60: Tómiddes Sceadwe

"Here is the entrance into Meduseld," Sigefred whispered as they came to the end of the tunnel. "It leads into the kitchen. I think the cooks will already be up but I am not sure."

"We’ll have to risk it," Aragorn said, drawing out his sword. The others did the same, except Sigefred, who had no weapon. Aragorn clapped the boy on the shoulder. "You have done well this night, Sigefred. Go now and join the others at the gate if you will. Your role in this is over."

"B-but I want to go with you!" Sigefred protested as loudly as he dared, his eyes dark with hurt in the smoldering light of the torch which Denethor was holding.

"No, boy," Gilhael said sternly. "You have no weapon and if there is fighting I don’t want to have to worry for you while trying to keep myself alive."

"Tungolfród is correct," Wídfara said almost as sternly. "You are a true son of Rohan but you have no training as a warrior."

"Captain Folcwine has been teaching me... a little," Sigefred declared, his expression one of mingled hurt and shame. They could see him struggling not to weep before them.

"Show us the way to open the door from both sides," Denethor said, speaking kindly. "We may need to take this route again."

Sigefred sighed, knowing he was outnumbered. He went to the door. "Here is the latch on this side," he said. "There is a similar latch on the other side, though it’s somewhat disguised. However, if you know where to look it’s easy enough to find. The door opens into the tunnel." He started to pull the latch when Aragorn stopped him.

"How do we know there isn’t someone... er... using the... um....privy?" he asked with a wry grin and Sigefred’s eyes widened at the image that rose in his mind.

"Uh... I think Gléomund told me there’s a... a peephole," he stuttered, now looking rather embarrassed. "Here," he said, having checked the door and finding a plug of wood sticking out. He pulled the plug away and put his eye to the hole, but almost immediately pulled away, looking, if possible, even more embarrassed, quickly replugging the hole.

"Um... I think you... er... need to wait a bit," he muttered, not looking at anyone in particular.

The others just grinned at the boy’s discomfiture.

"What about the kitchen?" Wídfara asked. "How will we know if it’s empty so we can safely enter?"

"There’s another peephole," Sigefred informed them. "Actually, it’s a rather large hole just above eye level allowing air and light into the privy."

They nodded. "When we are gone," Aragorn said to the boy, "make your best way to the gates. Find Gléomund or Captain Folcwine and tell them where we are and what we hope to do. Tell them, no matter what happens, those gates must open at dawn. They must not fail."

"They will not," Sigefred said firmly. Then he sighed, still looking unhappy. "I still wish I could go with you," he muttered, his eyes downcast.

Aragorn put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. "I know you do," he said gently. "When I was your age I wanted nothing more than to go out on patrol with my brothers. My father would not let me, saying I was too young yet. I disagreed and determined to sneak away and join my brothers anyway."

"Did you succeed?" Sigefred asked, caught up in Aragorn’s tale.

"Yes... and no," the Dúnadan said. "I did indeed join them but I almost got them and myself killed for my... stupidity." Here he stole a glance at Gilhael, who merely raised an eyebrow as a comment, his expression otherwise unreadable. Aragorn turned back to Sigefred. "I was foolish and arrogant as only the young can be. My father was, shall we say, livid. It was two years before he allowed me to finally join the patrols, a year later than he had originally planned for me to do so. Needless to say, I learned my lesson well."

Sigefred thought about Aragorn’s words for a moment before sighing. "I will go to the gates," he said, still sounding forlorn.

Wídfara went to him, drawing out a slim dagger. "Give me your hand," he ordered the boy and Sigefred thrust his right hand to him without hesitation. Wídfara held the hand and made a very shallow cut across the palm, just deep enough to draw blood. Sigefred gave a hiss of pain but otherwise did not flinch. Then the older Rohir did the same to his own hand, clasping his hand to Sigefred’s, staring intently into the boy’s eyes.

"We are now brothers in blood and spirit," he said softly. "If Lord Béma grants that we two survive this day, my oath that I will take you into my inhired and teach you the warrior’s way."

There was a look of awe on the young man’s face as Wídfara then took Sigefred into a brief but heartfelt embrace, kissing him in the manner of a lord to his vassal to seal his pledge. Aragorn, in the meantime, had torn off strips of cloth from his undertunic as bandages, which the two wrapped around their hands. The others said nothing, but there were looks of approval on their faces.

