Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III (#3798)
Author: NKW
Chapters: 29

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: Set in TA 1347. Gimilbeth, daughter of the last Dunedain King of Rhudaur,  travels to Amon Sûl to use the Palantir and to ask for help against the encroaching Hillmen. She also has a coffin with her - with a drugged man inside.  But the Witch-King has ordered Gimilbeth captured and a big company of Orcs lies in ambush.
Meanwhile another traveler makes his way to Carn-Dûm. Who is he and what will befall him?
Now complete!
Published: 18 Jun 2008
Updated: 03 Jun 2009
Warnings: character death, rape, torture, violence
Type: Drama
Characters: Men of Rhudaur, nazgul, orcs


Chapter 1 - To Amon Sûl

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Hurgon's room in Cameth Brin Palace, October 25, 1347.
Written by Serenoli and Gordis 
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Early morning sunshine slanted onto the piece of canvas currently holding a half-finished portrait of the Princess Tarniel. Hurgon the Royal painter had sketched her features, and had done a preliminary coloring of her clothes, but he had left her face untouched.

Sitting in bed, moodily sipping wine from a goblet, he had an excellent view of the portrait. He didn't like it. Once he had finished painting it, he knew it would be realistic. It had the right amount of noses and ears and eyes, and of the right shape, and the right distance from each other... but something was missing. He felt it in his bones. Something was missing, which made his potrait a picture of Tarniel's face, but not Tarniel herself. 

He pulled his palette - a wooden board with little cup-shaped dents, made specially for him by the town's carpenter - towards him, and started mixing the colours up. He had mostly brown and red earth shades to go with, for they were the easiest and cheapest to obtain, but packed in little precious containers in a desk he kept locked were the rarer hues - an ultramarine blue obtained by crushing the precious lapis lazuli, green from the malachite, and a bright crimson cinnabar red, and a white lead that had chalk undertones. He had spent considerable time and money to obtain these, and used them only sparingly. But today he would use them all, for he was determined to get Tarniel's expression just right.

A dab right there, and maybe a bold stroke there... he worked carefully, concentrated on achieving what he wanted, his arms flying, and occasionally throwing himself on the ground to rest and take long sips of his wine (which was fast dwindling) and then getting up again, fighting the weariness that crept up into his arms, intent on finishing the vision in his mind. He placed colours where, in reality, you would never see them. He put straight lines where Tarniel's face held curves; he put, hands trembling, red and blue in her hair, mingling them well, and in the end, despite being throroughly frightened of actually side-stepping reality and going for 'expression' (as he put it to himself) he was done. 

It was sunset now. He flopped onto the bed, and gazed dreamily at the potrait of Tarniel, which had become quite unrecognizable, but which gave him a curious warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. A moment later, he realized the feeling was simply one of hunger... he had survived on a bottle of wine all day. But a wide, elated smile broke out over his face as he surveyed what he was certain was his masterpiece. And to think, he could paint countless other pictures with this new technique he had discovered... and never again feel that his paintings lacked that 'something' that troubled him so much. Hurgon had discovered abstract art....


***

"By Eru! What is it?"

The rich cadence of Gimilbeth's voice filled the small room, waking its ruffled owner. Hurgon Fernik dropped the empty bottle he clutched to his bosom and sat upright, peering owlishly around. He found himself sitting on his bed, fully dressed - even his paint-smeared boots were on. Two of Gimilbeth's immaculate pages watched him, shamelessly grinning. The lady herself, however, paid him no heed; her gaze was riveted to the freshly-finished portrait.

"What have you done, Hurgon?" continued Gimilbeth, as if in a trance. "Where have you seen blue hair? Purple hair? Green patches on human skin? It is completely crazy, the work of a lunatic... and yet... it is so incredibly, so wondrously good! I have never seen a painting like that..."

Hurgon, who was at first shocked by the Witch's visit and by her apparent disapproval, blushed to the roots of his hair hearing the last words. 

"The Crown will buy this portrait, I will see to it", continued Gimilbeth. "It will look quite appropriate in the Gallery downstairs, in a place of honor. I hope you will make a matching portrait of myself, once we return from Amon Sul. I will pay you handsomely."

With that she turned and looked at Hurgon for the first time. The painter was trembling. Did he hear it right?

"W-We return?" he stammered. "Why 'we'?"

"Because you are coming with me, of course," replied Gimilbeth levelly. "This portrait is too good to give away to Malvegil or to his grandson, whatever his name may be. And anyway, this masterpiece does not render Tarniel's likeness as it should. We need a classic formal portrait - and, as I can't wait for you to finish another one, there is no other option but to take you, your paints and your canvas with me to Amon Sul. The journey will take at least a fortnight. You will come in a wagon and paint on the way."

"But..."

"Hurgon, Amon Sul is a beautiful place. Every Dunadan should see it at least once in his life. You will draw sunsets and sunrises there."

