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Haenir settled his bones into the hard wood of his chair and indulged himself in a slight sigh of relief. The day’s march had worked its way into his body and the prospect of a couple days’ rest was appealing to him. He shifted his shoulders beneath his armour, reflecting on the days of walking still to come. It had been years since he had marched forth in his gear of war and it would take some time before it felt natural once more. He drank a great quaff of his ale and then banged the tankard to the table for more. A servingman hopped to his side and filled it once more with foaming liquid which soon followed its predecessor down Haenir’s throat.
The other Dwarves in the party had finally found their tongues, it seemed, but Haenir had fallen into something of a brood as he reflected on an incident from earlier in the day. When they had reached the city gates, the guards had asked where they were headed. When they had heard the answer, eyebrows had been raised and knowing looks had been exchanged among the men. Haenir and the other Dwarves had thought little of this reaction, for Men were a superstitious lot. But the echoing chatter had followed them into the Silver Stable. Even now, from where he sat Haenir could hear whispered fragments of conversation from about the room:
“Off to Rhûn you say they are? What madness could drive them there?” he heard in the slow tones of a Lakeman.
“Such is always the desire of Dwarves to seek their fortune far from the safety of home,” came the whispering music of an Elf from the Greenwood.
From the far side of the room he heard, “If half of what I’ve heard is true…” and from nearby, “death by darkness, they say about those lands. Death by darkness.”
This latter claim caught Haenir’s attention and he turned in his seat to find the speaker. At a small table not far from where he sat were two richly clad Men from Gondor – merchants, it seemed. They saw Haenir looking at them and quickly busied themselves with their food, embarrassed at having been caught gossiping about him. The Dwarf rose and bowed to them deeply before speaking formally. “My apologies, sirs, for intruding but I could not help but overhear your conversation about our destination. You seem to know somewhat of it, whereas I know nothing of it. As I am now on a road that will lead me into the heart of a great mystery, I would be grateful for anything that you might know.”
The two Men looked at one another quickly before the taller and fairer of the two responded. He was clothed in rich cloths and bore a large amulet of gold upon his chest. He was obviously one of high and noble birth and his eyes held Haenir’s as he spoke. “I’m afraid, Master Dwarf, that there is little that we know beyond the tales told by old women by the hearthside in our land. What value there may be in their stories I know not, but what I remember of them is yours for the asking. They speak of an empty land, devoid of people, and yet with all the signs of habitation. It is as though a race of spirits inhabits that realm maintaining paths and roads but living nowhere – being seen by no-one.”
Haenir’s countenance grew thoughtful as he took this in. “You are right, sir, that is not, perhaps, as helpful as I would like. But beggars cannot be choosers! You spoke, though, of ‘death by darkness’ – I note that you do not do so now. Do not worry about scaring me with old tales, sir! If there is aught to hear of this land, I desire to hear it.”
The Men looked at one another once more before the slighter one responded. “Like my friend, sir, I know nothing for sure of the land where you are headed. The line you heard is part of an old rhyme that I remember from my youth:
“The night like daggers glistening,
Cry out for the sun,
Fear a death by darkness,
In the land of Rhûn”
“As I say, Master Dwarf,” the Man continued, “it is an old rhyme and meaningless to me. Take it, for what it’s worth, and may it be of some use to you on the road you have chosen to travel.”
Haenir thanked the Men and bowed once more, returning to his seat. Cry out for the sun, Fear a death by darkness… The rhyme was a riddle to him – and he hoped that it would ever remain that way…
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