Grim were the lands that stretch between the great Greyflood and the Isen, ere the hills turn into the wide open plains of Calenardhon. In this land dwelt a hardy folk–sparse–but strong. They hailed from the Halethrim and they were stern to outsiders. This was well-known when seven of the Men of Westernesse set into the hills of Enedwaith and Dunland in 2991 of the Third Age. For a great evil hung in the air of this land, and it had been felt for many months. It was in these months that Aranarion was plagued with dreams most foul, reminding him of his beloved sister and her tragic loss to that land. Foresight he called it, and he was not alone; for many of his kindred had similarly dour dreams. And so Aranarion stirred his pupil Tirirandir–Tirnel as he was referred to affectionately–from his slumber, and rode to muster men brave and spry enough to make a journey to the lands of the Hill-folk.
Their departure was heralded by their kindred, for they left the Angle of Mitheithel as an expeditionary force to gaze into this foreboding shadow. Seven–it is said–is a powerful number, and thus the journey was honored as ‘The Company Of The Seven Sons’, for each was young and had much to prove. Their names are remembered under a stone memorial upon the Greyflood’s east bank: Aranarion, Tirirandir, Alphdir, Corchanar, Barhador, Tauron, and Gwestor. Seven were the brave young men who set out southbound from their home, only two returned whole, and none returned the same.
Their early journey was pleasant and mirth spread throughout their camps as they travelled through the lands of the Gwaith-I-Mirdain. Yet eight there were for this leg of the journey, as Morvoran, greatest among the friends of Aranarion, had elected to see them off. The company followed the shadow of the Gwathlo’s eastern bank, avoiding the Cartrevs of Hill-men scattering through the hills further inland. They exerted their voices in song, their spirit in remembrance, and their bodies in sport. They hunted and raced, and felt glad to be heartened by the presence of each other. The seven grew close and became inseparable in their shared plight. When they had reached so far south as Tharbad, they first felt the shadow touch their spirits and they were marred. Yet a boon came in the visit of Nenaras, for the light of this elf lifted their spirits and he brought with him many gifts of food and drink. These gifts they would not expend quickly, for they were wise in their consumption. It was at Tharbad that Morvoran left their company, and with him went the Lord of Streams, who had wished only to see his son off to his dreadful errand.
The joy that had been brought by Nenaras vanished quickly as the Greenway’s shattered husk wound into the dark woods of Enedwaith. For at a great fork in the road a choice was to be made; the east path would lead along the old North-South road and nearest to settlements of Hill-men, and the west path would lead through the treacherous Mournshaws. In that direction they knew not what lie in wait. Upon this fork a great camp was erected and they mulled it over for many nights, perhaps stalling out of fear for their decision. Upon a night with dark fog that hung like curtains over the landscape, Corchanar awoke with a cry. And it was this night that they decided to linger no longer, and the east path was taken. For in his dreams Corchanar was again blessed with foresight, and he foresaw a great evil in the Mournshaws, one that could not be mastered by blade nor bow. None spoke again of that night.
As tall lords in tarnished girt, covered only by leather and wide cloaks, they came into Nan Laeglin. Under cover of darkness they passed by Lhanuch unseen and unheard and settled upon the old watchtower Harndirion. For it is not these sparse Hill-folk nor the shadow on this land they wished to investigate, but those further east, and deeper within the hills of Dunland. It is here that by chance, their number became eight once more and the strength of their spirit again lifted; for a man named Herior dwelt upon that ruined tower, and he espied their camp. He was of sturdy build, a man of proud Gondorian stock. Upon his hip was a fine sword, and he wore naught more than a clean tunic of blue and white. He carried a large bag, within which was many books, some self-authored.
Herior came to the seven on their first night upon Harndirion. It was to Tauron that he first spoke, for Tauron took watch eastward, whence Herior came. In that night, they sat and shared tales and songs beside the fire, a gleam in what had thus far been a dour and fearful trip. Herior gave to the seven the reason for his coming to such a faraway land, and it was thus: As a young man, twenty years ago, he came to this land and studied its history within Gondor long before the great plagues. It is in Enedwaith that he found a woman who had ensnared his heart with love so true that he would take pilgrimages to this land to see her again. Widha was her name, and she shared his love, yet her clan would grant her no leave. And so it was on Harndirion that they met in secret. Barhador was amused by this story, as the youngest of the company. But no others found it so amusing and Aranarion chided him, finding strange kinship with Herior.
Herior had finished his meetings with Widha, and was again desired back in Gondor. It was here that Herior joined the seven, which was marked by a dangerous portent, for as he spoke that he should join this venture a great many crows flew ahead with the coming dawn. The strength of the seven was broken, and despite their joyful new companion’s added mirth, their journey descended deeper into darkness.
As they drew deeper into Dunland, rain harried them, and they could hide no longer. The gifts of Nenaras had run out, their bellies emptied, and the cold began to cause them illness. They decided to travel openly as emissaries to Dunland, and it was here that Aranarion grew sullen. Tirnel noticed this and kept at his hip, as if trying to pull him from whatever shadow had taken him, but all in the company knew the reason. For this journey was personal for him, and all knew that he had been sundered from the last of his kin by these people. Thus he was given space, and only Herior dared disturb his distance. Alphdir found great skill with the Dunlendings, and he was well-loved by them. He quickly became the spokesperson of the company, for its leader Aranarion appeared too frightening, and spoke too harshly.