Hurgon's mouth hung open. Gimilbeth nodded to him and left.

Descending the stairs, Gimilbeth decided not to postpone her errand to Amon Sul anymore. She had to carry Nauremir’s coffin to his family’s crypt in Brochenridge, and she was worried, lest Nauremir awakened while still in Cameth Brin. Also, she was in danger. Belzagar the traitor made no move, but who knows if he would decide to eliminate Gimilbeth later? 

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Cameth Brin, evening of October 27, 1347. 
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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"The Jarl will see you now" announced a scarred dangerous-looking brigand who guarded Broggha's doors. The cut-throat looked incongruous in furs and velvets - the newly acquired finery of the Jarl's new court.

Algeirr nodded and stepped into the dimly lit room. The hour was late and the Jarl obviously had more than his share of strong drinks - he sat slumped in a high-backed chair near the fire, Maleneth on his lap. But the blue eyes that met Algeirr's were as sharp as ever.

"Greetings, My Jarl," said Algeirr, his dark face unreadable. 

The Jarl grunted a greeting and waived to a chair across the table. "There is some wine left. Help yourself. What is it you want?"

"I have important news. But that is for your ears only."  Algeirr looked pointedly at the Jarl's mistress.

The Jarl scowled, then pushed Maleneth from his lap. "Go to bed, wench, and wait for me," he barked.

Maleneth scurried away. Broggha pulled his furs closer around his giant frame and fixed Algeirr with a steely gaze. Algeirr understood that his hopes to get the Jarl drunk and not so sharp as usual were wistful thinking. Still he had to get through with his plan.

"I think you have heard that Gimilbeth the Witch is leaving Cameth Brin in three days time?" asked Algeirr.

It was impossible to tell whether that came as a surprise for the Jarl or not. He simply grunted and inquired "So... where is she bound?"

"Amon Sul. The Witch is going to use the Palantir there - a fabled magic device of the Tarks, which enables them to see far and to talk to each other over great distances. Also she is going to propose Princess's Tarniel's hand in marriage to Malvegil's grandson."

The Jarl's eyes narrowed. "Where have you learned such news?"

"Gudhrun, my ..." Algeirr chuckled slightly "...well, let us say "my betrothed" is keeping an inn in Tanoth Brin. The king's guards frequent it. Strong ale makes even the tarks' tongues loose."

Algeirr downed his goblet and continued. "But that is not all. The guards say that Gimilbeth is going to ask Malvegil for armed assistance against the rebel Hillmen. With the Arthedain's army at his back, they say, King Tarnendur is going to show the accursed barbarians their proper place."

Broggha crashed his fist on the table so suddenly that Algeirr dropped his goblet and paled. "Treachery! Treachery again!" roared the Jarl. "The Tarks are plotting behind my back!" 

"Quite so, my Jarl" Algeirr nodded, satisfied by the effect his news had on Broggha. He waited patiently until Broggha's angry pacing subsided and the curses he muttered died out. When the Jarl finally sat down again, Algeirr continued, trying to get closer to his own secret goal.

"Gimilbeth is taking inordinately large company with her. Hundred and twenty Dunedain guards - a third of what they have in the fortress. The garrison here will be much depleted. She is afraid of an ambush, they say." Algeirr waited, allowing his words to sink down.

"But there is some good news as well. The King has ordered the guards to accompany Gimilbeth till Brochenridge, but no further. Then most will return back, and only about twenty knights will accompany her to Amon Sul. The great Road is safe, they think."

The Jarl's eyes glittered and a cruel smile crept to his lips. He was obviously planning something. The interview was going much as Algeirr hoped it would.

"Can we send some spies with Gimilbeth's company?" asked the Jarl. 

"No Hillmen is allowed to ride with the Witch, on the King's express orders. Not only they don't trust us, but they also have Nauremir's body to dispose of. If the wretch is indeed not dead, it would be awkward to let one of us see him resurrected, would it not?"

"You are the head of my spies, Algeirr". The Jarl's voice took a dangerous edge to it. "You must find a way to send one of our men with Gimilbeth."

"I have already done it, Jarl." Algeirr allowed himself a smile. "Captain Merendil himself has promised to take me along. There is very little that the King's guards can refuse to my Gudhrun, Jarl."

Unfortunately, the Jarl immediately became suspicious. "Why would this woman want to send you away, Algeirr?"

Here, Algeirr came to the most difficult point in the conversation. He had to tell a lie and not let Brogga detect it. 

"My Gudhrun is from Fennas Drunin, Jarl. Gudhrun plans to move to her native town, as she thinks Tanoth Brin has become not a safe place to live. She wants me to go there, take a good look around and probably find a good inn for sale. Then I have to go back to report to her. That's why she asked the guards to take me along as it is unsafe to travel alone. I accepted, so I could be your eyes and your ears in Gimilbeth's company, at least as far as the Great Road."

