
“Is
it a spell?” Rard asks nervously.
[Wisdom
test] Bergalad regards the approaching Elves carefully, contemplating their
song. He is unsure if it is a spell, a greeting, or a warning. However,
magic infuses the very being of the Quendi, even their voices. Bergalad
looks to Rard and responds flatly, “I cannot say, but I will counsel you
to use caution with these 'kinsmen' of mine. I know well your fondness
for the tales of Lord Legolas, and some of these Easterners may prove as noble
as he, but I advise you not to assume so just because they come from the same
stock".
Rard
watches his friends amble forward and says, "I will try and remember
that." He adds as optimistically as he can, "I have found that
all Elves I have met so far are quite noble. Not all are as good a
shot as he, but I am no Meriadoc Brandybuck either."
The
chief among these Elves draws closest to the Fellowship, within twenty feet of
their fire. Tall, with straight silver hair that falls to his shoulders,
he is garbed in beautifully dyed flaxen linen trimmed with fur, with a hide
cloak upon his shoulders. He bears none of the primitive weapons carried
by his companions, though the words he speaks to the Fellowship are sharp as
steel. Bergalad listens to his words, straining to discern any common
bonds with the Elvish tongues of the West. Hesitantly, he tries to
respond in halting Sindarin words, and then in the Silvan tongue of the
Woodland Realm, and finally in the elder tongue Quenya. [Language: Silvan
test, TN 15; 6 roll + 4 + 2 affinity for other languages + 6 for 2 Courage
spent = 18, complete success] Sindarin seems to bear little relation to
the speech of these Eastern-elves; Quenya holds more in common, but it also has
developed quite differently in the
Bergalad
turns to his friends and says, “These people call themselves, as best I
can render it, ‘Speakers of the Elder Wood.’ The chief is
their ‘lord and speaker’ and calls himself Belegorn the
‘Mighty Tree,’ as translated into the Sindarin tongue.”
He adds warily, “He demands to know what manner of strangers we are, and
I will endeavor to introduce ourselves…” The Grey-elf minstrel
halting says in the strange, new language, “I am Bergalad of
Belegorn
imperiously cuts off Bergalad and asks a series of curt questions, gesturing to
the companions. He demands to know what manner of people the others
are. Bergalad says the name of each companion, attempting to explain
where they come from: places like Aglarond and Gondor, Rohan and the Shire.
Belegorn again interrupts Bergalad’s speech, in
obvious complaint; these names and places mean nothing to him, not Gondor, not
Ithilien, and not even Mirkwood. “It seems they have not seen a
Dwarf in many an age,” Bergalad explains to his friends after listening
to Belegorn’s invective, “and they have never seen a Hobbit
before. As for Men, they have seen them often, though not always
happily.” Bergalad tries to relate more of the Fellowship’s
origins, explaining that they do not come from lands near to the
"And
in our lands we say the same thing about the East," Frolin mutters softly
and somewhat testily. “Éogar!” he calls out, “help
me with the cask of wine." The Dwarf is most insistent on giving the
Eastern-elves the gift of wine, hoping to soften their spirits. Éogar
helps the stocky loremaster pick up the cask and carry it toward the Elves,
laying it at the feet of the chief. They bow awkwardly and retreat back
to the campfire, and Bergalad conveys to Belegorn that they bring his people a
gift of fine Dorwinion wine, which it is known they value; in return they must
beg a kindness from the Speakers of the Elder Wood. [Persuade skill test,
TN 15; 10 roll + 7 + 1 for Debate (Parley) affinity + 2 for using their
language = 20, complete success]
There
is some commotion among the party of Elves, whose voices seem to express
approval of the gift and Bergalad’s fair speech. Belegorn silences
them with a word, returning his gaze to the wine cask, to the companions, and
then to Bergalad. He speaks again for several moments and walks closer to
the Fellowship, gesturing for his people to come nearer as well. Bergalad
says to his friends, “He thanks us for our gift, for it is of great value
to them. He bids us to name our favor.”
Frolin
urges, “Tell them Finbor needs their help! Anything else beyond
that must wait.”
Bergalad
nods and dutifully directs the Elves’ attention to Finbor, telling them that
he was mortally wounded by wicked men on the journey to this place.
Despite Belegorn’s stern leadership and their cultivated isolation and
suspicion of outsiders, these Wood-folk are still Elves, and that means good
people: they cannot hide their compassion for Finbor, their concern for his
life. Belegorn’s stony expression softens somewhat; he asks why the
wicked men attacked him, and what brought him on so dangerous a journey to the
east. Bergalad quickly implores, "Please, my companion's need is dire
and immediate. There will be time enough for us to discuss other matters
afterward."
Belegorn
pauses for a moment, then nods slowly. He speaks
to his people, and a company of males approach to lift his stretcher. One
of the women comes forward, too, examining his injuries and his bandages.
He says something to her compatriots, and by her tone it is clear that she has
decided Finbor is near death. Bergalad shakes his head somberly and
whispers to his friends, “Their chief has agreed that we may come with
them into their woodland home, and they will do for Finbor what they can.
The woman is a healer among them, and she is afraid that it may be beyond even
their arts to save Finbor.” The party of Eastern-elves, bearing
Finbor’s stretcher and with Belegorn at the fore, walks back into the
depths of the Great Wood. Frolin quickly stamps out the campfire, while
Rard, Bergalad, and Éogar round up the Fellowship’s steeds; the company
follows the Elves into the woods, using secret Elf-paths that they might
otherwise have never found on their own. The companions stay close to the
Elf-party, following them for something close to a mile north into the
forest. After something more than half an hour, the group enters a large
clearing filled with huts, wooden towers, and great platforms built high up in
the tall trees. This, the companions are told, is the Elf Home, first and
largest settlement of the Wood-folk.
Several
small fires are kept lit in the clearing, and the travelers are bid to stay at
one and rest. Belegorn says that Finbor will be carried into one of the
huts devoted to healing; there the most skilled healing women will tend to his
dire wounds, and there is hope that by morning it may be known whether his life
is spare and he will recover, or whether his wounds cannot be closed and he
will likely perish. Éogar, Bergalad, Rard, and Frolin sadly watch Finbor
as he is carried off by the Elves. Bergalad sinks down to the ground by
the fire, not weary but desirous of solace; the others find themselves
painfully tired, and soon have drifted off into sleep upon bedrolls and cloaks
which they barely had the strength to lay out.
It
is not until mid-morning on July the 18th that the sleeping comrades
awaken. Bergalad has let them rest long, for they seem to be in perfect
safety in the Elf Home, and there was no pressing need to interrupt their
well-deserved slumber. The Grey-elf minstrel has rested and meditated in
comfort, and also has he watched the coming and going of the Eastern-elves.
There is much attention in the healing hut, and herbs, water, poultices, and
bandages are frequently brought inside. Other Elves are deputed to care
for the visitors, bringing them fresh food and water when they awaken.
Though they are grateful for the provender and chance to wash themselves, the Fellowship is most anxious for word about
Finbor. Perhaps an hour before
Scene 7: The Elvish Encampment
As
the Fellowship awakens late on the morning of July 18th, the
companions quietly discuss the situation amongst themselves as they wash and
consume a light breakfast brought to them. "How do you feel about
these Elves, Bergalad?” Éogar asks. “Do you believe we can
trust them?"
Bergald,
more relaxed today than he was last night, when he feared he may not be able to
communicate with the Eastern-elves, thinks on the question for a few moments
and replies, "These people are wary of outsiders, and perhaps have good
cause for it, but I sense only good intentions from them. Their concern
for Finbor is genuine; they may have helped him even without our gift. I
believe if we continue to be honorable, and do not overstay our welcome, their
goodwill will continue".
"If
you think we can trust them, once Finbor is healed we should be honest with
them,” Éogar says. “Tell them why we are here. I
believe we must also warn them of Baldur. If he is not here already, he
will eventually come. They must be warned of his deception; it is
possible he has even arrived and taken on a form they might otherwise
miss. We should be cautious as we travel the forest, should they allow
it."
Bergalad
nods in agreement at Éogar’s words. "I shall inform them of
this shortly, though I intend to try to establish a better rapport with them
first. At present they must see us as tolerated trespassers. I will
attempt to improve our status in their eyes before revealing all. They
will not willingly let us run about their wood, even to track down dread
beasts, unless they sympathize with our cause.”
