The headman, Ghân-buri-Ghân, his face as wrinkled and gnarled as an old tree, and his expression just as inscrutable, leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his thighs as he squatted on his heels. Gathered in a circle around him in the night-drenched clearing were fifty tribesmen of the clan of Drûg, all sitting just as impassively and silently as their leader.

His dark eyes turned imperceptibly towards the east. "The moon sleeps; the sun has not yet awakened. The birds make their sleepy early morning talk, boasting to one another that they were the first of their kind to have courage to return after the darkness." A small smile on the old man's face, he mused upon the creatures stirring under the earth that would provide food for the songsters. Turning back to his men, his deep voice proclaimed, "Speak now!"

"Chieftain, we have brought strong ropes to bind the madman. After we have captured him, he will not break through these fetters, no matter how fiercely he might struggle," came the monotonal pronouncement of a man who sat to the right of the leader. Drughân, nephew to the chieftain and second in command, had just that Midsummer Eve pledged his betrothal vows to Ghinga, one of the fairest maids in the tribe.

Her brideprice was exorbitantly high, but Drughân considered that she was worth every bit of it. Since she was almost as strong as a man and her hips were extraordinarily wide, her body promised that she might be able to bear him at least one child... if she were willing. Willingness was a very important thing to consider when choosing a wife, for the placid Drûg men seldom forced their women. Even if he could not win her favors with gifts, he consoled himself that since she was of a cheerful nature, she would at least make him a good companion. Perhaps if his gifts pleased her enough, in time she might consent to share his bed.

When her father had first set the brideprice, Drughân shook his head and walked away in silence. After thinking about the matter for almost a month, he reconsidered and went back to Ghinga's sire. The hopeful swain explained that if he were given enough time, he would craft the gifts necessary to buy the bride. Long hours had he labored in his workshop fashioning the earthenware jugs, pots, pitchers, cups, and other vessels, and then painting them with bright colors. Knowing his prospective father-in-law's love of music and dance, Drûghan's most splendid gift of all had been a harp whose frame had been carved with tribal designs and embellished with paint.

The headman nodded, his impassive, flat face showing little emotion, but his voice was sad. "It will take the stoutest of ropes to bind him, for when he is possessed by the evil spirits who haunt him, his strength is quadrupled. Nothing can hold him then!"

"Aye," agreed Guri, third in command. "Never in all the ten years that I have known him have I seen the evil spirits vex him so fiercely as they have this night of Midsummer Eve!"

"Truly, I am grieved." Ghân bowed his head in sorrow, his thick lips mumbling a quiet incantation. "It is my hope that after he has been given the powerful healing tea, that he will recover as he has done in the past, and we may let him return to his hut in the mountains."

The tribesmen concurred with nods of their heads or low, guttural murmurs of affirmation. All hoped that they could find Neithan the Mad before he did himself irreparable damage, or perhaps took his own life.

"Take care not to harm him, for he is a friend of the Drûghu. Unless he becomes so violent that a man's life is in danger, do not use the blow pipes to fire darts that would bring sleep upon him! First I will try to reason with him before anything is done, so do not advance upon him threateningly. Now let us go!" Though his legs were thick and short, they made the chieftain no less agile. Springing to his feet, he led his men quickly away at a trot into the forest.

"Fródwine, when will you admit that it is hopeless?" a thoroughly demoralized Frumgár mumbled through trembling lips. "We must have been digging for two hours now, and we have cleared no more than two feet of this passage."

"We need shovels and mattocks to clear it, not our hands! Here, take this stone outside and add it to the rest of the pile," came the determined voice of Fródwine as he dislodged another large chunk of limestone with his knife. Picking up the heavy stone, Frumgár sighed, turned and made his way to the outside.

"Hurry back! This next rock will not be so difficult to dig out as the other one," Fródwine admonished him.

Frumgár soon returned from carrying his burden to the growing pile of rubble that the boys had cleared out from the passage. "Perhaps we should have tried reaching him through the top. How do we know that we are any closer this way than we are the other?"

"'Twill be dawn soon, and I intend to go up on top to see what might be facing us there. I fear, though, that the ground is far too unsteady to permit me to climb down into the pit, but should I find that route to be safe, I will try to find our brother by that way. It is far too risky to chance that perilous well without even moonlight to guide us," Fródwine pronounced solemnly.

"Fródwine," Frumgár hesitated to speak, "I was foolish earlier when I said that everything was hopeless. I did not mean that! It is just that I blame myself so much for what happened that it has saddened me more than I can bear! Whenever I think of Fritha lying dead and cold, crushed beneath mud and stone, the scene sticks in my mind and will not leave!"

Fródwine stood and stretched his back and shoulder muscles, cramped from crouching so long at his grim work. "Brother," he gently put his hand on Frumgár's shoulder, "do not let such doubts enter your mind! If you keep thinking like that, you cannot do him or yourself any good!"

His lips quivering, his bleary eyes red from weeping, Frumgár rubbed his finger under his damp nose and looked to his brother. "You never have thoughts like mine, do you, Fródwine?"

"Mine are dark enough," he muttered and turned back to his onerous task, leaving a puzzled Frumgár to contemplate his words.

