The Lay of the Hill of Fear
Far north, in the wastes where the snows lie deathly still, beyond the desolate fields of Angmar where shadows of the Witch-king linger yet, three companions came unto the Hill of Fear. There journeyed Nuri son of Náin, proud Dwarf of Erebor, stout of heart and stern of countenance; Bungo of the Shire, a hobbit eager and curious, though untried in dread places; and Forlong the Ranger, of the wandering Dúnedain, taciturn and resolute, bearing upon him the burden of ancient oaths.
Upon the crown of that hill, where the stone is black with sorcery and the air is heavy with whispers of old wickedness, madness seized Bungo. The little one, lured by voices foul and perilous, turned his hand against his friend. With the accursed blade of Snava, forged in Morgul fire, he smote Forlong from behind. Yet by the grace of the Valar it was not his ending, for the Ranger bore with him athelas, kingsfoil, a gift known of old to the heirs of Númenor. With it he purged the icy venom from his wound, and though grievous was the hurt, he was preserved.
But while sorrow and shame weighed upon them, doom crept nigh. The Undead Serpent, an ancient horror gnawed by sorcery, slid from its tunnels of ice, silent as the grave. Then battle was joined. Esterlang, the blade of Númenor, flared with a cold, clear light, and the fell beast shrank before its bite. Driven back through a hewn passage where ice met ancient stone, the company brought down the tunnel in thunder, sealing the way and holding the terror at bay, though it stirred yet beyond, wounded but unbroken.
In the stillness that followed, weary hearts were lifted by Bungo’s song — clear, fair, and strangely bold, echoing through the dark vaults, so that the silent halls trembled with music long unfelt.
Onward they passed, through catacombs where the Dead lay waiting. For unnumbered years they had slumbered, barrow-wights bound to the will of Angmar and of his Dark Lord. But by fortune or grace, Snava, their summoner, lay slain at the foot of the hill, and so the barrows stirred not. Wisely the companions touched no hoard, nor lifted helm or ring from the resting places of the cursed.
Still the Hill of Fear pressed down with its unseen hand, and dread gnawed the edges of their will. Few indeed could endure such a shadow, for in that place the malice of the Witch-king was yet strong. Yet Forlong, bound by oath, set aside his fear and went forth into the deep chamber at the heart of the hill. There the three beheld a vast and riven hall, its roof cloven by a shaft of stone wherein the cold stars could be glimpsed. Through it the wind howled, bearing with it the lament of countless spirits — men sacrificed long ago in dark worship of the Lord of Angmar and the Shadow he served.
Then terror mastered Nuri, son of stone, and he fled in shame. Alone Forlong and Bungo remained, and they beheld as from the darkness the Serpent of the Dead coiled forth once more, its bones rattling like iron, its eyes kindled with a ghastly flame. But the spirit of Forlong’s forefather, the smith who forged Esterlang for this very doom, stirred within his blood, and he feared not betrayal as of old. Together Ranger and hobbit stood.
Forlong hewed with mighty blows, though claws and fangs tore at him sorely. Bungo, darting swift as a hare, cried out the weakness he spied in the creature’s plated bones, guiding the Ranger’s hand. The crystal heart upon the beast’s breast, bound in spells of black sorcery, flared with baleful fire. Again and again Forlong struck it, yet his strength ebbed, and despair lay close upon them.
Then a cry rang out — fierce, proud, and hoarse with shame. Nuri returned, his axe alight with wrath. Though no magic dwelt in his weapon, yet his blows were stout and unyielding, and the serpent was pressed to the very brink of the riven chasm. There it stumbled, its body writhing, and for a moment its black heart was bared.
Forlong, summoning all that was in him, seized Esterlang in both hands. With one last stroke, driven by oath and by the fire of Númenor, he smote the crystal. It burst asunder in a shattering of light, and with it the blade itself broke into shards. The serpent fell screaming into the abyss.
Then a great wind arose, and the spirits long chained were loosed. They soared upward through the cleft, crying with voices both fearful and glad, until the night swallowed them. Silence fell. From the heavens above, a single star gleamed through the well of stone, and its light lay pure upon the broken hall.
Thus ended the terror of the Hill of Fear.
Bungo has recorded the tale in Song.
The Lay of the Hill of Fear
In northern wastes where Angmar lay,
Three wanderers went in dark dismay:
Nuri proud of dwarven line,
Bungo small with heart yet fine,
And Forlong grim, of Númenor,
Who swore an oath in days of yore.
Upon the Hill where shadows keep,
Where whispering wraiths through stone still creep,
Madness seized the hobbit’s mind,
With Morgul blade his hand unkind.
Yet kingsfoil leaf, by Rangers known,
Drove out the chill from flesh and bone.
Then from the ice there slid with dread
A serpent vast, long bound with dead;
Through tunnels carved in frozen stone,
It came with hissing, rattling bone.
But Esterlang, with light of old,
Its withered spirit backward rolled.
The tunnel fell, the beast withdrew,
And Bungo sang, his voice rang true;
Through tombs they trod with wary tread,
And woke not wights who slumbered dead.
At last they came where curses dwell,
A riven hall, a shadowed well;
The spirits wailed, the starwinds sighed,
Where Angmar’s victims moaned and cried.
There fear overcame the dwarven lord,
And Nuri fled with shame abhorred.
Yet hobbit bold and Ranger stayed,
And with the serpent grimly played.
Blow upon blow, though weary, sore,
Forlong struck with oath of yore.
The crystal burned upon its breast,
But strength grew faint at each hard test.
Then sudden rang a dwarven cry,
And Nuri came with axe held high.
Together strove the broken three,
To drive the beast toward chasm’s sea.
There Forlong saw the moment clear,
And smote the heart with stroke severe.
The crystal burst, the blade was torn,
The serpent fell, its bones forlorn;
And through the cleft a great wind passed,
The spirits flew, released at last.
One star looked down, its silver flame
Endured, though Hill bore death and shame.
So sang the bards of later years,
Of oath fulfilled through blood and tears;
Of hobbit’s song, and dwarf’s return,
And Ranger true whose heart did burn.
The tale of what happened next is soon to follow.
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