After
his morning meal, Frolin strolls a short distance away from the others, sitting
down against a tree and closing his eyes, as if to rest. He enters a
trance, as the sage Dáma taught him, and he chants in a low voice the words of
magic that attune his mind to the powers of enchantment at work in the
world. He reaches out with his mind to feel the pull of the shards of the
Angril, and immediately he senses the two nearby in the Great
Wood. They both lie fairly near to each other, only a few leagues to the
west. One seems to be in the forest depths, surely the shard possessed by
the Spider-Demon. The other seems to be closer to the forest shore, and
its power is confounded by the strange, mysterious power of whoever possesses
it; could it be the Singer whose voice was heard along this part of the wooded
shore? The Dwarven-loremaster sends out his mind even further, trying to
sense the tides of power over great distances. He once more faintly
senses the shard many leagues to the southeast of this place, somewhere in the
country east of the
Throughout
the rest of the morning, the friends nervously await news of Finbor’s
fate. Shortly before the
The
Eastern-elves stand before Rard, looking down into his face without
comprehension, though with empathy and compassion for his fear. Bergalad
rises and moves to Rard’s side, laying a hand upon his shoulder to
comfort him. He briefly explains Rard’s plea to the other
Elves. The healer-women smile faintly, and Belegorn nods once, his eyes
flashing. He utters a strange, eloquent reply in his sonorous voice,
which Bergalad readily translates. “He says, ‘Fear not,
little man, for your friend still lives. He has turned his back on the
shadow of death. In time he will recover his health.” Rard
cries out in sheer happiness, throwing his arms about Bergalad waist to embrace
him out of joy. Éogar and Frolin, having risen from the ground as well,
chuckle and come to the little hobbit’s side.
Even
stern Belegorn betrays a small smile. He says in his native tongue,
“He is still grievously hurt and should not leave his bed. Perhaps
in a week’s time he will be strong enough to walk about, though still
weakly and in pain.” The companions warmly thank the Elves for
tending to their friend, bowing to them politely and offering to shake hands in
gratitude. When Bergalad begs that the company may remain here for as
long as the healers think Finbor should remain bedridden, the Elf-chief nods
slowly and gives his consent. “It would be ill of us to save his
life, only to turn him out before he can be sure of safety,” he
says. “You are a strange and distant folk, whose kind we have not
seen in many ages, and some never before in any age…” The
latter remark seems directed at little Rard Brandybuck. He looks back to
Bergalad and adds, “It is not our way to bring Men and strangers into our
havens. Only the dire need of your friend, who shared company with a
long-unseen Western-elf, persuaded us to bring you here. Now that you are
among us, we are uncertain what we should do with you. Many questions I
have asked of you remain unanswered, Bergalad of the West.”
Bergalad
nods in agreement, pledging to honor his promise to answer the questions after
Finbor received treatment. “Go now to your friend,” Belegorn
states. “You and your companions shall join us tonight in a feast, and
there you will tell us your tale. Then I will decide what path you shall
be granted in our lands.” Belegorn and his healer-women depart,
dispersing among the Elves moving throughout the encampment. Éogar,
Frolin, Rard, and Bergalad rush over to the hut, finding Finbor resting
peacefully on a matted bed inside. He is washed and treated with herbs
and saves, his deep wounds stitched closed with dried gut-string and dress with
clean bandages. His tattered mail coat has been removed from his body and
lies folded atop his shield on the ground, two wide chinks fully visible where
mortal wounds cut through the corslet. Finbor opens his eyes and turns
his head to behold his friends, smiling wearily but contented. His four
companions smile in relief, kneeling at the side of his bed in joyful
fellowship. They spend much of the afternoon together, conversing with
Finbor and telling him of the strange Elves who have saved him. The four
friends leave him only when a healer-woman returns and scolds them in her
strange tongue, indicating that Finbor needs to sleep. [Finbor received
the benefit of a complete success on leechcraft: he has been healed 12 Health,
leaving him Incapacitated with 47 total damage.]
Throughout
the rest of the day, the companions are free to move about the
encampment. Éogar is content to sit in peace, cleaning his arms and
tending to the horses. Frolin walks about the clearing to inspect the
work of the Elves, seeing if they make any crafts in stone or metal. He
is surprised to see that they utterly lack knowledge of metal-working, though
they are very skilled at crafting weapons and tools made out of wood and
bone. What few metal implements they possess have obviously been acquired
through trade with Dorwinion. Little, too, do they work in stone. Some of the knives are made out of sharpened
stone, and they show great skill, but no stone is used in any of their
construction. These Elves, it seems, live in as simple and pristine a way
of life as the day when Ilúvatar awakened them.
Rard
makes himself quite visible in the encampment, moving
among the Elves despite no knowledge of their tongue, communicating as best he
can through gesture. He tries to count the number of Elves who live in
this haven, but he finds it a challenging task: many Elves flow in and out of
the forest, and when amongst the groves they are nearly impossible to espy,
even for a sharp-eyed and watchful hobbit. His guess, by no means
certain, is that there are some hundred or two hundred Elvish
men, and perhaps a somewhat larger number of women and youths. However,
Rard quickly learns that an Elvish youth is hard to
discern. Only in their earliest years do they grow like children among
the races of Men; sometime after their tenth year rapid growth ceases, and the
years of young adulthood that last perhaps a decade among the races of Men can
last five or more decades among the Elves. This, combined with the truth
that Elves do not produce as many children as Men, results in a very small
number of readily discernable children in the camp. Most of these
children, though, train in the use of the bow, and they readily practice with
Rard, letting him shoot their excellent bone-tipped arrows. The hobbit
notes that these Elves are skillful fletchers and possess large quantities of
arrows and tools and supplies for making them. Of course, no
hobbit’s adventure in a strange land would be complete without exploring
the kitchens. He finds several huts and hearths devoted to roasting or
drying meat, baking breads, and storing fruits and cereals. He pantomimes
emphatically his desire to cook, and the Elvish womenfolk are curious enough to
see his talent that they give him whatever stores he requires; over a few hours
he bakes a tray of hearty Shire meat-pies [Craft: Cooking test, superior
success]. They have turned out very well, if Rard does say so himself, and the pies join the other trays of food as fare
for the evening banquet.
Rard’s
only disappointment is when he tries to go out hunting. As Bergalad
predicted, any attempt to wander the Elves’ forest territory is
thwarted. No sooner does Rard set foot in the woods than a party of
Elf-hunters appears, bows in hand, to escort him back
into the clearing. He cannot understand their words, but the meaning is
clear: stay in the clearing until Belegorn gives permission to depart.
*
* *
That
night, under the warm summer nocturnal sky, the Elves hold a great feast,
apparently a grander affair than normal due to the presence of guests, visitors
at the least if not yet friends. Finbor is carried out of his hut upon a
straw mat, and lain upon a wooden bench near his
friends, who sit at a great wooden banquet table. Belegorn and his chief
hunters and their wives sit across from the companions, and many other tables
fill the clearing, at which are seated large numbers of the merry
Wood-folk. Servants bring out trenchers of roast venison, forest herbs,
and roots and berries, plates of hot breads (and, of course, Rard’s meat
pies), and flagons of sweet honey mead; after distributing the food, the
servants join their families among the throng of feasting Elves. A share
of food is placed upon a wooden plate for Finbor, who is roused long enough to
partake of nourishment and join in the talk as much as he is able.
Bergalad,
as he expected, is pressed to speak of his company’s journey and of the
Elves of the West, long forgotten by the Eastern-elves of the Great Wood.
It is the latter that Bergalad speaks of first, hoping to turn the Elves’
benign ambivalence to outright support for the Fellowship’s cause.
He is no sage like Master Elrond, who had culled all that was known of the
Elvish past, but as a minstrel he knows many of the great stories in the
history of his people [Lore: History test, superior success]. Not wishing
to offend his hosts, he eschews the ancient tales of the March to the West of
the Three Kindreds and of the “unwilling” Avari who stayed
behind. Instead, he recounts the common origin of all Elves in the mythic
land called Cuiviennen, as told in “Of the Coming of the Elves” in
the Quenta Simarillion. He then speaks of the journey to the Far
West of a portion of the Elvish folk, who never again saw their ancestral home
in the Far East; he tells them of Fëanor who crafted the Silmarils, and who led the
Western-elves back to the shores of Middle-earth to fight a war against
Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of all Free Peoples; he tells them of the Eldarin
kingdoms that fought against Morgoth, until he was cast down and the world was
ever changed.
Belegorn
and his retainers listen respectfully, though it is clear much of what is said,
even in so limited a telling, is beyond their ken. Only when Bergalad
speaks of the changing of the world do they show true understanding. One
of the Elves at the table, perhaps an elder among them, regales, “It is
said in our legends that the world was changed many ages in the past, and the
great sea where our folk dwelt in peace was reduced and moved, and our
ancestors were scattered and wandered the forests of the world until some of us
found what was left of its once mighty shores.”
