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Hearpwine roared with appreciative laughter at the conclusion of the Dwarves’ song and clapped his hand to the tabletop so mightily that Liornung had to look to his cup as it danced dangerously close to the edge of the table. “Well sung!” the young bard cried, “well sung indeed, my friends. You do your race credit! I did not know that Dwarves cared for aught but mines and gems and craft. You shame me in your proof of my ignorance.” Standing, he bowed to them deeply (but as he did so, he cast his eyes across the room to where Liornung’s pretty niece was sitting at her lessons). The Dwarves beamed at his praise and stood to return his bow, their beards sweeping the floor.
Hearpwine sat again and swallowed the last of his water to clear his throat. He then turned to the fiddler and demanded of him, “Why are you sitting there so silent, my friend, when we are charged by the lady Bęthberry herself to raise the roofbeams of the meadhall with our music? I know that we have sung much this day, and I begin to fear that I overtax my voice for the Contest tomorrow, but I am in such a mood for singing as has rarely come over me!”
In truth, he was rather alarmed by his mood, for the singing and revelry, while genuine, had become somewhat giddy for him. Hearpwine fingered his tankard while he considered this. When he had arrived at The White Horse Inn, he had been certain that the Contest before the King was his to be won – but with the formidable talent of his friend as an example of the greatness of other bards, coupled with the sobering lessons of Bęthberry…Hearpwine’s characteristic confident spirits were beginning to slip somewhat. He shook his head to clear those thoughts and turned to Osric. “Come, old warrior, tell us a tale from your storehouse. You say that you are no longer capable of a full and proper telling, but I deem that you are able to do the patrons of this Inn good service. I will sing another brief lay while you cast about for an appropriate story.” And with that, Hearpwine sang a stirring song that set the blood on edge of every warrior in the room.
“Forth to the battle!
Onward the fight,
Swift as the eagle in his flight!
Let not the sunlight o'er our pathway close,
Till we o'erthrow the evil foes.
Strong as yonder foaming tide,
Rushing down the mountainside;
Be ye ready, sword and spear,
Pour upon the spoiler near.
“Winds! that float o'er us,
Bid the tyrant quail,
Ne'er shall his ruffian bands prevail!
Morning shall view us fetterless and free,
Slaves ne'er shall Rohan’s children be.
Heaven our arms with conquest bless,
All our bitter wrongs redress;
Strike the harp! Awake the cry!
Valour's sons fear not to die.”
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