Neithan blinked several times and then looked across to the boy. "I am called Neithan, Neithan the Accursed. And who are you, boy?" he asked as his eyes came to focus on Frumgár's face.

Alert at the sound of the man's voice, Frumgár eyed him warily. "Sir, I do not know if I understand everything you said, for I am Rohir and know only a little Westron."

"Boy, I understand some words in that language, so perhaps between us, we can find enough words so that we may talk," Neithan suggested as he unsuccessfully tried to free himself from the belt which imprisoned his hands.

"Surely, sir, I will try." Frumgár had begun to take an interest in this man, who such a short while before had seemed totally devoid of reason. "I am Frumgár son of Fasthelm of the Mark. My younger brother, Fritha, and I were playing up here when he fell down one of the pits, and I am afraid that he might be... might be..." Frumgár could not say the dreadful word, and so he quickly went on, "My older brother, Fródwine, and I tried to find him through the lower tunnel, but it is blocked. He is climbing down to see if Fritha can be reached that way."

"Free me, Frumgár, and I will aid him in his search!" the man promised as he gazed towards the pit.

"Well, sir, I am afraid I cannot do that," Frumgár replied politely, trying to keep the tears out of his voice. "Fródwine said I am to stay here and guard you. Be patient. My brother will surely return soon."

"Lad, listen to reason! I am a full grown man, trained in warfare and soldiery! I could help you rescue your brother!"

"Sir, I am sorry, but I will not free you." Growing more anxious by the second, Frumgár looked down at the rudely carved spear lying across his lap. He wondered if he would be forced to use it.

"Are you afraid of me, boy? Is that what it is?" Neithan looked over at him, a sly look on his face. "You need not be frightened of me. The sickness has passed, and it is not likely that it will return again for some time."

"Sir, you have given us reason to fear you." Frumgár was not so certain that the episode of madness had passed. "Wait until Fródwine comes back." He would let his older brother decide that important matter.

"I give you my word," Neithan promised him as he again began to struggle in his bonds.

"No, we will sit right here, calm and peaceful, until my brother returns."

Suddenly Frumgár's attention was drawn away from the man before him. There, coming through the trees on the slope behind him, was a group of short, squat men clad in brief scraps of hides and skirts of grass, none of them much taller than a child. Frumgár's breath caught in his throat and he froze in fear.

"Hail," the leader of the group called out in a deep, guttural voice. "I am Ghân-buri-Ghân, headman of Wild Men of Drúadan Forest. Wild Men mean you no harm. Look for Neithan the Mad of Stonehouse-folk. Ghân-buri-Ghân see you find him."

"That is the man before you, sir, but we did not find him. He found us!" Frumgár exclaimed as he scrambled to his feet and clasped the spear in his hand. He had to remember his good manners to avoid gaping at the strange-looking chieftain.

"Put spear away, young warrior," Ghân remarked solemnly.

"Do not let them touch me!" Neithan shouted in fear as two squat warriors pointed their spears at his back. "These men are my enemies, determined to do me harm! They are in a conspiracy to kill me!"

"Tall man mad. He not know what he talk about." Ghân folded his arms across his chest and waited until the warriors had prodded the protesting Neithan to his feet. "Wild Men no hurt you, man of Stonehouse-folk. Be quiet now. We take you back to village." The headman turned once again to Frumgár. "From color of hair and eyes, Ghân-buri-Ghân think you one of Horse-men. What your name, young warrior?"

Though Frumgár had some difficulty in understanding the speech of the Drûgu, he was far more amazed at their appearance than he was of their language. "Aye, sir, I am of the Mark, and my name is Frumgár son of Fasthelm. My mother's name is Goldwyn."

"Why you here, boy, where no one goes but gorgûn and wild beast?" Ghân's eyes were deep set and unreadable, his voice harsh on the ears, but Frumgár perceived that the small man meant him no harm.

"My mother, my two brothers and I were taken captive by orcs in the Eastfold. Four days ago, we escaped from them, and through a circuitous route, we arrived here as we were trying to make our way back to the Mark. But, sir," Fródwine looked towards the pit, "my little brother fell into the pit over yonder."

"Your brother fall in shaft?" Ghân's eyebrows rose up as he looked at the boy quizzically.

"Yes, sir. We were trying to dig through to him from the tunnel down below the hill when this madman stood at the top of the slope, ranting and raving! He called us by the names of 'Hallas' and 'Vorondil' and threatened to slay us!"

"Neithan man of violence," Ghân shook his head gravely. "Things go in brain one way, come out another."