As
the meal is finished, Bergalad rises from the table and offers to sing another
tale of his land; the Elves, who ever are lovers of music, readily consent and
implore him to sing. Bergalad knows much more of the tales of the Third
Age than the earlier eras, and he tests his skill by composing a new verse
about the War of the Ring and the fall of Mordor, singing his lay for the
listening Eastern-elves [Perform (Compose Verse) test, superior success].
In his high tenor, sweet and strong, Bergalad recounts the Ring of Doom crafted
by Sauron, servant of Morgoth who had made himself the new Lord of Darkness
until he was thrown down by the Kings of Men and the Eldarin kingdoms; he sings
of the finding of the lost One Ring by Bilbo Baggins of the Shire; he sings of
the quest by Frodo and his friends to take the Ring to the Cracks of Doom
whence it was made, of the war between Mordor and Minas Tirith, and of the final
fall of Sauron when Gollum betrayed Frodo and plunged into the Fires of Mount
Doom with the One Ring. The Eastern-elves listen in awe, amazed by the
vast events of which they had previously been unaware. When Bergalad
retakes his seat at the table, the Elves laud him for his performance.
Even
Belegorn is well impressed by the story. “It is beyond our
knowledge what has happened in the West,” he says, “though it seems
to us that our Western kin long sundered has suffered greatly. Only one
other of your kind has come to us before now, and
never did he tell us these tales, and angrily refused us when we asked of him
stories of the
“Who
among the Elves of the West has come to you before?” Bergalad asks.
“Do you speak of the sad and mysterious Singer, whose voice we heard as
we sailed along the shore? Or, do you speak of the Blue Wizards, who we
know came to you from out of the West?”
“Yes,
the Singer,” Belegorn answers. “We know him by no other
name. He came into the Elder Wood long ago, in the time of my
father’s father, thousands of winters past. He is an Elf, tall and
dark, mighty of voice and fearsome in bearing. It is said that he was
sick to the heart, and he found us as a father finds a lost child. In
that time, the Elder Wood was befouled and dangerous. Many wicked beasts
roamed the land, bringing death to our deathless people. Thusly were my
forefathers slain, and why I now lead the people in their place. The
Singer took up abode in the depths of the forest wherein the gravest dangers
were found, but he did not perish. Lo, over the ages the forest was
purified and made safe, and now we live in peace and comfort. Many vile
beasts may still be found in the heart of the wood, it is true, but they do not
trouble us.”
“The
Singer protects you?” Bergalad asks.
“We
cannot say,” Belegorn returns. “All that we know is that,
since he made his abode in the forest, our region has been rendered bountiful
and safe. He does not come among us any longer, not for a thousand
summers or more; we only hear his song from time to time. But, in the
time of my youth long ago, I recall that he came among us infrequently, and he
took a special interest in our welfare, though he refused to talk of the West
or to tell us anything of his origins.”
“Have
you heard of the Blue Wizards?”
Belegorn
nods once and says, “The Men in Blue Robes, old and bearded, but strong
in the ways of magic. It was when they first came into our land that the Singer
hid himself in the deep wood, no longer revealing himself. The Blue Robes
wandered the
The
Elf-chief regards the outlanders carefully. “Much you have told us
of the West,” he says. “And you have come to us with strange
questions from times long forgotten, which we have answered. Now is the
time to state in clarity why you have traveled so far from your homelands, what
task brings you to our shores, and why your friend Finbor came to us so near to
death. Speak, so I may know your hearts and decide where you may go from
here, or if you may stay among us.”
Scene 8:
On
the evening of July the 18th, the Elves of the Elder Wood hold a
great feast under the night sky. Belegorn, their chief, presides over the
revels, and the Fellowship is seated at his table as honored guests.
Finbor, still badly hurt but no longer in mortal danger, is carried out upon a
straw mat to join his comrades. Weakly, Finbor rises as best he can and
makes a low bow before Belegorn. He speaks to the Elvish
chief, Bergalad translating his words: "My Lord, I am in your debt. You
have saved my life, when there was little hope of survival. Let it not be
said of Finbor Angbor's son that he didn't repay his debts: tell me how I can
repay this favor, and if it is within my power to do so I will make it
happen."
Belegorn
nods once to Finbor, gesturing for him to return to his mat and spare his body
any further strain. “You speak honorably,” Belegorn answers
in his own speech. “But there is no boon we need of you. A
time may come, and then we will ask.”
"You
have been kind and charitable beyond my hopes," Bergalad says to the
Elf-chieftain. "To bring our friend back from the blackness
is a deed I may never be able to properly repay, but I am proud to call
you kinsmen, however distant. Know that when I return to the lands of my
home, the realm of Lord Legolas, I will bring word that the Elves of the East
are a noble and worthy brethren. You have made a friend and advocate in
the lands of Ithilien this day."
Belegorn,
taciturn in word and bearing, merely nods in reply, slowly and pensively.
[Wisdom test] Bergalad, possessing a wise mind even among his noble kind,
watches his host and perceives his hidden thoughts. The minstrel’s
heart sinks, for he discerns that he has troubled Belegorn. The pledge to
speak of the Eastern-elves to outside lands darkens Belegorn’s expression
slightly. Bergalad realizes it is too late to take back his words, and he
fears saying anything further on the matter would only alarm him further.
He quickly drops the subject, and the festivities continue unabated.
After many tales are told and questions answered, Belegorn returns once more to
his most pressing query: why the Fellowship has come to the Elder Wood, and
with a mortally wounded comrade at that.
Éogar
turns to his friends and speaks to them in a low voice. "These Elves
seem more cautious than any I have met," he notes to the others.
"Still, they wish to know our quest; I believe we must tell them.
They must know the evil of the shards that inhabit their homeland. It is
this wood that they appear to value above anything else, and the danger may
motivate them to aid us."
Rard
nods effusively and says, "It would not do to deceive them after
they saved the life of Master Finbor!"
Bergalad,
in a more sober tone, tells Belegorn the full tale of the Fellowship: how they
set out from Rivendell in search of the missing sage Belemir; how they learned
of the threat of the long-lost Angril; how they came to Rhûn and aided
the Dorwinions in their struggles with the goblins and the Easterlings; and how
they journeyed to the Great Wood in search of jewel shards accompanied by a
party of Easterlings, who struck down Finbor. Bergalad quickly adds that
the Easterlings were overcome and sent back to their homeland. The Sinda
minstrel eloquently pleads the Fellowship’s case – that they have come to this far-away land to rid the world
of a danger they did not create but which threatens everyone. He urges
Belegorn to recall his tale of the War of the Ring, and implores him to do what
he can to help them prevent a War of the Iron Jewel that would engulf
Middle-earth from the Great Wood to the
Belegorn
listens attentively, a stony expression upon his face. It is certain that
he is wary of outsiders, even of one of the Western-elves long sundered from
his kind. Long does Belegorn reflect upon what is said to him; finally he
says, “There is wisdom in your words, Bergalad. I believe that your
band has not come to our wood in malice, nor do you wish to bring hardship upon
us. We are a peaceful and secret people, and we do not involve ourselves
in the affairs of the world beyond our wood. I will ponder your tale, and
think on what we shall do. For now, ask what you need to know of us, and
I will answer as I may.”
Finbor
sits up upon his straw mat, and speaks to Bergalad. “There are only
three shards left, and two of them can be found here,” he says.
“This means we can expect Belemir, or Baldur, here soon. Can you
ask their hunters to keep an eye out for him, and to warn us should he
arrive?" Bergalad translates the request, and Belegorn nods in
assent: the Elven-hunters will be tasked to watch for this strange man and to
warn the Fellowship if he is spotted in the woods.
Éogar
turns his thoughts to the beasts the Fellowship may encounter when it ventures
in the forest depths. "What creatures do you hunt and see in your
woodland realm?" he asks. He urges Bergalad especially to inquire of
Belegorn of the Spider-Demon and the Great Raven, the creature seemingly
associated with Baldur. "If the raven has not appeared, then we must
warn them of the ill omen when it does." Bergalad nods and
translates Éogar’s words.
Belegorn
converses briefly with his servants about him and then answers: “We have
not yet seen the great raven, but we shall watch for it. There are many
beasts in this forest, and they grow more foul and
dangerous the farther one follows the setting sun. Within a day’s
journey in every direction from this place, the beasts are useful to us: harts,
hares, bears, birds of feather, fox and beaver. Beyond this distance, the
beasts are cruel and horrid: spiders and insects of great size, whose stings
may kill. Wild goblins roam the shadowed fringes, and call no-one master
but their own hate and greed. Only the Singer may abide this dark heart
of the forest, and no longer do we dare to essay his territory. In the
past those who have sought him never returned to us. It is a cursed land, a land I now see has been polluted by the shards of
the Black Crystal of which you speak.”