It was with the Stag Clan that the company found its first success, for they had felt the evil portents of coming shadow. They spent much time in the Stag Clan village, and despite the difference in kinship, the chieftain’s son Alun came to love the company, most especially Alphdir. He offered to aid them as a guide and take them further eastward, where they may learn more. And thus, the eight became then the nine, and the evils that befell them began only to heighten.
It was near Galtrev that they came to meet the Draig-Luth clan of Dunlendings. These Hill-folk were not so friendly and Alun warned that the company should be in grave danger as they passed through Dunland, and so Alun resolved to take them through the wilds. Yet before their course could be changed they were met by the cruelest of fate’s machinations; a charismatic leader of the Draig-Luth, Lynwelyn. His smile was bright, and his words were of silvery hue. His tongue was forked and his eyes were wicked, yet this could not be known to the company. Only Alun displayed apprehension at Lynwelyn’s generosity, for in their meeting Lynwelyn offered them great feasts in his home. Alun refused to join the journey, and in private he begged Alphdir to turn from Lynelwyn. Alphdir did not understand, and broached the subject to his kindred. Herior questioned Alphdir’s criticism of the Dunlending’s generosity, an argument ensued, and they were split. Tirirandir, Alphdir, Alun, and Corchanar wisely wished to turn away the offer, whilst Barhador, Herior, Tauron, and Gwestor wished to accept it, for they were dreadfully hungry and cold. The choice turned then to Aranarion, and before his lot could be cast, Lynwelyn had seized him by the shoulder and forced his hand with his beguiling silver tongue. The company made for the home of the Draig-Luth.
It was in the village of the Draig-Luth that the expedition’s moniker was earned: “The Massacre of The Seven”. For they had recently constructed a village near to the River Isen, and it was a sight to behold. Alun did not see this village, for he refused to travel, and Alphdir was greatly saddened. Alphdir thus departed the company to find Alun, and they were again seven in number.
Tauron and Gwestor were greatly enamoured by the feasting in this land and saw not through Lynwelyn’s fair guise as he led them first into the center of the village. Here he showed them their homes, that there was no shadow here to be found. They were granted a place to camp on a hill outside the village, and that night they rested comfortably. It was in this night that fate had at last given them a small reprieve, for the treachery of the Draig-Luth was an ill-formed plan.
Barhador did not sleep that night; his eyes espied the slinking ambush of Draig-Luth, who had planned to slaughter them in their sleep. His heroism is not to be forgotten on this day, for it is his sacrifice that allowed his kindred to live. He hurried his kin awake as the Draig-Luth crept and encircled them, crying ‘We are betrayed! Your swords! Slay the foes!’ Quickly the Dunedain rose, and heroically they made a great stand. Many engulfed their arrows in flame, firing at the village and Draig-Luth alike, but they were greatly outnumbered.
First to fall was Barhador, who was struck immediately in the neck with an arrow as he drew his blade and shield. He fell into the arms of Aranarion and shed a single tear before his life ended. Tirirandir had frozen like a statue at the attacking foes, knowing no such reckless hate. Aranarion pushed him hard to the side, away from flying arrows, crying “Run, child! Run! There is no victory to be had here!” Tauron fell next, struck by many arrows, but only after killing many of his ambushers. Tirirandir still remained unmoving as his remaining kinsmen defended themselves valiantly. Herior pulled him down to the ground and pulled him behind a large stone as Gwestor fell to the blade of a Draig-Luth, after felling many himself. A small reprieve was granted as the horses of the Dragon Clan broke free from the burning village, scattering about. Aranarion again shouted “Flee Tirnel! Flee and take my love back to our people!”, and Tirnel this time fled, leaping upon a fleeing horse. To Tirirandir this was cowardice and weakness, to have not fought beside his brothers, and to leave them to their fate. As he departed Corchanar called “I love thee Tirnel! Die not this day!” Corchanar remained with Aranarion to the very end, perhaps out of hope for their victory, or for love and loyalty, but he too fell. And alone was Aranarion upon a mound of bodies, with many of their betrayers remaining. He had contented himself with death, and was near-mortally struck upon his stomach with the bite of a blade. Before a fatal blow could be dealt, Herior had sprung upon their foes on a Dunlending steed, drawing his sword for the first time. The sword took no lives, but bought time, for he took the wounded Aranarion upon the steed and rode the horse to the bone. In their departure an errant arrow struck the wounded Dunadan upon his back, and pushed the man into unconsciousness.
Herior and Aranarion escaped that day, but still among the number of the dead both were counted. All were buried within a mass mound, and it hung with sorrow. The village of the Dragon Clan was partially burned, but worse was the shadow that now hung upon the mound that covered their crime, and they could no longer dwell there. Only three survived the slaughter of that night; Tirirandir who had fled upon a steed westward and eventually relayed the failure of their company, Herior who fled eastward towards his home in Gondor, and Aranarion who sat fevering upon Herior’s steed.