In reality, Algeirr craved to go not to Fennas Drunin, but much farther - to Tharbad. Tharbad in southern Cardolan on the banks of the great river Gwathlo was the richest city of Arnor. From the moment when Algeirr stole the wondrous emerald necklace, he knew he had to go somewhere far away to sell it. Heirlooms of the kingly Tark house of Dauremir were no trinkets that one could sell anywhere in Rhudaur without any explanations - if one wanted to get good money for them. No, he had to go somewhere out of the country. The best place to go was, of course, Gondor. But the Southern Kingdom was far and the road was long and perilous. Tharbad was the second best choice. Immense riches changed hands daily in this city of merchants, sailors and thieves, and no awkward questions were asked.

"If I sell the necklace for a fair price, I shall settle in Tharbad and never see you again, my Jarl," thought Algeirr. "If something goes wrong, I shall return to you and to my Gudhrun and none will be the wiser. I may even get a promotion after fulfilling a difficult mission." Algeirr looked into the Jarl's piercing eyes and waited for the other's reply, trembling inwardly from fear and excitement.

"Algeirr, I had come to expect anything out of the witch, but this time she outdoes even herself. Princess Tarniel betrothed to Malvegil's grandson! The army of Arthedain giving Rhudaur aid! Aye," he said, stroking his thick, red beard, "Gimilbeth thinks she is very clever, but she will find that she is attempting to match wits with someone far more clever and with far more power.

"Now here is what you are to do, and perhaps there might be an extra profit for you - if you are successful. But much depends upon how successful you are in achieving the 'if,'" he emphasized. "I do not like failures." The Jarl's icy blue eyes glittered. "But then does anyone?"

He studied Algeirr's face to see the other man's reaction, and Broggha was pleased when he saw the distinctive look of fear in the other man's eyes.

"No, Lord Broggha, of course not, but I will not fail you," Algeirr exclaimed. "What is it that you want me to do?"

"A very simple task. Nothing complicated. As you know, our friends in the North have provided aid for me to use, forces whom no one would suspect. The orcs under the leadership of Pizbur Ashuk are planning an ambush. They are waiting in the Trollshaws - you will get there on the second evening of your journey. When you think it is the right time for the orcs to attack, you will organize a distraction. You are to rein in your horse and take it to the side of the road. Give the excuse that one of your mount's shoes is loose. Dismount and make a show of inspecting the horse's hoof. Then say that you are not satisfied and must pull the shoe and replace it with another. This will be the signal for Pizbur Ashuk to attack. Princess Gimilbeth must be captured alive, for her presence is requested in the North. If possible, capture the officers, and any who might prove valuable for questioning. But the rest - kill them all." Broggha laughed loudly. "Perhaps the orcs will be allowed a little treat for their success in accomplishing the task. When it is all over, they can dine upon Nauremir's body - if the miserable coward does not sicken even an orc!"

Even Algeirr was disgusted at this idea, but he allowed no emotion to show in his eyes. The two men rose to their feet and as they faced each other, Broggha slapped Algeirr over the shoulders. "Remember, there are rewards in success, but failure often has very unpleasant consequences."

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Notes

This story is a direct continuation of “The Shadow over Rhudaur. Part I Runnings”. and "Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery".  All canon characters, settings, conceptions and plotlines used in our story belong to JRR Tolkien and his heirs. We are only borrowing them for our own enjoyment – not for profit. We have used some wonderful ICE-MERP maps as well, so some non-canon names of places (i.e. Cameth Brin, Nothva Rhaglaw etc.) are borrowed from there. 

We have made some original maps

Map of Cameth Brin and Tanoth Brin 
http://i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/CamethBrinGen1.jpg

Please, have a look at the Shadow over Rhudaur Part I (chapter 2) for the story timeline.

The roleplay this story is based upon is currently in progress at:
www.northernkingdom.proboards98.com 
Welcome! We need more players!


Chapter 2 - Glorfindel of Rivendell

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The Three Goats Inn on the road from Cameth Brin to Penmorva, evening of October 26, 1347.
Written by Gordis 
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Hegga was a new maid at the Three Goats Inn, hired only about two months ago. Broggha's men had all but devastated the countryside around Penmorva and there were very little stores left in the village of Penn for Hegga's big family to hopefully survive till the next harvest. After young Kviggr left for Arthedain to become King Malvegil's mercenary, Hegga's hopes for marriage were utterly ruined. Now there were so few young men left in the village, most went to swell Broggha's enormous band. So, after much deliberation, Hegga's parents decided to send their daughter away to her cousin, Gwynn, who worked as a maid at a roadside inn north of Morva Torch.