Rard,
excited by all this adventurous talk, lets fly a
string of questions: Is anyone aware of what type of magic would be necessary
to project one's voice like the singer? How many spiders may be
encountered? Is the forest passable with the horses, or is travel
possibly only on foot? Bergalad quickly summarizes the questions, and
Belegorn responds with a faint smile. “Who can say what magic is
needed? For none of my folk can rival the Singer’s voice,”
the Elf-chief says. “You ask of the spiders, but there is little
for us to say to you. We do not dare count them, and it has been hundreds
of summers since any Elf has dared trespass upon their territory. The
forest is very dense, and this is our great protection. In the past Men
of the East have tried to assail our woods with those beasts you call horses,
pulling carts and wagons of war, but they can never pass through the
deeps. Those who wish to pass the woods must do so on foot, and as nimbly
as do my folk.”
Finbor
asks if the Fellowship can use the Elf village as a base of operations when
they go to seek the crystal shards. Belegorn frowns slightly and replies,
“It remains for me to decide how far your company may be permitted to
wander in the Elder Wood. But if it is decided that you may venture to
the west, your animals and supplies may remain here.”
The
hour is now very late, and though the Eastern-elves do not require sleep in the
manner of Men, they do slumber and dream in their own fashion, especially after
heavy drink. The feasting Wood-elves slowly disperse, and Belegorn
himself rises to retire. He offers the companions the hospitality of
their huts, where they may sleep and watch over their injured comrade
Finbor. The companions bow gratefully to Belegorn and bid their host
good-night, but before retiring they speak amongst themselves of plans yet to
come. "The Singer has not returned to these Elves since the Blue
Wizard arrived. What could that mean?” Éogar asks.
“Could the Blue One have entrapped him for some reason? Could the
Singer have changed since the shard landed near his homestead?" He
ponders, "The shard from the Spider-Demon is straight-forward: we
must kill her. But, this Singer may have the other. We will have to
consider how it affects him; he is clearly important to these Elves..."
"According
to Belegorn, the Singer is an Elf of the West," notes Bergalad,
"though many years removed from our lands. It cannot be coincidence
that he disappeared at the same time the Blue Wizards arrived, but beyond that
my ideas would be guesswork. In any event, these Eastern-elves seem to
trust in him, and their goodwill is a friendly enough introduction for
me. I know not how we could track down this Singer, but a conversation
with him would answer many questions. Still, I believe our first course
should be to track down the Spider-Demon: our course with her is much more clear".
"These
tales about the Singer remind me of the tales that used to be told about the
Sorceress of the Golden Woods, also a powerful Elf of ancient might,”
Finbor muses. “It was said that no mortal man could enter her lands
and return again unscathed. However I know that many of these rumors were
false, for I have seen her at the wedding...her beauty second only to our Queen."
Rards
adds his voice, summing up the party’s decision: "We should indeed
talk to this Singer, especially if he knows about the Blue Wizards, be he
friend or foe."
Éogar
draws the company’s attention to the matter of when to set out from this
place, given that Finbor will need time to recover from his wounds.
"If Frolin is correct that Baldur has already retrieved another shard,
then we may not have the time to wait." He looks to Finbor and asks,
"How long can we wait?"
Finbor
slowly rises from the straw mat when he hears his friend speak, grimacing in
pain. "I can walk, if I need to", he says grimly, taking a few
steps on his own toward his friends. However, his legs quickly give out
and Éogar is compelled to catch him and help him support the weight of his
body. Finbor breathes tightly, knowing he is not yet ready to travel.
"Hmmm,
let me think," the Dwarf says, stroking his beard. "Baldur will
likely go for the shard to the southeast next. There is no way we can
prevent him from acquiring it. We must only gain possession of a single
shard here in the forest, which will draw him to us. He can move swiftly,
but I think it will be some time ‘ere he takes the other shard and comes
this way. I think we can give Finbor some time to heal." So
decided, the Fellowship retires for the evening, Éogar helping Finbor walk to
the hut. There the friends rest his comfort and safety, secure in the
wooded haven of the Eastern-elves.
*
* *
Over
the next several days the Fellowships dwells with the Elves, a happy and placid
respite after many months of journey and hardship. It finally hits Rard
one morning that it has been over two months since he set out from
Rivendell with Finbor and Vornmir and Frolin, along with Belegil and Barion who
are no longer with him; and since that time Herubrand has joined the company
and left, too. So much has changed, and all in two little
months! Frolin also seems lost in thought during his time, though for
different reasons than Rard. Every morning Frolin rises and retires to
private mediation, to cast the spell taught him by Dáma: he reaches his mind
far across the land, sensing the pull of the shards. He carefully watches
the remaining shards, wary that yet another may disappear from his far-sight
under veiling magic. At least over this stretch of days, there are no
changes: the shards remain where they have been.
Finbor
grows stronger each day, bit by bit. After three days he is no longer
incapacitated, though still heavily wounded. One morning he emerges from
the hut dressed only in his breaches, Herubrand’s heirloom blade in his
hands. For several minutes he pushes his body, practicing his sword
routines and exercises his weakened muscles. Many of the Wood-elves
gather to watch him, for they have never seen a warrior of his kind before:
tall and grey-eyed, fighting with a slashing blade of steel. Suddenly,
Finbor’s training is interrupted by a thundering bellow. "Get
back to bed, you fool!" Frolin calls out angrily to Finbor. "I
will NOT have you reopening your wounds and delaying our quest further.
You will remain abed until the healers say you are fit to walk!"
Before Finbor can protest the rough words, a twinge of pain strikes his wounds,
the flesh tearing slightly from the strain. Finbor reluctantly sheaths
his sword and returns to his sick-bed.
Éogar
has little cause to interact with the Elves, and spends most of his time
tending to the party’s steeds and to his weaponry. He only bothers
Bergalad long enough to get him to ask the Wood-elves about their forest: where
clean water may be found, whether there are dangerous plants, and if they may
have a crude map of their lands. The Elves readily report that clean
water is ever-present, for numerous fresh springs bubble down from the higher
ground to the northeast, flowing into the sea. The forest does not have
any particularly dangerous plants, and most are fair to eat. Curiously,
they do not even recognize Bergalad’s word for map. He tries to
explain what a map is, and it soon becomes clear that these Eastern-elves do
not have any mode of writing. Bergalad laughs at himself for not
realizing it sooner! Long sundered from their western kin, there is no
way for these Elves to have learned of the cirth of Daeron or the tengwar
of Fëanor. Without a writing system, which these Wood-elves seem to have
no use for or interest in, they cannot make a map, nor do they desire to learn
how.
Rard,
meanwhile, turns his thoughts back to his ever-present problem of arrows.
Bergalad has taught him how to make them, but the poor little Hobbit has not
yet been able to find tools and supplies. The Elves of the Great Wood,
though, have tools and supplies in plenty: gut-twine, sharp flint files, long
bone probes, and sturdy guiding feathers. "But what can we offer in
trade?" Rard wonders. He grabs Bergalad to act as translators,
trying to convince the Elvish craftsmen to grant him
fletching tools and supplies. He offers to convince Frolin to teach them
how to build stone structures, but the Elves have no interest in such things.
To live under a stone roof is an appalling idea to them! Next he
tries to offer his steel dagger in trade, but the Elves find the metal
ungainly. It is not any sharper than a good flint edge, and they do not
believe the Hobbit when he assures them that iron holds an edge much better
than stone. Desperately, he offers to do work: hunter, entertainer, even
cook. That a little Hobbit could match an Elf-hunter
strikes the Elves as comical, and with Rard giving away such free
entertainment they hardly need to hire him on as an entertainer. When he
mentions Shire food, however, the craftsmen grow more curious. "I
know a really tasty recipe for a nice Possum Stew...if
they have any possums over here," Rard muses. The Elves eventually
relent, and if Rard prepares them all a grand meal every day while he stays
among the Elves, they agree to give him a kit of fletching tools, stone
pieces, wood shafts, and feathers. Rard eagerly takes his prize…and
spends the next many days slaving away as a cook for the Wood-elves, who are
surprisingly ravenous for being so slender. Rard sighs to himself often
as he works over the cooking fires, realizing that he is giving to these Elves
dozens of hours of labor for what he could have bought in the Shire for a few
silver pennies.
On
his free time (when he is not cooking!), Rard gets to work on making
arrows. It is a relatively trivial task, and over several days he can
make a large number. Frolin agrees to help him, crafting sharp arrowheads
out of the sturdy flint chunks. Frolin, when his work with the arrowheads
is done, takes a look at Finbor’s armor, badly damaged in the fight with
the Easterlings. Two gaping gashes are torn in the front of the corslet,
and the Dwarven-craftsman realizes it would take him a good many hours at a hot
forge with a fair supply of workable metal to repair the tattered mail
coat. It is not likely he will find what he needs in the Great Wood!
