Lord of the Rings: The legend of the lost rings

CHAPTER IX - ON THE SHORES OF THE FOUL RIVER

— Arghhhhhhhh!

A deafening scream and terrible, frightening grunts filled the macabre awakening during the dark dawn. As they woke up scared and unsure of what to do, they were faced with something disgusting. A gigantic, greenish and loathsome creature, a Swamp Troll, right in front of the camp, and the bloodied body of Beren, the man of the woods, sprawled on the ground. It was hard to tell if it was a nightmare or real life, but the only reaction from the survivors at that moment was to defend themselves as best they could.

With a leap, still disoriented from just waking up, Kahall stood up, grabbed a spear, and threw it at the creature, narrowly missing the target. The wasp, which seemed useless until then, tried to fly around the monster's head to divert its attention. Thanks to the distraction provided by the half-giant's pet, Rusel approached for close combat with the troll, while Torâk loaded his crossbow. Unfortunately, with a clumsy movement of one of its giant hands, the creature landed a slap on Rusel, throwing him in Torâk's direction, taking both out of the fight.

The stealthy hobbit seized the opportunity in the midst of the chaos and struck the gigantic monster between the legs with his short sword. The wound was light and made the creature even more agitated, drawing its attention to him. As Fosco figured he couldn't outrun the troll, he tried to stay close to the monster so it couldn't directly hit the little one with its hands, dodging its feet. The troll missed stomping on the hobbit a few times, and when it was finally about to crush poor Fosco, Kahall, seeing the situation for the small hobbit, rushed towards the monster with teeth and claws to protect his companion. The beorning, blinded by rage and fury, blacked out for a few moments...

*

When he came to, everyone was looking at Kahall in shock. The battle had ended, and the troll's lifeless body lay on the ground.

To everyone's surprise, Beren was still alive. In his final efforts, he called out to the half-giant:

— You must meet Beorn, the skin-changer, at his house near the Carrock, to better understand your enchantment.

— Calm down, Beren, let's seek help, don't strain yourself too much — said the young hobbit while attempting futile first aid maneuvers, staunching the bloodied wounds of the poor man as best he could.

— It's too late, goodbye, my friends. I believe you are close to finding the dwarves. I hope they had a better fate than mine... — thus the man of the woods died in a final breath.

The words of the deceased companion made sense when Rusel examined the troll, checking a cut already opened by an axe. The mercenary imagined that it must have been Balin's weapon that wounded the creature.

After the horrible night the group faced, the remaining members gave their fallen comrade a dignified burial.

— Let's move on, then — said the hobbit, mulling over a poem to honor Beren's courage.

Even with broken spirits, they continued their search where the river met the Old Forest Road. Once, a village of men flourished there. When the power of the Northern kings waned, the village was abandoned, and its ruins were swallowed by the swamps and the forest, along with any trace of its existence.

As they walked, the team members told Kahall about his transformation and the fight. What happened was that for a short period, the half-giant turned into a bear the size of the troll they faced. It seemed like something out of fairy tales and fantastic stories they heard as children. With a bite to the monster's neck, Kahall managed to end the fight and save the rest of his companions.

At that moment, he was exhausted, as if an entire forest of ents had trampled over him. He really wanted to rest, at least for a few hours. In his mind echoed Beren's last words: "Could he find Beorn?" He continued resiliently, as the trail of the lost dwarves was still very hot.

After the Foul River, the waterway was interrupted by tangles of venerable weeping willows, very close to each other, blocking out the daylight even when it was most intense. The drooping branches dragged in the water, and the musty roots sank into the gray mud. The river disappeared into a vast swamp, without wind or current. Everything indicated that the search team was now forced to leave the canoe and advance with water at knee level, or, in the case of the hobbit and the dwarf, up to their waists.

A small wrecked boat caught everyone's attention in the swamp. It seemed very damaged, as if something had violently attacked it with claws or fangs. There was no sign of any crew.

Torâk and Rusel, who were a little farther away, were surprised by something that coiled around their necks like a snake and pulled them up, trying to strangle them. At that exact moment, Fosco's alert from the old Nerulf, the elder they had encountered among the men of the lake, flashed in his mind. That was the Hangman's Herb, a sinister vine that proved dangerous before the group.

The hobbit ran to cut the vegetal filaments of the murderous plants that were wrapped around his search companions, while the words of the old madman, "Hangman's Herb," echoed in his head.

The half-giant was stunned by the whole situation and went to check the dwarf and the human immediately after being rescued by young Fosco. He saw that the human was indeed dead, but the dwarf was still breathing weakly. Torâk's resilience was truly impressive.

T

ired of mourning the dead, what remained of the group found a deep and dark water pond ahead. There, the ruins stood out more, as if it were the place where the main buildings of the submerged city once stood. The remains of a large marble arch could be seen on the other side, still supporting a huge wooden gate. The other walls of the building were debris in the mud. At the top of the trees around the pond, raven-gorgons croaked while the three members of the company dragged themselves.

The raven-gorgons were a race of small crows, with greenish reflections in their feathers, warped by the long years spent in the shadow of the Mountains of Mirkwood, which until then lay motionless, as if sleeping, on the highest branches of the willows. They began to croak as if they were an alarm, drowning out the cries of the adventurers caught in the traps.

Little by little, Fosco saw his friends disappearing into the water. His feeling was that he was losing travel companions faster than insects fly into the fire on a cold and dark winter night. After some time, the noise of the cursed birds was getting lower, until it became inaudible to the small hobbit, who also had his entire body submerged in the mire.