There was much more to eat at the inn than back home, but Hegga soon found out that the landlord was not going to give her anything but board and lodging for all the hard work she was doing for him. If maids wanted some money, explained Gwynn with a wink, they had to earn it themselves. Hegga was old enough to understand what her cousin meant, and she shriveled at the thought. Most customers staying at the inn were rough, baseborn men, vagabonds and traders, and the idea of spending a night with one of them made Hegga sick. Sure, there happened by some guests of quality on occasion, but, as her cousin said, those were unlikely to fancy the inn maids. Many a customer winked to her suggestively, attracted by her fresh face, milky throat and plump breasts, but still Hegga turned a deaf ear to immodest words and slapped at prowling hands. At nights, she dreamed of a fair prince who would come and rescue her. 

This evening it seemed to her that her dreams had come true. Cheeks aflame and breath coming in short gasps, Hegga peered from behind the counter into the dim common room.

The slow autumn rain was beating on the roof. The large downstairs room of the old inn was half-empty. The winter was approaching and travelers on the road were fewer, much to the landlord's chagrin. There were only a company of southbound horse-traders drinking their fill of ale at the central table, two masons going north to seek work for the winter, and a lone traveler sitting quietly in a corner furthest from the hearth, a bottle of wine and the untouched plate of mutton in front of him. His figure was concealed by an unadorned dark-blue cloak that he kept on, despite the heat in the room. The hood was up, leaving his face in deep shadows. He put his sword on the tabletop in front of him and stretched his long legs under the table. The glow of the fire played on his travel-worn leather boots - the only detail clearly visible about the stranger.

"What do you make of him?" Hegga whispered to Gwynn, once the other returned to the counter with a platter of empty mugs.

"Which one?" asked Gwynn, yawning. She had been busy again last night and had little sleep. 

"The one in the corner! What do you think he is?" prompted Hegga excitedly.

Gwynn studied the stranger for some time, then shrugged. "He is not SOMEONE, for sure," she said with contempt. "There is not a single trinket of silver or gold on this one, not even a bit of embroidery. His sword is unadorned, in a plain leather sheath. His boots are old. I bet he has not a spare coin in his pouch." 

Hegga giggled in reply. "Then you are wrong, Gwynn," she whispered triumphantly. "He is SOMEONE all right. I know who he is, because he told me. I was the one who took him upstairs to show his room. He is an Elf!!!"

"An Elf?” asked Gwynn, wide-eyed. “Are you cracked or what?"

Still giggling, Hegga dragged her cousin to a larder to tell her the story. 

"It was like this. He came from the South on a big gray horse - a fine animal, they say in the stables. I took him to his room, Number Three on the first floor. He had his hood on, and I could not see his face. He thanked me and I was going to leave when he turned to me and laid back his hood." 

"Oh, Gwynn! I stood dumbstruck and peered at him like a dimwit. He is the most handsome man that ever walked in Middle Earth! He has most striking blue eyes, like the sky in spring, and his hair is like a shining golden river, falling unbound down to his waist. He smiled at me, he did! When I found my voice, I asked him, "Are you an Elf, sir?" Then he laughed. "You are perceptive, child," he said kindly - and his voice was like music - "indeed, I am of the Firstborn." And he told me his name and where he hails from. I looked into his eyes, and I knew it was the truth. His eyes... I am a simple village girl, and I don't think I can put it right, but his eyes are old - as if he had seen countless ages of Men, wars long forgotten, victories and defeats... and he looks so young otherwise... no more than thirty!"

Gwynn shook her head. "I don't believe an Elf would stop in our inn, rain or no rain. No one ever sees them. I sure saw none in all my life. Perhaps they have all gone over the Sea."

"But he is an Elf!" cried Hegga. "He said so himself. And I have seen his ears. Have you heard that all Elves have pointy ears?"

"Yes, that I have," replied Gwynn.

"Well, his ears are slightly pointed - not so much as the tales tell, but still much more pointed than yours, or mine, or any Man's".

"Well… if he is an Elf, as he says," said Gwynn dryly, "you won't expect him to fancy you, a lowly mortal, would you now?" 

Hegga blushed furiously. "I hope you are wrong," she said. "I told him I have always loved stories about Elves and even heard a song about HIM from a traveling minstrel last year, a song how he slew a fiery demon! He smiled and said that he would tell me all about it and even sing me some songs if I come to his room after supper. He has a knee-harp with him!"

"Perhaps he will do just that, sing you some songs...and nothing else," replied Gwynn acidly, an obvious envy in her voice. "Make sure he pays, will you?"

"Oh Gwynn, you must be joking!" cried Hegga in outrage. "I love him so very much already! Money? I will never ask for money from him!"

Gwynn knocked thrice on her forehead to show what she thought about Hegga's wisdom. She made her way to the door of the larder, then turned abruptly.

"You said he told you his name," she said. "What is it?"

Hegga blushed again and announced proudly:

"Glorfindel. Glorfindel of Rivendell."