*
* *
July
the 24th marks one full week that the Fellowship has been among the Eastern-elves.
They have rested well and in comfort; even their animals look hale and hearty,
feasting on the forest grasses that flourish in the presence of these fair, if
wary, folk. Frolin’s few remaining scratches have fully healed within
a few days, and the Dwarf is completely Healthy [0 damage]. Éogar was Dazed from his slight injuries, and an Elf-healer has kept
cursory watch over him. [2 Stamina tests: extraordinary success,
extraordinary success] The warrior-hearted Éogar flourishes under the ministrations
of the Elves, and his natural stamina heals almost all of his injuries; he is
nearly perfectly Healthy [2 damage remaining]. Bergalad and Rard, of
course, were unharmed in the battle and have no wounds to heal.
Finbor’s wounds are still quite seriously, even though he is no longer
incapacitated, and the Elven-healers watch him continuously. [2 Stamina
tests: complete success, marginal success] Thanks to the Elves’
care, Finbor staves off infection and slowly heals from his grievous injuries;
he is still heavily Wounded [37 damage remaining].
Finbor
can now move about on his own power without excessive pain, though he still
finds it difficult to wield a sword or shield effectively. Furthermore,
Frolin is concerned that Finbor's wounds could become infected if he
leaves the Elf Haven too soon. Éogar is Hardy and possesses a
Warrior’s Heart, and thus his body naturally heals itself with amazing
ease. Finbor may be Valiant and Warwise, possessing great Valour, but none
of these traits help him heal or stave off infection…
What’s
more, after a week’s time Belegorn still has not spoken with the
Fellowship again. No word has come to him about where he will permit the
companions to go in his realm, by what paths, or when he will permit them to
travel. The Wood-elves treat the Fellowship as honored guests, and the
merry people have accepted their presence, but Bergalad espies that his company
is ever under watch, and not one of them can draw near the forest edge of the
clearing without being observed. The Elves do not let them go into the
wood, nor are they permitted even to accompany the Elves to hunt.
Scene 9: Perpetual Guests
After
the Fellowship has spent a week among these strange Wood-elves of the East, the
companions grow concerned that Belegorn still has not rendered his decision
about whether he will grant them leave to enter the deep woods. It is not
that the Elves have mistreated their guests. Quite the contrary, they are
generous hosts: each day they provide water for bathing and for drinking, and
they give their guests run of the food-stores to prepare whatever they
wish. The companions are rested and well-fed, but still they grow
restless, especially Éogar. Now that Finbor is able to walk on his own,
however weakly, Éogar gathers his friends together to discuss the
situation. "Belegorn still has not given us permission to pass
through his lands," he says with some frustration. “Did he
understand our task? Our quest will only help his people and his
forest," he adds, clearly puzzled by the Elf-chief’s inaction.
"An Elf could not be seduced by the evil power of the crystal shards,
could he? Perhaps we should speak with him again and ask him what we can
offer to win his aid."
[Bergalad’s
Wisdom test, complete success] The Elf-minstrel smiles ruefully and says,
“Only in our hearts do Elves have hope that we cannot fall to the
corruption of evil. Though our spirits are ever drawn to the light,
we feel the same wraths and envies and hatreds that befall Men and
Dwarves. Long ago, Éogar, it was fear and grief that stopped a great
portion of Elven-kind from reaching the Undying West, and it was wrath for a
stolen treasure that brought the High-elves back to Middle-earth.”
He looks kindly on little Rard and adds, “It is
only the simplest of folk whose hearts may truly resist corruption and the
seduction of power.”
Frolin
nods in agreement with Éogar. "We must do whatever we can to secure
Belegorn's permission to explore the forest. If he will not give it, then
we must make plans for exploring the forest without permission."
Finbor
shares Éogar’s concern about the indecisiveness of Belegorn: "That
is something I've noticed before in this country, all the eastern lords we have
met sofar – Hengel, Galleth and the Master and council of Marsburg
– they all answered indifferent to our quest to combat the evil influence
of the shards at first. They behaved as if defeat was imminent. I think I
now know why: these lands never knew the protection of a mighty realm like Gondor.
While we fought to keep the Enemy out of the West, the East was left open to
the Enemy's dark influence. We know that the one of the Blue Wizards had tried
to establish a powerful alliance in the East, but we also know that he failed.
And while we proudly and valiantly defied the Enemy, they tried to hide under
any rock they could find to save their own hides as best as they could.
Apparently the people of Dorwinion never knew such heroes as Boromir son of
Denethor, or Thorongil Umbardacil; they don't even know the heroes of the Elder
Days like Beren Erchamion or Hurin Thalion." Finbor smiles at his
companions and adds, "I say, let us set an
example for them!"
Frolin
turns to Bergalad and says, "You must make Belegorn see that the crystal
shards corrupt the forest, and that their lives will be improved with it
gone. He must also realize that if the Angril is reunited, these
Elves may not be able to cower in their forest, safe from harm like they did
last time.” Bergalad nods silently, in agreement if uncertainty.
“If
these Elves will not help us further, we should bid them a kindly farewell and
have them take us back to where the Easterlings dropped us off,”
Éogar states. “From there we can head West
along the North coast of the sea before turning North into the forest.
The elves clearly do not wander the cursed western wood, so we should not
run afoul of them there." Éogar suggests that the Fellowship can
remain a few more days, a week at most, to permit Finbor to heal. Frolin
nods and insists on staying a full week, to avoid any risk that Finbor’s
injuries might become infected.
For
the next several days, the Fellowship seeks out Belegorn, only to learn that he
is away from the haven-glen. The other Elves say that he is out hunting,
or visiting other Elf Homes in the Great Wood, or scouting the frontiers of
their woodland realm. Though he is gone, the Wood-elves refuse to let
their guests venture into the forest or depart. The guests are beginning
to feel more like prisoners, however well cared-for they might be. Just
when the companions are on the verge of despair, Belegorn returns to the
clearing on a cloudy, windy afternoon. Not to be dissuaded, the
companions push through the assembling Elves and hurry over to Belegorn,
urgently calling to him. Belegorn looks coolly at the outsiders advancing
upon him, and with a gesture commands his hunters to stand by and his folk to
depart and make space for the visitors.
“Belegorn,
long have we awaited your return!” Bergalad calls out.
“We must speak with you, and cannot wait any longer.”
“I
know what you have come to ask,” Belegorn responds curtly, his words
translated to the others by Bergalad. Belegorn continues, “I have
returned from scouting the western limits of our wood, the very land you seek
to enter. It is dark and dreadful as always, and the great spiders still
pollute the heart of the forest. The treetops are but bridges for them,
and they stalk silently and deadly. They discern even the passing of my
kind, and even we cannot trap them. Whosoever ventures into the forest
deeps ventures into their lair, and will surely suffer ambush. I cannot
permit you to travel into the deep woods, for you will surely perish.”
“And
yet we have faced peril before,” Finbor pronounces, calling upon Belegorn
to remember the Fellowship’s tale, how they fought and won a terrible
battle at Galleth’s villa against a goblin army.
Belegorn
frowns dourly and returns, “I do not doubt your valor, or your
strength. But you are still hurt, Finbor of Gondor. You and your
friends are our guests, and I cannot suffer you to go into harm’s
way. You must stay among us.”
“And
we will for several days yet,” Bergalad says. “But soon
Finbor’s wounds will heal enough that he no longer faces serious risk,
and then we must leave you.”
Belegorn
shakes his head and states in a firm voice, “I cannot grant you
leave. You have taught us that a great darkness has threatened the earth
in the past and may do so again. If you leave my realm, you will spread
word of us to foreign powers. Though I know you mean my realm no
ill-will, your travels will draw the attention of outlanders to the Elder
Wood. No, friends, you must remain among us until the black storm blows
and passes; perhaps for some years, perhaps for the rest of the short
time reckoned in the lives of Men.”
The
companions of the Fellowship look at each other agape, stunned by the
Elf-chief’s pronouncement that they must remain as perpetual guests of
the Elves! Finbor is first to protest angrily. He says, "In
search of the shards of the Angril we have traveled many leagues across
these lands; we have crossed great mountains, traveled through ancient forests
and wide plains, and we have fought our way through Spiders, Goblins, Trolls
and treacherous Easterlings. We can not allow you to halt us in our
task.”
Bergalad
cautiously translates Finbor’s protest, though his passion needs no
translation. The Grey-elf minstrel adds words of his own, striving to
persuade Belegorn to aid, not hinder, them.