After Ghân's criticism, Neithan raised a loud cry of protest. "Ghân, my old friend, what you say is untrue! You have turned against me like all my other friends!" A wild, frenzied look crossed over Neithan's face, and his eyes glittered like some preternatural creature's. Shaking free of his guards, he rushed towards Ghân. Before he could reach the leader, Neithan was swiftly knocked to the ground by a blow from the end of one of the Wild Men's spears. There he lay quiet and unresisting.

The old headman leaned forward slightly and spoke to Frumgár in confidential tones. "Neithan completely mad, think strange thoughts and see things not there. Wild Men give him medicine root, make him calm again."

"Oh, I see, sir," Frumgár nodded gravely. "I am certainly glad that something will help him. Is there any hope that he might someday be totally recovered?"

"Wild Man not know everything," Ghân shook his head. "Now Wild Men help boys find brother." Turning, the headmen led a number of his warriors and Frumgár to the ruined pit. There they positioned themselves in a ring around the circumference. "Call brother now. Tell him danger passed and he no need fear Neithan."

Frumgár cautiously walked towards the edge of the precipice and looked down. "Fródwine! You will never believe this in all your life! Our luck has changed!"

From far below, Fródwine answered. "Frumgár, have you taken leave of your senses? This business is much too serious to be making jests!" Fródwine wondered why his brother was speaking in the Common Speech and not in Rohirric, but assumed it was some strange fancy his brother had taken, and so he humored him by speaking the same language.

"This is no jest! I am not sure why, but the little men have promised to help us!"

"Have you broken open that flask of orc draught and started drinking it? From the way you are speaking, next you will say that a troop of elves on flying pink horses will swoop out of the heavens to aid us!" Fródwine growled sarcastically as he felt for a foothold on the side of the pit. "Do not bother me! I am more than halfway down, and I have yet to see any sign of our brother!"

"Young man of Horse-men," rolled out the deep, thick voice of Ghân, "your brother no lie or drink strong spirits. He tell truth. Now Ghân send down men to help you. Soon we have your brother out of pit."

Tilting his head upward, Fródwine gazed in total disbelief and shock as a number of small men clad only in the most rudimental of clothing gathered around the rim of the collapsed passage. "Then the legends are true," he silently realized. "The Púkel-men of old still live in the remote valleys and forests of the White Mountains, and I have been fortunate enough to be among the few who have seen them!" Who knew what other wonders still remained undiscovered, lingering past the early ages of Middle-earth?

"Come down and help me," he called up to them. "Those who are desperate will take aid from any who offer, and my brother and I are some of the most desperate!" Distracted by the appearance of the Wild Men, Fródwine misjudged the next step, and his foot slipped off the narrow ledge. For a few moments he clawed desperately for a spot to put his foot, hanging suspended by his hands far above the bottom of the old fire chamber. He was glad it was still so dark down there that he could not see what was down below, or he was certain he would lose his courage. All his concentration went back to inching his way slowly down the steep broken wall. At last he reached a place where he could go down no further, for the rest of the way was filled with rubble. Their brother must be dead! Despairing, he shouted back, "The tunnel is filled, and I see nothing of Fritha!"

"Ghân will look!" came the headman's swift reply as he started moving hand over hand down a rope held securely by his warriors. As Ghân made his descent, other men of his tribe traveled down with him. Reaching the bottom, Ghân bowed low in greeting. "You are Fródwine. I am Ghân-buri-Ghân, headman. Now Wild Men help you rescue brother. We be careful. Do not worry, young warrior," he murmured gently as he gave the boy's shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

"Sir, I do not see how he could be alive," Fródwine sighed in defeat. "Nothing could live after a landslide like this!"

"Still Ghân must try. We all must try to find boy," replied Ghân as he began directing men to move the debris and fashion rope slings to haul up the rubble. Soon portions of the ancient fire chamber were cleared, and the rubble transported up to the furnace roof for disposal. Frumgár climbed down a rope held in the steady hands of a Wild Man, and would have found it an exciting experience had it not been for the gravity of the matter. The work had settled down to a steady, monotonous pace, with little being said by anyone. Then the sounds of labor were broken by a wild scream from above.

"Let me go down!" Neithan shrieked. "I can find him! Lhûnwen will show me! Why will you not let me help you!" He tried to struggle to his feet, but he was pushed back down by two of the Drúedain warriors. He flung his head wildly, spittle trailing from the corners of his mouth as he raved and ranted.