"Shall we see if the way is clear now?" Gilhael asked and the others nodded. Aragorn removed the plug and took a look, nodding to the others as he replaced it.

Wídfara gave Sigefred a warm smile. "Off you go now, bróðor," he said warmly. "We will meet you at the gates."

The boy nodded, thrusting the map into Wídfara's hands. "Here, you may need this if you are successful and need to get to the tunnels again." Then, without another word, he took the torch from Denethor and made his way purposefully down the tunnel.

The others huddled around the door. Aragorn opened it cautiously and stepped through. The space was too small for them all and they had to wait until Aragorn had checked the kitchen. He recognized it from his previous foray and saw the doorway leading to the back stairs used by the servants. He turned to the others and nodded, opening the privy door. They were in luck, for the kitchen was still dark except for the banked fire in the largest of the fireplaces. The shadow of a figure lying near the fire alerted them to the presence of the spit-boy. One by one they crept out of the privy with Aragorn pointing silently the direction they must go, remaining where he was until the others were all out. He then returned to the privy to check where the latch was on this side. He didn’t want to waste time trying to find it if they were in a hurry to escape. Satisfied, he rejoined the others, silently closing the privy door before heading for where the others awaited him.

Without a word, he led them down the short passage, stopping at the foot of the stairs and motioning them all forward. "The entrance to the licweg lies behind the bed in the royal bedroom," he whispered. "We must take care, for it may be occupied and if so, there may be a guard."

The others nodded and with Aragorn again in the lead, they made their way up the stairs as silently as possible. It was dark, with only a single torch in a wall sconce giving them any light. At the head of the stairs, Aragorn paused to listen at the door to determine if there was anyone on the other side, but the door was thick and he could hear nothing. Grasping his sword tightly he slowly inched the door open a crack and looked out. Again there was only a single torch which lit the hall. He saw no one and opened the door further.

Their luck held and in moments they were before the door of the royal bedroom. Again, Aragorn listened at the door but could hear nothing. Taking a deep breath he started to open the door but was stymied by the fact that it was locked. That surprised him, for a locked door meant that something on the other side was meant to remain there. He gave the others a questioning look, for there was no sign of a key. It was Denethor who supplied them with an answer.

Giving them a wry grin, he sheathed his sword, motioning the others back. Then he knelt beside the latch, removing a very thin-bladed dagger from his right boot and carefully inserting it into the key hole. Aragorn exchanged amused looks with Gilhael and Wídfara and then watched with interest as the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor expertly picked the lock. A soft snick alerted them that the door was now free and Denethor quickly stepped back, replacing the dagger and taking his sword in hand once again.

"You’ll have to teach me how to do that," Aragorn whispered to him, giving him a smile.

"How do you know how to do that?" Wídfara asked almost at the same time.

Denethor merely gave them a smug smile and gestured at the door with his head. Aragorn nodded and Denethor cautiously opened it just wide enough to allow Aragorn space to peer in. It was quite dark, for the one window this room boasted was tightly shuttered so that no light of moon or sun could steal in. It took Aragorn a few tense minutes to allow his eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness of the room. He strained all his senses and could detect no telltale sign of breathing. In fact, there was a coldness to the room that had nothing to do with the season or the early morning. He pushed the door open wider so they could all enter. Wídfara took a moment to walk over to the single torch lighting the hallway and grab it, figuring they would need it. With the torchlight they could see that the room was empty yet there was a sense of a presence, cold and inimical to the living. Aragorn quickly suppressed the frisson of fear that crawled up his spine. Yes, there was definitely a barrow-wightish feel in the air.

"Close the door and lock it," he ordered Denethor. "If anyone comes along and notices the torch missing, they will search the rooms." He then led them to the bed and pushed back the arras, revealing the hidden door. It only took him a moment to open it and when he did they all had to turn away, gagging at the fetid air that greeted them.

"Something died," Wídfara muttered in a low tone.

"Or someone," Denethor said just as low.

When they had recovered a bit, Aragorn gave Gilhael a knowing look. "Do you know what to do?" he asked.

Gilhael nodded grimly. "Lead the way. I will lend you my strength."

"And us?" Wídfara demanded, pointing to himself and Denethor. "What do we do?"

"Stay alive," Aragorn replied and before the younger man could utter a retort, he took the torch from his hand and plunged into the licweg with Gilhael right behind him. Denethor and Wídfara glanced at one another.