“This company has come too far and endured too many hardships to turn
aside from our sworn duty. Will you not help us in the work we must do,
Belegorn? Our quest can only aid your people and your forest; if the Iron
Jewel is forged anew, it will bring a great darkness upon your realm from which
you will not be able to hide.”
[Finbor’s
Persuade (Oratory) combined test, marginal success; Bergalad’s Persuade
test, +1 from Finbor, complete success] Belegorn listens impassively for many
moments, his piercing gaze taking in each of the outlanders in turn, and he
sees their resolve. “You are willful,” he murmurs
ruefully. “You would do better to remain among us as our guests,
but I see that there is nothing I can say to convince you of your folly.
If I commanded you to stay, I fear your bonds of duty to your quest would
compel you to draw your strange weapons on us.” He fixes his cold
gaze on Finbor and says in a betrayed tone, “And you, Finbor of Gondor,
whose life was spared by our efforts, even you would turn on us and defy my
edict.”
"Please,
Lord Belegorn, I am very grateful for what your people have done to me, and I
still feel that I am in your debt!” Finbor returns in a plaintive
tone. “However, my first and foremost allegiance lies with my Lord
and King, Elessar Telcontar, High-King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Arnor and
Gondor; and it is he who tasked us with the finding of the shards of the Angril."
When
Bergalad translates Finbor’s words, Belegorn nods solemnly.
“It is as I said: nothing will dissuade you from your duty, not
friendship for my folk or even the danger to your own lives,” says the
Elf-chief.
"When the fate
of the West depends on one's duty, it is not shirked easily," Finbor
replies.
“So
be it, then, you may depart when you wish and travel to your doom in the heart
of the dark wood. My people shall sing to the sky that you may be
preserved, but we will not look to see you again on this earth.”
Belegorn then advances on Finbor and levels his somber gaze upon him.
“Yet, before you depart, I will call on your promised boon.”
“Name
your boon,” Finbor responds without hesitation.
“If
you do survive the forest-deeps and emerge again in the wider world, you and
your companions must never speak of us to outsiders. Ever may we remain
in your hearts as cherished friends, but never may any of you speak of us to
others in the world beyond. You must swear never to reveal our woodland
haven to outlanders, not even to your own people.” Belegorn then looks
at the others in the Fellowship and adds, “I have no claim upon the oaths
of the others, but by your boon, Finbor, I shall have your oath not to permit
your friends to break faith.”
After
staying among the Eastern-elves for two weeks, the Fellowship once again speaks
with Belegorn, who had absented himself from the encampment to scout the
fringes of his realm. The Elf-chieftain,
as boon for saving Finbor’s life, has called upon him to swear on behalf
of the Fellowship never to speak of the Eastern-elves or their realm in the
Elder Wood to the outside world.
"If
that is what you ask of me in return, then you will have it,” Finbor answers him. “But before I give you my word, I would ask you
to reconsider. Ages have passed since your people entered this forest, and the
times and the lands around you have changed. The Nameless Enemy is destroyed
and my liege-lord, King Elessar, is a wise and benevolent ruler, who
governs the West, from the shores of the Endless Sea to the freed lands of
Nurnen, from the icy wastes of the North to the endless deserts of the South, together with his Queen, the
fair Lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond Halfelven, whose beauty and compassion
are unsurpassed in the
lands of Middle-earth. Many of the Free Peoples, Man and Hobbit, Elf
and Dwarf live under the protection of the Winged Crown; one need only to
look at our own Company, to see that I speak truly. Happiness and joy can be
found once more throughout the lands of the West." [Inspire test, TN 20, failure]
Belegorn
shakes his head and says, “For many ages of the world my folk have
sheltered in these woods. We have kept
its secrets, and the Elder Wood has guarded us in turn. The West may be fair and safe for now, but
the life of Men is fleeting and there is no knowing what will come in the
after. No, we cannot turn from our
ancient ways at your behest, Finbor of Gondor.” His words are soft, showing that he holds no
malice toward Finbor for his effort.
Then he adds firmly: “Will you swear your oath?”
Finbor
looks at each of his companions before speaking again. "I know
many secrets," Frolin states matter-of-factly. "One more is no burden." The other companions raise no opposition,
through Rard whispers to Éogar that his stories back home will want for a lack
of detail in this section.
Finbor
squarely face Belegorn and states his pledge: "I vow in my own name and on
behalf of the Fellowship of the Angril,
here gathered, never to
reveal
the existence of the Folk of
Belegorn, nor to ever speak of them again beyond the borders of their woodland
realm."
“I am
contented,” Belegorn returns.
“May you find a happier fate than I foresee. Farewell.” When there are no more words to be said,
Belegorn and his hunters stride away and vanish into the trees at the far side
of the clearing. The companions watch these stately, primitive, yet
pristine Elves and cannot help but feel a hint of sadness; somehow they know
they will not see Belegorn again.
For
the next several days the Fellowship remains in the Elf Haven, and each day
Finbor grows stronger and healthier. The Gondorian warrior begins once
again to practice with his sword, drilling his attacks and parries; he spars
against Éogar as often as he may. When discussion arises over the dangers
to come, Finbor retrieves his tattered mail coat and wishes it could be
repaired somehow. Finbor shows the mail to Frolin, suggesting makeshift
repairs that could possibly be done, though the Dwarven-craftsman is skeptical:
any effort to glue in a leather stop-gap or weave closed the sundered gash
would not provide any greater protection and certainly would fall apart the
first time the coat was struck.
Éogar
notices the two working on the tattered armor and, after a short while,
confronts Finbor. "You will wear the Dwarven scales when we leave
the Elves.” The Rohirric warrior refuses to be gainsaid. “You
have led us so very far," he finishes with a hand on the Dúnadan’s
shoulder. "Let us lead for a short while so that both your mind and
body may recover. We will need your full skills soon enough."
"That
is a very generous offer, and a very good one! We do need you
healthy, Master Finbor," Rard chimes in. Against such unanimity,
Finbor cannot refuse. He agrees to wear Dwarf-made corslet of scale-mail,
and his tattered coat of chain-mail will have to be packed away until a time
when it can be repaired.
*
* *
July
the 31st marks the second full week that the Fellowship has stayed
with the Eastern-elves of the Great Wood. Frolin continues to cast
Dáma’s spell each day, reaching his mind across Rhûn to sense the power
of the Angril shards. He does not discern any substantial
differences from day to day. The shard in the dark heart of the Great
Wood shifts in location each day, as does the shard in the country east of the
As
feared, Belegorn is nowhere to be found. Indeed, many of the Elves have
faded away into the forest, off on their own private pleasures or traveling to
other woodland havens. Soon there are only a handful remaining in this
Elf Home, just a few servants to tend to the visitors and their animals and the
healers to tend to Finbor. The wardens have been removed, and no longer
is there anyone to prevent the Fellowship from hiking west into the forest
deeps.
Scene 10: A
After
staying among the Eastern-elves for two weeks, the Fellowship once again speaks
with Belegorn, who had absented himself from the encampment to scout the
fringes of his realm. The Elf-chieftain, as boon for saving
Finbor’s life, has called upon him to swear on behalf of the Fellowship
never to speak of the Eastern-elves or their realm in the Elder Wood to the
outside world.
"If
that is what you ask of me in return, then you will have it,” Finbor
answers him. “But before I give you my word, I would ask you to
reconsider. Ages have passed since your people entered this forest, and the
times and the lands around you have changed. The Nameless Enemy is destroyed
and my liege-lord, King Elessar, is a wise and benevolent ruler, who
governs the West, from the shores of the Endless Sea to the freed lands of
Nurnen, from the icy wastes of the North to the endless deserts of the
South, together with his Queen, the fair Lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond
Halfelven, whose beauty and compassion are unsurpassed in the lands of
Middle-earth. Many of the Free Peoples, Man and Hobbit, Elf and
Dwarf live under the protection of the Winged Crown; one need only to look
at our own Company, to see that I speak truly. Happiness and joy can be found
once more throughout the lands of the West." [Inspire test, TN 20,
failure]
Belegorn
shakes his head and says, “For many ages of the world my folk have
sheltered in these woods. We have kept its secrets, and the Elder Wood
has guarded us in turn. The West may be fair and safe for now, but the
life of Men is fleeting and there is no knowing what will come in the after.
No, we cannot turn from our ancient ways at your behest, Finbor of
Gondor.” His words are soft, showing that he holds no malice toward
Finbor for his effort. Then he adds firmly: “Will you swear your
oath?”
Finbor
looks at each of his companions before speaking again. "I know many
secrets," Frolin states matter-of-factly. "One more is no
burden." The other companions raise no opposition, through Rard
whispers to Éogar that his stories back home will want for a lack of detail in
this section.