Fródwine, with his greater strength, did the bulk of the work in clearing and enlarging the passageway. Using his fingers to guide him in the darkness, he slid his knife between jammed rocks until he dislodged another mass of limestone. Then, handing the piece to his brother to take to the pile of rocks outside the kiln, he would set to work at digging out another. The only sounds in the grim chamber were the scraping of a knife blade against rock and Fródwine's grunts as he struggled to move the stones.

Captives of their own melancholy thoughts, the two boys worked in silence. Frumgár had just returned from the outside of the chamber when his excited whisper interrupted the quiet. "When I was outside just now, I could have sworn that I saw something moving!"

"Where?"

"Off in that little grove of trees towards the south."

"Frumgár, you are always seeing things. It was probably only a deer," Fródwine muttered skeptically as he strained to dislodge a large stone from the mouth of the blocked tunnel.

"Fródwine, I can tell the shape of a deer's body from that of a man or orc! This creature was standing erect, like a man or an orc, and I fear it is an orc. What are we going to do?" he asked nervously.

"Maybe it was a deserter or a scout from that enemy patrol that we saw on the road, but that seems unlikely. Still..." his voice was a low hiss. Slowly, he turned about. Slipping his knife under his belt, Fródwine reached down, groping for the spear that lay close beside him on the floor. "Behind me, little brother, and not a word! It is probably just an animal which has smelled our food, but in case it is not, let us be ready for it!"

"There, do you hear it?" came Frumgár's frantic exclamation. "Something is moving around outside, and it is panting so loud I can hear it!"

"Aye," came Fródwine's soft reply, "and I do not like the sound of it."

Fródwine had become instantly alert, every sense heightened, every nerve tingling with danger. Though the lump in his throat seemed to be strangling him, he almost welcomed this opportunity to show his courage, to prove to himself that he was at last grown to manhood. His ambition had always been to ride a fine destrier into battle with the Rohirrim. Perhaps now he would never have an opportunity for that and would instead die a lonely death in this wretched, dismal hole, but at least he would die in honor. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and gripped his spear, preparing to rush forward and thrust the sharp stick into the soft belly of the intruder.

Moving aside for his brother, Frumgár picked up a jagged piece of broken limestone. His heart hammering in his chest, he was so frightened that he could not control his shaking hand. However, when he looked to his older brother who was standing so steady and resolute, he took heart, tightening his grip on the rock to control his trembling fingers.

"Steady, Frumgár," Fródwine's voice was barely a whisper. Fearing that a patrol of orcs might rush into the tunnel at any moment, the boys waited in silence, each one struggling with his own tumultuous thoughts. Frumgár was more terrified than he had ever been in his life, while Fródwine was stoic. As the wait dragged on interminably, Frumgár squirmed restlessly, his skin feeling as though it were covered with crawling insects. If he were not able to control his fears, he knew that he would soon fill his breeches.

Then the harsh breathing slowly faded, growing fainter and fainter, as heavy footsteps shambled away into the darkness.

"The thing is gone! The thing is gone, Fródwine!" Frumgár slowly exhaled his pent up breath and leaned against the side of the tunnel for support. His head was swimming and he felt dizzy from the fear and tension.

"Not so quickly, little brother! We will wait here a little longer. The day is almost upon us, and we can see better in the light. I will watch while you dig." Although Fródwine was impatient to get back to the work of clearing and enlarging the tunnel, he decided that he should guard the entrance until all threat of danger had passed. Then, turning the knife over to Frumgár, he stationed himself as guard near the entry while the other brother worked. Perhaps his spear would spill blood before the day had dawned.

Hallas and Vorondil had taken counsel and were plotting against him again. The moment that he had heard their voices coming from the old lime kiln, he had perceived their latest perfidy. Though they were cunning, he knew their games. They were trying to turn Lhûnwen against him! That had been Hallas' intent from the very beginning, and later he had persuaded Vorondil to aid him in the conspiracy.

Skirting around the ruins, Neithan climbed up the slope to the top of the old structure. Assuming a vantage point near the edge of the roof, he would have an excellent view of the surrounding territory when the sun rose. In front of him lay a rolling, denuded hollow that faced another spur of the ridge to the south. The treacherous scoundrels would not be able to see him when they finally ventured out of their hole, but he would have a clear view of their backs. If only he had a bow and a quiver full of arrows! Then he could kill them both... but they were already dead. He wondered for a moment if an arrow would pass right through their ethereal forms. Certainly the darts could not connect with any flesh, because their bodies had long been entombed! Could they still feel pain? He hoped so, because they had caused him so much suffering over the years.

It did not matter. He would kill them anyway, if it were only a symbolic act conducted to appease his rage. He would wait until they departed from their secret conclave, and then he would be ready for them. He could barely contain the excitement that coursed through his veins like battle fury. Though it was cool, he was perspiring profusely, the sweat glistening on his forehead and dripping into his eyes, irritating the nervous jerking twitch under his left eye. His armpits were soaked, as were his chest and back, and he could feel the sweat running down the groove of his buttocks and saturating his breeches.

His breathing coming hard and heavy, he clenched and unclenched his raw and bleeding fists, his fingers trembling. He stomped his foot, attempting to assuage the wild urge to enter their hiding place, to charge towards the villains in spite of the encompassing darkness. No, he must wait, wait until they came out, and then he would spring, but until then, his body quivered as though there were a lightning storm raging inside him.