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Chapter 3. Brethil.
The mountain range dominated the plain, the Upper and Lower Beleriand, the whole world. And there, above a deep ravine that ran the depth of the ridge, stood a fortress, cut into the breast of the three-headed mountain. For more than a thousand years its walls and high watchtowers have been spreading terror among all living things. Boldog knew that the walls and the towers are but a small fraction of the might of the Stronghold of Darkness, Ast-Ahe, Angamando in the Elven tongue. This name Boldog liked above all others, though he hated the Elves. Darkness, Light – all this nonsense was for fools, who deemed themselves too wise. Angamando, Iron Prison – that is the name that truly befits the stronghold of the Ruler of the North. It inspires exactly what it should: dread.
Boldog was a master of putting the fear of life into somebody himself, but now his stomach was uneasy. He didn’t know, as he stepped over the threshold of a long vaulted hall, whether he would come out alive; and if he won’t – what kind of death awaits him. He, who had summoned him, was much more ingenious in this matter, than Boldog.
Approaching the high obsidian throne, the Orc bowed deeply. As always, he tried to read something in the face of the one who sat in the chair, as he straightened. As always, he failed.
“I have come at your command, my Lord.”
“Speak”, said the seated one with no expression.
Boldog quickly wetted his lips with his tongue, and began:
“All is confirmed. Gorthaur is preparing an assault on Hithlum. The fact, that you will not support it, has only made him more eager. He wants to recruit men in Dorthonion, he is gathering riff-raff from the Blue Mountains... They say he needs thirty thousand soldiers. By springtime he will have the thirty thousand...”
“Tell me about the Beoring.”
Boldog sighed. Now he will know whether he lives or dies.
“The hunt ended three weeks ago. We combed each forest, each gorge up to the high snows. The places we have been to were rounded up. No one could have eluded us and returned. High on the mountain, almost on the verge of the snow, in one of the gorges we have found a small hut. The Beoring had lived there, the wolves have recognized his scent. But he escaped. He couldn’t have slipped through our forces. He fled to Ered Gorgor and must have perished there.”
“Have you seen the body?”
“No, my Lord. Bur Ered Gorgor can’t be crossed there. There are no passes.”
“Could Gorthaur’s Men or Orcs have intercepted him?”
“I would know,” Boldog clenched his fist. “Frekart would not dare hide it. I would know.”
“In other words,” not raising his voice, said the Lord, “you have let him get away. For the second time, was it?”
“My Lord...” Boldog dropped to his knees.
“Rise. Look into my eyes.”
It was worse than pain, but Boldog knew that it is useless to beg for deliverance. When the eyes of steel stopped piercing his soul, he went down on one knee again – his legs did not support him.
“Return to Dorthonion and tend my flock. Touch no one of those, whom we suspect in aiding the Beoring – but watch them ceaselessly, so that not even a mouse could escape your spies’ notice. If Beren had survived, he shall return. And turn to one of them for help. Further more – there must be no more bloodshed in the hostage villages. You should finally realize, that if you slay the hostages whether your demands are carried out or not, they would not be carried out. Kill the hostages only on my command. Hang the ones that are guilty of arbitrariness.”
“Yes, my Lord. What should I do about the self-governed lot from Gorthaur’s Orcs?”
“I have said it clearly enough – hang them. Do not be afraid of Gorthaur – you answer only to me, and I am the one who shall make you responsible... When the Beoring appears, bring him to me. Alive. You may bring him dead, too. You know how great the reward is. You also know the measure of punishment that will befall you, should you have the opportunity to take him alive and not withstand the temptation.”
Boldog bowed his head again.
“Now go,” said the Ruler of the North, the Lord of the Dark, whom the northmen called Tano Melkor, and the Elves – Morgoth Bauglir. “And bear this in mind: your next failure will be your last.”