Finbor
squarely face Belegorn and states his pledge: "I vow in my own name and on
behalf of the Fellowship of the Angril, here gathered, never to
reveal the existence of the Folk of Belegorn, nor to ever speak of them again
beyond the borders of their woodland realm."
“I
am contented,” Belegorn returns. “May you find a happier fate
than I foresee. Farewell.”
*
* *
With
the departure of Belegorn, his hunters, and his retinue, the Elvish
encampment is nearly emptied. All who remain are a handful of Elf-healers
who tend to the healing hut and care for Finbor while he remains, as well as a
small party of servants whose task must be to tend to the settlement while the
others are away. The companions discuss when they should depart, and
briefly the Fellowship considers setting out immediately. Though Finbor
pretends to be ready, it is apparent to others that he is still pained.
Frolin pronounces authoritatively, "Finbor needs more rest. A few days at the least. If we leave now there is too
great a chance that infection will set in, inflaming his wounds. Need I
remind any of you of what befell our companion Herubrand? Finbor's wounds
were no less grave…” Finbor quickly
relents and agrees to rest for a few more days. During the extended stay,
the servants continue to supply the Fellowship with water and food. The
healer-women tend to Finbor’s remaining wounds, accelerating his
healing. [I will grant Finbor his 2 Stamina tests for the week a few days
early: complete success, marginal success] Thanks to their tender care
and skill with poultices, enhanced by the magic of their Elven nature,
Finbor’s wounds close up faster than he normally could hope; he is now
only seriously bruised, somewhat dazed from the pain [21 damage remaining,
Dazed, -1 wound penalty].
During
the intervening few days, Rard carefully prepares the company’s packs for
travel. He makes sure that each member carries 7 days worth of trail
rations and that every skin is topped full with water; that should be
sufficient for them to reach the home of the Singer and return. He looks
somberly at his pots and cooking kit, which he must leave behind; their weight
is much too great for him to carry overland. He also must leave behind
his fishing line and hook, not that he anticipates their use. The little
Hobbit also spends time with the mule and horses he has come to love, hoping
they will be safe here with the few remaining Elves while the companions travel
through the dense forest.
After
three more days of full rest and healing attention, Finbor looks fitter and no
longer quite so pained. It is decided that now the Fellowship may
undertake the dangerous trek into the deeps of the wood. Consensus is
reached that they should first seek out the Singer, hoping he will prove less
dangerous and threatening than the legendary Spider-Demon. Early on the
morning of August 4th, the companions rise for a light meal at dawn
and bid farewell to their remaining hosts. They also check in on their
steeds one last time, knowing they are contented stay here and graze in this
grassy glade. As the companions are readying their equipment, Éogar picks
up the coat of Dwarf-crafted scale-mail that the Fellowship found in the Heart
of Mirkwood and gives it to Finbor; as they had previously agreed, Finbor dons
the scale corslet.
"Well,
good Dwarf-crafted armour will protect him far better than this second-rate
mail he has been wearing," Frolin says to Éogar, throwing down Finbor's
tattered mail shirt, which he had been inspecting. "Finbor, one day
I shall craft you a corselet of Dwarf-mail so fine, you will never wish to don
the work of Men again.”
Éogar
picks up Finbor’s discarded mail and slips it over his chest; he finds it
heavier than his scale-mail coat, imposing average encumbrance upon him. Two
gaping gashes are torn in the front of the mail at vital regions, but it should
still provide some small protection against most typical blows.
While
the sun is still very low in the morning sky, the Fellowship sets out from the
Elf Home on foot, hiking into the rough woods to the southwest, trying to reach
the open coast. The woods are very much like the terrain crossed to reach
the encampment, rough but passable. Even with Rard’s small stride,
at a slow and steady walking pace, sure not to cause much fatigue, they cover a
little over a mile an hour. By the early afternoon the companions emerge
from the forest and once again look upon the Elven-shore and the
Now
the Fellowship follows the coastline to the West, relying on Éogar’s
sense of direction and Frolin’s perception of the location of the crystal
shards. The plan is to follow the coast to the position south of where
the shard lies in the woods, and then press north through the forest deeps to
reach it. The Elven-shore is average terrain, sandy in places and stony
in others, with slightly rolling contours. By mid-afternoon Éogar thinks
they have reached the place where the barge was off-shore when they heard the
Singer. Frolin concentrates, invoking the words of Dáma’s
spell. The Dwarven-sage casts the spell with little effort; he is able to
maintain the heightened perception for an extended time merely by
concentrating, allowing him to follow its pull toward the shard, though while
he is doing so the magic is active and hinders other spells he might
cast. However, he sees no other way to find the stationary shard hidden in
the thick forest; he uses the spell to sense its power and guide the party
toward its location, some six miles to the north into the forest deeps.
The Fellowship presses on, leaving behind the comforts
of the shore and pushing into the thick, overgrown forest, dark and shadowy. The sunny
afternoon sky soon vanishes from sight, and the dense canopy above makes the
summer day feel like an ominous autumn night. Yet, the air is not cool
despite the shade, and the cloying dampness clings to the skin. Hordes of buzzing gnats swirling around, making the experience all
the more irritating. The terrain is very rough, and the
Fellowship’s pace at a slow walk drops to not much more than half-a-mile
every hour. The journey is extremely arduous and tiring, even at this
slow pace; it is certain that Finbor’s wounds will not heal naturally in
this environment under this much strain.
As
the companions press their way through the dense and insalubrious deep woods,
Frolin continues to concentrate on the location from whence the crystal’s
power exudes. He also feels the presence of the mysterious power nearby,
whom he presumes to be the Singer. "This Singer is mighty. I
can feel his strength when I search for traces of the shard,” Frolin
ponders aloud. “I could sense him from as far off as
Marsburg. He may not welcome reminders of the land he left behind so long
ago, and he may be reluctant to give up the crystal shard he has held for so
long…”
Rard
wonders somewhat nervously, "So the Singer is a friend of the Elves, but
keeps them away. He hides from the Blue-Robes and lives in
seclusion. And the woods he helped recover from a
darkness, but his area is encroached on? And he has great sorrow
like none have ever known." Remembering what he heard of the Singer
aboard the Easterling barge, Rard looks around for something to put
in his ears in case they are to be enchanted by song. Alas, there is no
clay or linen or anything so useful: at best he can stuff torn strips from his
cloak into his ears, for what little protection it might offer.
"Still,"
the Dwarf continues with good cheer returning to his voice, “if he shares
his tale with us, it will be quite interesting. And after our last
encounter with spiders, I do not relish another." On that Rard can readily
agree!
*
* *
As
the companions hike north through the forest, Éogar and Bergalad keep the
company on course. They also keep a wary watch for potential
danger. Yet they find this part of the woods fairly quiet, and nothing stalks
or threatens the hikers. Perhaps the Eastern-elves were right that the
Singer somehow wards this segment of the forest, though it is not any lighter
and more pleasant for his efforts. It is a dark, somber, sorrowful place,
as if the forest reflects the rueful song that he sings. After many hours
of hiking, the sun has set and night comes to sky above; not that much can be
seen through the dense canopy.
“Are
we there yet?” Rard moans wearily, his legs taxed by the effort of
traveling through this very rough terrain.
“No,”
Éogar answers, “but we cannot continue walking any further today.
It is too dark to see.” Frolin estimates that the stationary
crystal shard is still nearly a league away to the north. The companions
decide to stop and make camp for the night, and there currently position is no
better or worse than any other; the entire stretch of the forest is a continue
mess of trees and brush and brambles without break or clearing. The
friends drink the remaining water from their skins and refill them at a nearby
brook burbling down a hilly slope. No one states any desire to make a
fire in these thick woods; well enough, as any fire could accidentally spread
and start a general conflagration. The companions eat what is left of the
day’s cold trail rations and lay out on the cloaks and bedrolls to sleep
in the darkness. The Fellowship’s typical watch proves unnecessary,
for nothing appears in these thick woods to threaten them even as they sleep.
On
the morning of August 5th, the Fellowship rises at dawn, consumes
their light and tasteless breakfast, and continues the journey. Frolin
casts again his spell and concentrates to maintain it, using his perception to
guide the Fellowship toward the stationary crystal. It takes several
hours to cover the remaining distance through the very rough terrain of the
heart of the forest; the safety of the shore now lays some two leagues to the
south. Shortly before the
Carefully,
the companions walk to the edge of the woods at the clearing, an ovular glade
some one hundred feet at its widest point and perhaps eighty at its
narrowest. The canopy above is thin and spare, letting you see the first
full glimpse of the sun since yesterday afternoon. Situated at the center
of the clearing is a small hill, naturally shaped like a wedge. On the
lee-side of the slope, the Fellowship spies an arch hewn into the earth; it is
a tunnel leading into the hillside, a crafted entrance into the hollowed
hill. Someone – or something – has turned the hill into its
abode.
