The Lays of Beleriand. Christopher Tolkien

was framed darkly, that in far-off daysthe lightning felled, now leaning gaunttheir lichen-leprous limbs uprooted.There shadowy bats that shrilled thinly940flew in and flew out the air brushingas they swerved soundless. A swooning lightfaint filtered in, for facing Norththey looked o’er the leagues of the lands of mourning,o’er the bleak boulders, o’er the blistered dunes945and dusty drouth of Dor-na-Fauglith;o’er that Thirsty Plain, to the threatening peaks,now glimpséd grey through the grim archway,of the marching might of the Mountains of Iron,and faint and far in the flickering dusk950the thunderous towers of Thangorodrim.But backward broad through the black shadowsfrom that darkling door dimly wanderedthe ancient Orc-road; and even as they gazedthe silence suddenly with sounds of dread955was shaken behind them, and shivering echoesfrom afar came fleeting. Feet were tramping;trappings tinkling; and the troublous murmurof viewless voices in the vaulted gloomcame near and nearer. ‘Ah! now I hear’,960said Flinding fearful; ‘flee we swiftlyfrom hate and horror and hideous faces,from fiery eyes and feet relentless!Ah! woe that I wandered thus witless hither!’

Then beat in his breast, foreboding evil,	965
with dread unwonted the dauntless heart
of Beleg the brave. With blanchéd cheeks
in faded fern and the feathery leaves
of brown bracken they buried them deep,
where dank and dark a ditch was cloven	970
on the wood’s borders by waters oozing,
dripping down to die in the drouth below.
Yet hardly were they hid when a host to view
round a dark turning in the dusky shadows
came swinging sudden with a swift thudding	975
of feet after feet on fallen leaves.
In rank on rank of ruthless spears
that war-host went; weary stumbling
countless captives, cruelly laden
with bloodstained booty, in bonds of iron	980
they haled behind them, and held in ward
by the wolf-riders and the wolves of Hell.
Their road of ruin was a-reek with tears:
many a hall and homestead, many a hidden refuge
of Gnomish lords by night beleaguered	985
their o’ermastering might of mirth bereft,
and fair things fouled, and fields curdled
with the bravest blood of the beaten people.

To an army of war was the Orc-band waxen
that Blodrin Bor’s son to his bane guided	990
to the wood-marches, by the welded hosts
homeward hurrying to the halls of mourning
swiftly swollen to a sweeping plague.
Like a throbbing thunder in the threatening deeps
of cavernous clouds o’ercast with gloom	995
now swelled on a sudden a song most dire,
and their hellward hymn their home greeted;
flung from the foremost of the fierce spearmen,
who viewed mid vapours vast and sable
the threefold peaks of Thangorodrim,	1000
it rolled rearward, rumbling darkly,
like drums in distant dungeons empty.
Then a werewolf howled; a word was shouted
like steel on stone; and stiffly raised
their spears and swords sprang up thickly	1005
as the wild wheatfields of the wargod’s realm
with points that palely pricked the twilight.
As by wind wafted then waved they all,
and bowed, as the bands with beating measured
moved on mirthless from the mirky woods,	1010
from the topless trunks of Taur-na-Fuin,
neath the leprous limbs of the leaning gate.

Then Beleg the bowman in bracken cowering,
on the loathly legions through the leaves peering,
saw Túrin the tall as he tottered forward	1015
neath the whips of the Orcs as they whistled o’er him;
and rage arose in his wrathful heart,
and piercing pity outpoured his tears.
The hymn was hushed; the host vanished
down the hellward slopes of the hill beyond;	1020
and silence sank slow and gloomy
round the trunks of the trees of Taur-na-Fuin,
and nethermost night drew near outside.

‘Follow me, Flinding, from the forest curséd!
Let us haste to his help, to Hell if need be	1025
or to death by the darts of the dread Glamhoth!’:
and Beleg bounded from the bracken madly,
like a deer driven by dogs baying
from his hiding in the hills and hollow places;
and Flinding followed fearful after him	1030
neath the yawning gate, through yew-thickets,
through bogs and bents and bushes shrunken,
till they reached the rocks and the riven moorlands
and friendless fells falling darkly
to the dusty dunes of Dor-na-Fauglith.	1035
In a cup outcarven on the cold hillside,
whose broken brink was bleakly fringed
with bended bushes bowed in anguish
from the North-wind’s knife, beneath them far
the feasting camp of their foes was laid;	1040
the fiery flare of fuming torches,
and black bodies in the blaze they saw
crossing countlessly, and cries they heard
and the hollow howling of hungry wolves.

Then a moon mounted o’er the mists riding,	1045
and the keen radiance of the cold moonshine
the shadows sharpened in the sheer hollows,
and slashed the slopes with slanting blackness;
in wreaths uprising the reek of fires
was touched to tremulous trails of silver.	1050
Then the fires faded, and their foemen slumbered
in a sleep of surfeit. No sentinel watched,
nor guards them girdled – what good were it
to watch wakeful in those withered regions
neath Eiglir Engrin, whence the eyes of Bauglir	1055
gazed unclosing from the gates of Hell?
Did not werewolves’ eyes unwinking gleam
in the wan moonlight – the wolves that sleep not,
that sit in circles with slavering tongues
round camp or clearing of the cruel Glamhoth?	1060
Then was Beleg a-shudder, and the unblinking eyes
nigh chilled his marrow and chained his flesh
in fear unfathomed, as flat to earth
by a boulder he lay. Lo! black cloud-drifts
surged up like smoke from the sable North,	1065
and the sheen was shrouded of the shivering moon;
the wind came wailing from the woeful mountains,
and the heath unhappy hissed and whispered;
and the moans came faint of men in torment
in the camp accursed. His quiver rattled	1070
as he found his feet and felt his bow,
hard horn-pointed, by hands of cunning
of black yew wrought; with bears’ sinews
it was stoutly strung; strength to bend it
had nor Man nor Elf save the magic helped him	1075
that Beleg the bowman now bore alone.
No arrows of the Orcs so unerring wingéd
as his shaven shafts that could shoot to a mark
that was seen but in glance ere gloom seized it.
Then Dailir he drew, his dart beloved;	1080
howso far fared it, or fell unnoted,
unsought he found it with sound feathers
and barbs unbroken (till it broke at last);
and fleet bade he fly that feather-pinioned
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