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The Three Goats Inn on the road from Cameth Brin to Penmorva, morning of October 27, 1347.
Written by Gordis 
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It was already past noon when they started looking for Hegga. At first, when Hegga failed to be on time for her morning chores, Gwynn made no fuss, out of kindness, allowing the poor girl to sleep after her first night with a man, but by the late morning it became evident that something was wrong. 

Hegga's long-cold body was found in the bed of room Number Three, her throat neatly slit from ear to ear. Surprisingly, there was very little blood. The weapon that did the deed was thrown carelessly nearby. It was an ornate Elven dagger adorned with runes and golden flowers. As for the customer, Glorfindel by name, who stayed in the room overnight, he was long gone. 

Gwynn, yesterday's envy forgotten, only congratulated herself that she was not the one the Elf took a fancy to. "What is the world coming to these days?" she wailed. "Elves taking village maids to bed and killing them! Bloody perverts they are, may Njamo eat their rotten souls! So no one here is bold enough to avenge the poor girl?"

"Where are those Rangers when you need them?" roared the innkeeper. "They mill around by the dozens when all is fine, but when something goes really wrong, who knows where to find them? Is there anyone here who is willing to man the pursuit party?"

The horse traders argued that they had their own business to attend to and hurried along on their way to Cameth Brin, venturing only to warn the authorities there about the happenings at the inn. The masons promised to do the same at Penmorva. A frightened and disheartened group of stable boys wandered for some time in the rain, careful not to venture too far from the inn. And that seemed the end of it, if we don't count the horrible stories, ever growing in the telling, that spread far and wide over the land.


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In the woods west of Penmorva, October 27, 1347. 
Written by Gordis 
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A lonely hooded traveler rode along a narrow path in the woods. The overgrown path led North, avoiding Penmorva and presumably striking the main road to Angmar west of this city. This suited the traveler well, as he was hurrying along to outpace the news of his night's work. 

The rider grinned again, remembering the silly girl with the milky throat and full breasts who came enamored and trusting to his room last night. He heard and smelled human blood running hot and strong in her body. The way the blue veins could be traced beneath her white, almost transparent skin aroused him greatly. So he took his time killing her and drinking her blood. He held her in his arms, feeling her life force seeping out of her, feeling her body becoming as cold as his, seeing utter terror in her innocent blue eyes.... With a parting kiss, he bid her to send his greetings to old Namo - greetings from Agannalo. He never missed to ask this favor of any of his victims. By now, his name must be well known to the Vala... The traveler laughed aloud at this thought. He was not counting to see old Mandos - ever - so let Namo get impotently frustrated, for all he cared.

During his unnaturally long life, the traveler was known under many names, but "Glorfindel" was not one of them. In the forgotten West, his noble parents gave him a sumptuous name, Silmatan, the Jewel of Mankind. And indeed, with his handsome Elven-like features, golden hair and blue eyes, he deemed himself the jewel of the House of Hador. His mother and close friends called him Silmallaire - the little jewel... But it was long ago... in the short mortal years before the Ring. Now, for already two thousand and seven hundred years, he called himself Agannalo, the Shadow of Death. 

At mid-day, the sun rose above the pines lining the path. The traveler threw back his hood and waved to the watery autumn sun, so different from the fiery orb of Far Harad, as he would to an old friend. Still, even the weak northern version of the fiery Arien hurt his eyes, so he pulled his hood back over his head right after sending this mock greeting. 

Soon after, the gray stallion started to show signs of tiredness. The sly horse, always at his tricks, pretended to get lame, but Agannalo's will overrode his and they continued on. The nazgul frowned - he was concerned about the horse. Twenty years ago, Agannalo bought the gray in Harad and called him after a certain pesky wizard - Mithrandir, the Gray Wanderer. The name was given in jest, but proved prophetic. Over the years, there was never a place that the Gray Wanderer could call home; there was only a succession of roadside inns, unfamiliar stables, and endless nights in the wild with only the starry sky for a roof. Now the stallion was growing old and eager for small comforts. Agannalo carried a vast supply of oats, apples and a warm blanket for the horse. Thankfully, he needed none himself. 

Just before sundown the rider finally stopped. This time the Grey was pretending no more - he really was exhausted. Agannalo fed the horse, put the blanket over his back and started a small fire. Not a real one, of course, but just a semblance of fire that gave some greenish light and almost no warmth. The Gray was grateful even for such a substitute, though - he never overcame his fear of the dark. 

Soon Agannalo was sitting near the fire with his harp on his knee. The Gray stood nearby, munching quietly and listening to the haunting melodies of the songs long forgotten by mortals. 

