[piosenniel]

At a signal from Carchmoroth, the two younger Wargs set up a chilling howl, lasting only a brief moment. It stirred memories long buried of that loathesome wasteland in the North where once the Dark Lord dwelt. Angband! Where Morgoth strove to keep the silmaril from Beren and fair Lúthien.

The last echoes of the howl died away. Into the stillness of the room came the voice of the older Warg.

‘A tale, if you will, concerning the history of one of the great ones of our race.’

As if a Wolven bard, he chanted:

Then Morgoth of Huan’s fate bethought
long-rumoured, and in dark he wrought.
Fierce hunger-haunted packs he had
that in the wolvish form and flesh were clad,
but demon sprits, dire did hold;
and ever wild their voices rolled
in cave and mountain where they housed
and endless snarling echoes roused.

From these a whelp he chose and fed
with his own hand on bodies dead,
on fairest flesh of Elves and Men,
til huge he grew and in his den
no more could creep, but by the chair
of Morgoth’s self would lie and glare,
nor suffer Balrog, Orc, nor beast
to touch him. Many a ghastly feast
he held beneath that awful throne,
rending flesh and gnawing bone.

There deep enchantment on him fell,
and anguish and the power of hell;
more great and terrible he became
with fire-red eyes and jaws aflame,
with breath like vapours of the grave,
than any beast of wood or cave,
than any beast of earth or hell
that ever in any time befell,
surpassing all his race and kin,
the ghastly tribe of Draugluin.

Him Carcharoth, the Red Maw, name
the songs of Elves. Not yet he came
disastrous, ravening, from the gates
of Angband. There he sleepless waits;
where those great portals loom
his red eyes smoulder in the gloom,
his teeth are bare, his jaws are wide;
and none may walk, nor creep, nor glide,
nor thrust with power his menace past
to enter Morgoth’s dungeon vast.

Now lo! . . .


The great Warg’s eyes caught the movement as the Southron’s hand closed round the hilt of his sword. He bit off the chant in mid sentence, his eyes blazing. The two in the rear lowered their heads, and moved them back and forth in a sinuous motion, watching. Their bodies tensed, as if to spring upon the group, their tails held high in anticipation.

One short growl from Carchmoroth, and they sprang, but not upon the frightened throng. Leaping from the bar top, they moved like the wind back through the kitchen, and out the door at a dead run.

Their sudden movement had drawn the eyes of the patrons, and Carcharoth leapt from the table’s top at the window to his right, his nails finding bare purchase on the smooth oak as his legs propelled him thorough the splintering glass and wood.

And they were gone . . . racing North once more.

Still did the last words of Carcharoth ring in the ears of those left behind.

‘Another time, good neighbors. Then shall we finish the poem . . . perhaps . . .’

____________________________________________

From: The Lay of Leithian; The Lays of Beleriand; J.R.R. Tolkien

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[ December 05, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]