Scene 11: Curiosity
and the Hobbit
Around
the height of the day on the 5th of August, the Fellowship reaches a
bright forest clearing from which Frolin has sensed the presence of a solitary,
stationary shard of the Angril. He can feel the magical pull of
the shard somewhere in this small glade. Frolin still feels the aura of
the Singer, too, but he is in motion and mighty, not readily discerned to a
specific location; the Dwarf only can tell that the Singer is somewhere within
the immediate distance up to a few miles away. As the companions enter
the wooded glade, they spy a smallish hill with an arched shaft hewn into its
leeward slope.
"Keep
your weapons ready,” Finbor whispers to the others, "but do not draw
them yet, we do not want to give a hostile impression." The warrior
reaches to his blade Herubrand at his side, loosening it from its sheath but
not yet drawing it.
Rard
looks at the archway and sighs: "What a waste of a good hill! You
could put a sturdy door on it, with nice windows, and have a proper
home." He looks to his friends for agreement but meets only their
blank stares. "Well, that's how we hobbits live. The earth
provides natural protection." From afar, Rard begins to circle around
the hill and examines the arch. It is not particularly tall, perhaps
seven feet in height. He notes that it is designed for utility, though
there is some decoration: finished stonework has been imbedded into the
exterior to form the archway, and a variety of
beautiful flowing designs have been cut into the stone. Not writing or
even pictures, but merely shapes of imagination and beauty. He murmurs
hesitantly, "Hello? Anyone home?"
Frolin
scoffs at Rard's caution stalks into the clearing. "Hello!" he
bellows jovially. "Is anyone there?" There is no answer
either to Rard’s quiet query or Frolin’s friendly invitation.
The
companions walk openly into the clearing, both to investigate it more fully and
to make themselves seen by anyone who may be hiding. Yet as time passes,
no one is revealed in the hill or the glade. At Finbor’s request,
Éogar carefully looks around the hill for signs of habitation. [Track
test] Éogar shakes his head and reports, “Whoever dwells here either
lives very lightly upon the land or has not been home for some time. Nor
do I see signs of horses or other beasts.”
Finbor
sets down his pack and fishes out a torch, looking for tinder with which to
light it. Frolin looks at him crossly and growls, “And just what do
you think you are doing?”
“We
need to take a look inside that hill,” Finbor replies.
“I
would have thought you’d know better than that, young lord!”
the Dwarf retorts, objecting strongly to any suggestion of entering the cave
without permission. Even if the shard does lie inside, it would not do to
break into this home to steal it. “We are no burglars,” he
states gruffly.
"I
agree that we should not force our way in yet," Éogar says in agreement
with Frolin. "But, if the Singer does not return tonight, we should enter
and examine the cave. Perhaps this is not his home at all. Do Elves
live under hills?"
Rard
shrugs. "In this land anything is possible."
"Yes,
some do live under hills, or have you forgotten the court of King Thranduil
already, my friend?" Finbor says as he puts the torch back in his pack,
relenting from his idea to enter the hill unbidden.
Bergalad,
whose mind has seemed greatly distracted of late, smiles placidly and adds,
“Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond of old, also lived in a great
citadel hewn into the earth. And Menegroth, the
As
the afternoon passes, the companions discuss how they should camp in this glade
while awaiting the Singer or whoever makes his home in this place. Rard
and Éogar quarrel over whether or not it is wise to camp atop the hill, the
latter favoring it for its tactical advantage while the former worries it is
too readily visible. Finbor intervenes to settle the matter, siding with
Éogar that it is better to hold the high ground against any of the threats of
the forest. The Fellowship heads over to the hill, finding the shallowest
slope on the windward side; they carefully hike up the incline, climbing the
last few feet when the angle becomes too sharp for walking. Once at the
top, they find a long and flat stretch of soft grasses on which to lay out
their bedrolls.
Rard,
as hobbits are wont to do, grows restless and bored, and in his restlessness
grows bolder. While his friends are busy setting up camp atop the hill,
Rard finds himself strolling over to the leeward slope, where it drops off
sharply to form the exterior archway. [Wisdom test, failure] Curious, the
little hobbit lies down at the edge and hangs his head over the side, peering
into the dark, cavernous archway. Previously he had studied the hill only
from a distance and couldn’t make out much detail, but up-close like this
he can see a good ways into the hill; the afternoon sun is bright enough to
cast a faint glow into the tunnel, providing just enough illumination for him
to make out shapes. He spies a very sparse arrangement, nothing so comfortable as a true hobbit-hole: carved stones stacked
to form tables, metal wrought to form braziers for torches and oil-lamps, and a
mound that he supposes must pass as a bed or sofa. Then he sees it: a
pale, cool glow, somewhat blue and somewhat black, like moving shadow.
Squinting, the hobbit studies the sickly light and makes out what seems to be a
spike of metal or crystal perhaps twice the span of his own
hand. [Willpower test] He gasps, realizing that it must be the crystal
shard they have come for! And it is so close, he
could easily get it just by climbing down the hillside and slipping into the
small hill-tunnel…
[Wisdom
tests] Bergalad is lost in his own thoughts and notices little of the world
around him, and Éogar is busy making camp. Frolin and Finbor, however,
suddenly look to each other as both notice something is amiss. “Where
is Rard?” Finbor asks, as a captain fearful for the loss of one under his
charge.
Frolin
scowls in irritation and hisses, “That little rogue, he better not be nosing around the archway.” The Dwarf
awkwardly scampers down the gentler slope and rushes around to the front of the
hill. “Rard!” he calls out sharply. As Frolin reaches
the archway, he spots the dim figure of Rard inside, clutching something in his
hand. “Rariadoc Brandybuck, come out of there this instant, if you
have any sense left in you!” he berates the hobbit. As Rard slowly
slinks out of the hill, Frolin notices that he is clutching something close to
his chest, covered by his arms. “What have you taken?” he
says angrily, fearful that his pledge not to have the Fellowship resort to
burglary has been defied by the curious hobbit.
Rard
slips out of the archway and backs away from Frolin, clutching his arms to his
chest even more forcefully. “I didn’t even realize
it…” he stammers, “I didn’t even know I was in the cave
until I was there… I didn’t mean anything by it…”
“What
is in your arms, you fool of a Brandybuck?” Frolin says, glowering at
him.
Finbor,
hearing Frolin’s exchange, has already rushed down the hill to stand at
the Dwarf’s side. “Rard!”
Finbor says in a wary tone, “What have you done?”
Before
Rard can respond, a sudden wind springs to life and gales through the glade,
shaking the trees and buffeting Éogar and Bergalad atop the hill. Clouds
blow in and cover up the sun, for a moment dimming the bright sun of this
summer’s day. The howling wind briefly drowns out the voices, but
both Éogar and Bergalad are aware that there is some disagreement among the
others below at the other side of the hill. The Elf and the Man of Rohan rise
from the campground atop the hill and try to call out to their friends a short
distance below across the hill, but their voices are lost amidst the rising
tones of a new sound. It is a mighty tenor like the cry of a hundred
eagles, a lordly voice like a clarion call, a fierce song that flows forth from
the surrounding forest like a rushing torrent. All of the companions
suddenly stiffen like statues, caught unawares by the powerful voice. Rard, especially, quails in nervousness, clutching his chest
tightly and backing up against the side of the hill, trying to keep away from
his friends and anyone else. After a moment, the others regain
their wits and look about the glade cautiously, trying to spot the presence of
this mighty Singer.
Then,
the song ends as quickly as it fell upon you, like a flood that raged out of
the forest. “Ai!” Bergalad cries
out, pointing toward the northern edge of the clearing. All eyes turn in
that direction, where stands a slender figure dressed
in black garments. He is tall, and his hair is long and black; his eyes
are piercing as daggers and icy blue like the deepest sea. His face is
ageless, like the face of Aragorn the King before time eventually overtook him;
time will never fully overtake this visage, yet the fair countenance is marked
by the weariness of a long life of great burdens. He is surely an Elf,
and one of high lordly bearing at that. A sword in a beautiful scabbard
hangs at his left side, and his right hand alone is covered by a black
glove. He must move with great strength and speed to have come upon you
through the thickets of the forest so suddenly, and yet he must also walk with
grace and stealth to have been unmarked by even the watchful senses of Éogar.
The
Singer stands motionless, a mighty presence like the Argonath at Rauros.
He silently observes each member of the Fellowship, his icy gaze resting lastly
and most piercingly upon Rard…
The story continues
in Part III (click here)