This evening the tunes were sad. Agannalo stopped feeling kinship with mortals very long ago, so killing them was as natural for him as squashing midges was for humans - no remorse, no second thoughts. But there was one thing that saddened him deeply - the loss of the Elven dagger with golden flowers he had to leave near Hegga's body as the evidence. He found the dagger while digging for treasures in the ruins of Ost-in Edhil and kept it for many lives of men. The dagger was of little use to him, as it burned his hand as if by hellish fire. But it was a wondrous piece of craft, with runes and golden flowers running along the razor-sharp silver blade, and Agannalo, ever a collector of high art, grew quite fond of it. Perhaps it was indeed from Gondolin... And now he lost it in a silly joke! Maybe the real Glorfindel would never hear of it ....

One thing was cheering, though. He would see his Captain again. Agannalo was surprised that he started to miss his comrades and his captain so much. The Nazgul King had a vicious temper when annoyed, and Agannalo had a knack of annoying him constantly. But still he looked forward to meeting the Captain again ... soon, very soon ... once he got to Carn-Dum.


Chapter 3 - Last Preparations

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Near midnight, October 27 Orc Camp in the Trollshaws
Written by Angmar
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As the rider guided his horse along the narrow path that was little more than a deer trail, he grew ever more alert and apprehensive. He knew that they were watching him, and he also knew the hatred and contempt in which they held his kind. If he had been one of the king's riders, he would have been dead long before now, shot through the heart by a black fletched arrow. They knew him, though, and so he was safe.

The day-and-a-half long journey had been a grueling one for both his horse and him. The difficulty of traveling through the inhospitable, foreboding landscape had slowed the trip, while the horse picked his way over tailless grounds that would prove challenging even for a surefooted mule. Since there was little forage for the beast other than a few autumn-dried grasses, it had been necessary to pack an abundance of grain to last for the return trip back to Cameth Brin. Stopping only long enough to allow his horse to rest, feed and drink, the rider had made good time, sometimes nodding asleep in the saddle.

Lean and wiry, his muscles hardened from years of riding, Galuarth the messenger had once been a dispatch rider in the army of Arthedain, but his short temper, flippant tongue and surly mood had earned him trouble from his superiors. He had finally been dishonorably discharged for insubordination to an officer. Turning to roving after that, he had joined with a group of petty criminals who made their livelihood stealing anything upon which they could get their hands.

Seeking their fortunes, the whole motley group crossed the borders into Rhudaur. Agents recruiting for Jarl Broggha had promised them quick promotions and ready gold, and they had joined the Hillmen. All had prospered since, but Galuarth preferred riding to fighting. Through a propitious meeting with one of Authon's agents, he had found employment as a messenger for the spymaster's assistant.

His duties called for him to be ready to ride at any moment. While he always had to be on the alert and had little time of his own, the position payed well. He enjoyed the keen sense of danger that he experienced when he would ride the dark and lonely trails, sometimes even being sent as far as the distant northern kingdom of Angmar.

Alert, the horse's ears pricked forward and the rider could feel the animal's body tensing. The gelding pranced, his nostrils sending out clouds of vapor in the chilly air. Suddenly, his horse shied as a large orc left the thick underbrush and blocked the trail ahead.

"Ho, Tark!" Galuarth recognized the voice which belonged to Durburz, one of the lads of Pizbur Ashuk's company. "What has prompted your lazy carcass to leave the city and come to these forgotten wastes? I doubt that it is because you have taken a fancy to any of us, is it?" Durburz laughed at his own crude joke.

"You aren't my type, Durburz," the horseman laughed dryly, "but if I ever change my mind, I will be sure to let you know."

The orc let out a thunderous guffaw, enjoying the rough banter. When his mirth finally subsided, Durburz wiped the moisture from his one good eye and said, "Come on now, I'll take you to camp." Then he turned and led the horseman down the path.

Pizbur Durburz, the leader of Third Company, First Regiment of the Third Brigade, of the Army of Angmar, had been enjoying a feast of roast pheasant when he saw Durburz and the messenger coming into camp. Wiping the grease off his mouth on the back of his sleeve, the chieftain called out a greeting to the two.

The fierce orc soldiers lounging about the camp turned greedy eyes towards the rider and his mount. While manflesh was always appealing, some of the orcs always had a hunger for horse flesh. There was more on the bones of a horse than there was on the frame of a man, and some thought it had a richer taste than human flesh. Having learned to fear and hate orcs in the past, the horse snorted and shied as Galuarth tried to soothe him. Slipping the bridle off the horse's head, Galuarth tethered the animal by the halter rope to a bush on the side of the road. Slipping a nose bag of oats over the horse's head to distract the beast, he patted the gelding on the side of the neck and walked to the orc campfire.

"Come over and warm yourself, rider!" the pizbur roared out a greeting. "There's draught and fresh game in plenty. You can have the choice of raw or cooked, even though I have not seen any man yet who appreciated the delights of raw meat."