Frumgár looked to Ghân and asked in bewilderment, "Who is Lhûnwen?"

"Mad Neithan supposes he sees strange woman, ghost of betrothed. Neithan say he love woman, but woman no love him. Take other lover, leave him heartbroken. Neithan kill other man and friend. Woman very grieved, poison herself. Very bad thing - drive Neithan mad."

They heard another wild shout ringing out from above. "I tell you, you are digging on the wrong side of the chamber! The boy will die if you do not reach him soon! You must listen!" Neithan wailed like a rabid wolf out upon the moors on a cold winter's night.

"Be still, Neithan! You no can help us! Wild Men find boy!" Ghân replied uncompromisingly.

"What would be the harm in it, sir? If you allowed him to come down here, what possible danger could be in that with his hands bound? Perhaps it will calm him and settle his mind." Frumgár's voice began to waver. "After all, he is only trying to help my poor little brother." Convinced that Fritha was dead, Frumgár could no longer hold back the tears and soon his body was racked with tortured sobs.

"Aye, let him down," Fródwine murmured in agreement. "With his hands tied, he can do no harm. Perhaps he will keep his loud mouth still when he is humored." Although Fródwine thought if the man began his ranting again, he would be tempted to stuff a gag in his mouth.

"Very well, little warriors," Ghân finally agreed. "But if Neithan causes trouble, Wild Men hit him over head again."

"There! That was about time," Neithan remarked accusingly as he was lowered to the bottom by ropes. "I thought you would keep me up there the rest of the day!" He walked to a spot towards the eastern side of the kiln. "Lhûnwen tells me that the child is buried right down there in a pocket in the earth!" He pointed with his foot and looked triumphantly down to a place on the floor.

Fródwine glared at the madman, hissed under his breath and shook his head. "And Frumgár said that our luck had changed!" he laughed to himself. "Now a lunatic directs us where to search! The world has gone mad!"

"I can bear no more," thought Frumgár as he sank to the ground, his head in his hands.

"Men, dig there where Neithan say," Ghân ordered. "Bring torches!" Using knives, axes, and any other tool at their disposal, the Wild Men began excavating the place that Neithan had shown them. Digging carefully in the tight, narrow passage, the men cleared down through the dirt and stone. One group concentrated their efforts there while the others helped move the debris to the side.

When the diggers had gone five feet down, they struck an open area that was almost free of dirt and rubble. All eyes went to Neithan. Widening and expanding the aperture, they dug down until they found that there was a small space at the side of one wall.

Neithan let out a howl of triumph. "See! See! It is as I have said! The Lady Lhûnwen does not lie!"

In the midst of his despair, Frumgár turned to Neithan and saw the gleam of triumph on his face. The madman was right. The cavity lay where he had said it would! Gazing down in awe at the hole, Frumgár allowed a glimmer of hope to pierce the dark cloud that had wrapped its way over his heart.

Fródwine had crawled into the hole and was passing back chunks of stone to the other workers behind him in the narrow passage. "There, do you hear that! That weak noise like the mew of a newborn kitten! Fritha!" he screamed, his heart pounding in excited desperation. "Fritha, do you hear me!"

"Fródwine," came a weak-sounding voice.

"I am almost to him! I can see him! There are only a few more rocks before I can reach him!"

With increasing urgency, Fródwine enlarged the aperture, digging rubble out with his knife. With each stone handed to the man behind him, they were that much nearer to reaching Fritha. As rapidly as he could, each worker passed the rocks to the man behind him. Though the laborers worked as fast as they could, the work was slow, and it seemed like ages of time dragged by as they struggled to clear the passage. At last Fródwine reached Fritha and slipped his cloak under the boy's bruised body.

"Move back, move back!" Fródwine cried as he began dragging Fritha towards the opening. "Make way!" Though he was covered with dust and dirt and his hands were scratched and bleeding, Fródwine did not notice. They had saved his brother! When at last the boys were free of the passage, Fródwine carefully handed Fritha up to Drûghan. "Be careful with him," he urged. "He is battered and bruised, and I fear his arm is broken!"

"Wild Men be careful with boy. Treat him like son," Drûghan assured him. As the Drûg looked down at the injured boy, Fritha smiled up at him. Though far different in appearance, Drûghan saw in his mind the son he hoped he would have some day. The wedding gifts that he would prepare for Ghinga must be of far finer stuff than he had planned. Perhaps he would make her a robe of buckskin lined with rabbit and a necklace of painted wooden beads and deer bones. Things like that would please the woman, and he wanted to please the mother of his son-to-be.