"Is he always like that?" the Gondorian asked mildly.

Wídfara shrugged, looking resigned, and entered the secret passage. Denethor chuckled mirthlessly to himself as he brought up the rear, being careful to pull close the door behind him.

The fetid air did not dissipate but became stronger as they descended into the stygian depths. They were forced to pull their cloaks over their noses and breath through their mouths. The further they went the more pronounced was the feeling of coldness and foulness. The light of their torch did little to dispel the darkness, for there was a deeper, more malevolent darkness lurking somewhere ahead and they could all sense it.

Aragorn slowed his steps on the steep stairs and concentrated on a memory of Lord Elrond speaking to him about the Barrowdowns and what waited there for the unwary....

****

"They are evil spirits," the Elf-lord told him, "sent from Angmar long ago."

"Can you not destroy them or rid the land of them, Ada?" the young Mortal asked, wondering why the Elves of Imladris had not done so already. He could well imagine Glorfindel using his powers to destroy such evil creatures.

Elrond gave his youngest son a wintry smile. "How do you kill something that is already dead, Estel?"

Young Estel, just past his fourteenth birthday, pondered his adar’s words for a moment. "They are like the Houseless then?" he asked somewhat hesitantly. He had heard about Elves who had died and refused the summons to Mandos, but his young mind could not really believe in them and suspected they were but tales with which to scare younger brothers.

"Like but not like," Elrond said, "for Mortals have no choice but to heed Lord Námo’s call."

"Then what are these barrow-wights, as you call them?" Estel asked, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

"They are evil spirits, as I said," Elrond stated. "They are undead."

"L-like the... the Nine?" Estel stuttered, growing pale. He knew enough never to utter the word ‘nazgûl’ within the protected valley of Imladris. Evil did not enter the valley and he was not fool enough to invite it in simply by using one of its names.

"Except these have no rings to bind them to the graves," Elrond said. "They were called up by the Witch-king using dark sorcery."

"Then nothing can defeat them," Estel said with a sigh. His adar was right. How did one kill something already dead? It was impossible.

Elrond smiled again, a little more warmly. "I never said that," he replied. "I said they cannot be killed. That is not the same thing."

Estel gave Elrond an enquiring look. "Then how....?"

"I will tell you," Elrond said solemnly, "for there may come a day when you will need to know the way to defeat a barrow-wight. What you must do is...."

****

Aragorn flinched a bit when he felt Gilhael’s hand on his shoulder and looked back to see the concerned expression on his cousin’s face.

"Are you well?" he asked, speaking Adûnaic.

"Have you ever done this?" Aragorn asked in return, speaking Adûnaic as well, ignoring Gilhael’s question. "Have you ever had to deal with a barrow-wight?"

"Once, before you were born, I think," Gilhael answered, "but I was with... your brothers and they dealt with it more than I."

"Adar taught me what to do," Aragorn said, "but I’ve never...."

Gilhael clapped him on the shoulder. "Then you know more than I, for I only watched as the twins handled the incantation. You will do well, Cousin. I have every faith in you and as I said, I will lend you my strength."

"Is there naught we can do to help?" Denethor asked. He recognized the language but had no real knowledge of it himself, for the nobles of Gondor had forsaken Adûnaic for Sindarin. Even Westron was rarely spoken among them unless addressing commoners or those of other nations. Still, he could sense that the two Dúnedain were troubled. "I have had some experience...."

"With the undead?" Aragorn retorted, though his tone was kindly. He shook his head. "We need you and Wídfara to guard us. There will be a critical moment when Gilhael and I will be most vulnerable to attack."

"By the beorgwiht?" Wídfara asked, looking rather pale, wondering how one defended oneself from a ghost.

"No," Aragorn countered. "By those of flesh and blood who may sense the battle between me and the evil spirit and will come to investigate."

"Why would anyone come, though?" Wídfara asked, now looking confused. "I would think people would want to stay away."

"Just those who had no hand in calling this barrow-wight here," Gilhael answered. "These evil spirits must be summoned; they do not simply show up and decide to take residence in a graveyard. Someone brought this... thing here. Someone will want to investigate."

Denethor nodded. "Understood," he said grimly and Wídfara, deciding he did not wish to know any more about such things, remained silent, giving his own nod.

"How is this tunnel laid out?" Gilhael asked.