"Narnulublat," Galuarth replied in words meaning "thank you" in Black Speech. "If I might have a piece of that venison roasting and a drink of orc draught, I'll be pleased." The thoughts of eating raw flesh sickened Galuarth, but he did not let it show on his face.

"What news have you for us?" Ashuk asked as he scratched at an irritating louse under his armpit and watched the man eat.

"Well," Galuarth answered between chewing and swallowing the meat, "you're not to send out any more pigeons to the contact in Cameth Brin. It appears that that whole line of communication has been utterly ruined by the Princess Gimilbeth. The witch has interfered and now sends her falcons to hunt the messenger pigeons."

Somehow the idea that one woman had destroyed an elaborate spy system appealed to Pizbur Ashuk's sense of irony. "You don't say," he remarked, rubbing his dark jaw. "You know, that's funny," he chuckled. "What that woman needs is a strong man to put her in her place!"

"Not likely that will ever happen," Galuarth chuckled.

"Since they are no longer needed, can we eat the pigeons now? The lads have restrained themselves and have not taken even one." The orc leaned over and peered into Galuarth's eyes.

"No, no, you cannot do that!" the courier exclaimed. "Those are valuable birds!"

"Then what are we to do with them if we are not to eat the little beggars? I think they would be downright tasty... just twist their little necks off and pop 'em in your mouth, then spit out the feathers."

Galuarth looked at the orc with utter disgust. "A man will be along tomorrow to pick them up and take them on their way."

The Pizbur looked disappointed. He had been thinking so much about those tender little birds, that he had already imagined that he had eaten half of them himself. "So how will we get dispatches to the spymaster in Cameth Brin? None of us can exactly go sauntering down the city streets."

"I will be attending to that, and if I should not be able to for any reason" - he thought of the possible reasons... his death or his capture by the king's agents, and felt a chill go down his back - "there will be a replacement found for me. Now that I have finished this fine provender and draught, I need to get to the main purpose of my visit... This dispatch," the rider reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a scroll tube sealed with wax and handed it to the orc commander. "I will wait for your reply."

Hastily the pizbur opened the tube and drew out the message. Unrolling it, his eyes skimmed over the document. "We will be ready... tell him that."

"Your message will be delivered, Pizbur Ashuk. Now I need to be heading back with any messages that you should feel fit to send."

"Except for an elf who was nosing around here a few weeks back, things have been quiet. There is no need to send a written message... Now if you should change your mind about those pigeons," the orc licked his lips hungrily, "we could put them in a pigeon pie."

"No, that will be quite unnecessary," Galuarth replied tersely, turned and went back to his horse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
October 30th, married servants' quarters in Cameth Brin castle
Written by Rian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I wish I didn't have to go," said Callon for the hundredth time.

"I know, but ..." Caelen left the sentence unfinished, except for an expressive shrug of her shoulders.

"It's only a week," he said for the hundredth time.

Caelen fixed her brother with the stare that she usually used on stubborn horses. "I'll ... be ... FINE!" she said firmly. "Don't worry about it!"

Callon walked over to the window and looked out.

"I wish we could have found our cousins - that would have made it so much better for you..." He trailed off as he gazed into the distance, as if he might somehow see the family that they had come so far to seek.

"That would have been nice," agreed Caelen regretfully. Although they had made diligent inquiry, they had found no news of their family. The only news was news that seemed to be all too common to this region - roving gangs of bandits, families robbed and worse. 

"Well, maybe I'll find news of them on this journey," said Callon optimistically. "We've only been here a short while - maybe we'll hear something about them soon. I haven't given up yet."

Caelen smiled encouragingly at him. He was so nervous about leaving her, and she wanted to make things easier for him. He had done so much for her, given up so much for her ...

Callon moved away from the window and over to his sister. 

"I wish you hadn't slipped up and told Arinya that we're brother and sister, but it's probably a good thing that she knows - I think she'll keep our secret, and I think she'll be watching over you more now. It will come out eventually, I'm sure - but at least the people here will have been used to thinking of you as a married woman expecting a child, and ... and ... well, hopefully that will help," he ended up somewhat vaguely. 

"And she can help me during my "miscarriage", too," added Caelen in the same low voice, with a glance at the door - listening at doors seemed to be a popular pastime here. "It would have been difficult to fake being pregnant much longer, and it would have looked strange to not have a woman with me during that time."

"Do you think you should do that while I'm gone, or when I come back?"

"No, the timing will be just about right when you come back - I mean, with ... all the details," she waved her hands vaguely.

Callon, who knew very little about a woman's monthly "time" and had no desire to learn more, made no objection. "Whatever you think is best, Caelie," he said, standing up and walking over to his bag, idly checking its contents once more.

"No! It's all packed! Leave it be!" said Caelen, moving across to her brother and pulling at his arm ... but not before he had found the note.