"Beyond these stairs the tunnel runs smoothly downhill almost in a straight line," Aragorn told them. "There is a place where it widens out into a natural cavity. I suspect that is where we will find it. A few hundred paces or so beyond the cave brings you to the door leading to the barrows."

"Let’s get on with it then," Denethor said. "’Tis almost dawn."

"I still don’t understand the reason for having a barrow-wight though," Wídfara said as they continued on their way. "What purpose would it serve?"

"The spreading of terror among your enemies," Aragorn answered.

"But would not your own troops feel the terror as well?" Wídfara countered.

"Unless they are given some kind of protection by the summoner of the spirit," Gilhael answered.

The Rider nodded in understanding, looking both pale and grim. Dark sorcery, magic of any kind, was anathema to the Rohirrim, who relied on strength of arms to deal with their foes, not necromancy. Such tactics were considered cowardly and unworthy of warriors. That the rebels, that the old queen herself, would countenance such a ploy spoke volumes to the young man. These traitors had no honor. But then, he realized wryly, if they had any honor they would not be traitors.

By now the waves of coldness and death and terror were mounting and it was only sheer will power that kept them going. All of them had felt the evil before so they were in a sense inured to its effects, but Aragorn seriously wondered how he would be able to concentrate long enough to send the evil wight into oblivion and he feared for Denethor and Wídfara, neither of whom had ever encountered such evil before....

****

"A barrow-wight’s greatest weapon is terror," Elrond told Estel. "Keep the terror at bay."

"How?" the young Man asked, wide-eyed with the new knowledge his ada had been imparting to him.

"Recall your most precious memory, the one you treasure the most," the Lord of Imladris replied. "Shield yourself with that and listen not to its words. They are lies!"....

****

"Think of the most precious moment in your life," Aragorn urged them. "Keep hold of the memory and do not let it go. Use it as a shield against the terror you are feeling. And another thing: no matter what, do not listen to anything the wight says. It will be a lie."

The others nodded grimly even as they continued along the licweg. The light of the torch flickered and sputtered, casting grotesque shadows, but they could see that the tunnel was now widening, the ceiling opening up. Aragorn slowed his steps, gathering his courage, knowing he would have very little time to do what was necessary. The spirit would not hesitate to attack as soon as it felt threatened. He would have to be quick. Taking a deep breath in spite of the fetid, cloying scent of death that permeated the air, he ran through the incantation Elrond had taught him one last time. It was important that it be said correctly, without mishap, or there would be a backlash of power and he and his companions would be dead. Worse, he and his companions would most likely join the wight in haunting the cave, enslaved by the evil creature.

They entered the cave with Gilhael at Aragorn’s right shoulder, ready to lend him the strength of his spirit as the sons of Elrond had taught him when the three of them had faced a similar situation. At the same time, Denethor and Wídfara unsheathed their swords, taking up guard positions on either side of the tunnel’s mouth. All of them stopped in utter shock when they saw clearly what lay before them. Aragorn sighed, moving a few paces forward to stare down at the desiccated corpse of the old queen lying on a slab of rock. She was bound and her mouth was frozen open in an endless scream of terror and denial of what was done to her. From the gaping hole in her chest, it was apparent that someone had ripped her heart out.

"Well, at least we know how the barrow-wight was summoned," Gilhael muttered softly.

Before anyone else could comment, though, they heard a strange eerie sound echoing off the walls of the cave. It started low but became louder until it nearly overwhelmed them. It was the sound of laughter and it was evil.

****

Tómiddes Sceadwe: ‘Into the Midst of Shadow/Darkness’. Sceadu means both ‘shadow’ (literally and figuratively) and ‘darkness’. The preposition takes the dative case.

Inhired: Family, household. Wídfara, by his pledge, is essentially saying that he will take Sigefred into his own household and give him training as a warrior. Since Sigefred is not well-born, he would most likely not be accorded the title of þegn, but rather inhiredmann ‘member of a retinue, bodyguard (belonging to a household)’. As Wídfara’s retainer, Sigefred would be entitled, not only to a place at Wídfara’s table, but to weapons and armor supplied by Wídfara as his employer.

Beorgwiht: Barrow-wight, ghost. In the later Old English period leading into Middle English, medial ‘g’ was pronounced like ‘w’. Barrow-wightish was coined by Tolkien. Merry uses the word in The Fellowship of the Ring, Book 1, Chapter XI, when the Hobbits and Strider come to Weathertop.