"Thanks, Caelie," he said softly, pullling her close and giving her a hug. "I'm glad you remembered ..."

It had been a family tradition of theirs to sneak a little love note into the bag of anyone that was leaving home, even for a day. Callon smiled as he thought of the note he had slipped into her drawer ... some things never died.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Palace, October 30, 1347.
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night before her departure, closeted alone in her underground study, Gimilbeth prayed. 

It was The Holy night, Sauron's Last Night before the Dark Lord departed the World of Living. Rumor had it that this night, one thousand three hundred and forty-seven years before, Sauron, besieged in Barad Dur by the Last Alliance, gave a great feast and ball. Ever since, the followers of the Dark Lord held this night holy and celebrated the Duvediu.

Gimilbeth remembered what a wild night it used to be in Umbar. Great bonfires were lit in the streets and a crowd of commoners: sailors and merchants, men and women, Umbarians and Haradians alike, danced around the Duvediu fires all night after partaking their share of the strong local wine. It was the night of wild revelry, songs and fireworks, flirting and street fights - the night that left enough to talk about for a whole year to come. 

The King's guards and the Gondorean Governor were not too happy with this custom, knowing of Duvediu dark origin, but over the years the celebration had become traditional both in Umbar and Harad and, much as the conquerors tried, they never could wipe it out. So the Gondorean guards and the Faithful in general just tried to make themselves scarce, least they be maltreated by the heated crowds. The Faithful reappeared the next morning - clad in white robes they walked in a dignified procession celebrating Sauron's downfall and the beginning of the New Age, while most of the Umbarians slept after the last night's revelry, or nursed their hangovers.

Umbarian nobles celebrated Sauron's Last Night as well, but they never mixed with the wild crowds of commoners.. Richly clad guests and relatives gathered at Gimilbeth's grand-parents' palace for a great feast and dancing. But first, dark rites were held in the underground vault decorated with golden and black velvet trappings and lit by nine great lamps filled with scented oil from Harad. Gimilbeth remembered chanting in a strange language, harsh and alien, that she heard coming from the vault. Young Gimilbeth craved to be there, she begged her grandmother to let her take part in the ceremony, but Serinde was adamant:

"No, child, you can't join us," she said to Gimilbeth, her colorless lips pressed into a thin line. "I have promised to your poor mother afore she died that I will keep you away from the Holy Rites. In her bewitchment with your father, she wanted you to become one of the deluded Faithful, as he is. I may regret it now, but I have sworn by the Holy Darkness, and I intend to keep my promise." 

So Gimilbeth remained in the empty hall, waiting for the other guests to reappear after the rites. She took part in the subsequent feast and danced at the ball, but she couldn't help but feel frustrated to be left out of the main ceremony.

Now, eighty years later, she finally had the ritual chants for the Holy Night recorded in full in the black book she had inherited. There they were, written in a neat flowery script by one of her mother's ancestors: prayers in the Holy Black Tongue and their Adunaic translation. Gimilbeth spent two days trying to learn the unfamiliar words by heart. But when the Holy Night came, she was prepared.

This night, alone in her study, Gimilbeth lit the nine candles and chanted the prayers to the Two Lords of Darkness, Melkor the Mighty, and Artano, the Giver of Gifts, and to the Nine Angels of Shadow, Those Who Live Forever. She killed three sacrificial black birds and spilled their blood on the stone altar, asking the Holy Darkness for guidance in her plight and for a safe journey. 

At some point along the long chant, she got a feeling that her prayers were not in vain, that they were being heard... She felt another, much more powerful, mind slightly touching her own... She thought she felt cold invisible fingers on her shoulder, along her neck... Frightened and elated, Gimilbeth continued chanting in a low voice, trembling from emotion. Will the Dark Lord deign to answer her prayers?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tower of Carn Dum, October 30, 1347.
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Witch-king stood looking through the open narrow window as dark clouds hung low and foreboding over the tower of Carn Dum. Moaning and howling like lost spirits, icy winds raced from the north and whipped about the tall structure, buffeting the stones with tiny pellets of ice. 

As the wind whipped up the ice crystals, swirling them wildly outside the window, a face began to materialize and take shape before the king's eyes. "The Princess Gimilbeth," the knowledge came to his mind, "is concerned about her trip, troubled and uncertain." The Witch-king laughed at the irony. Her trip to Amon Sul played right into his plans for kidnapping her. But, should the ferocious storm sweep down from the north, her journey would be delayed. The king would not let that happen. 

Among the powers that his ring had bestowed upon him was the ability to control the forces of winter. It was obvious to him that the natural elements had decreed that a storm of great fury and might would sweep down across the North that night. If the storm were allowed to continue on its course, everything from the Ice Bay of Forochel to Sarn Ford would be covered in snow until the blizzard tapered out in the mountains past Rivendell.

Laughing, the king took the full force of a fierce swirling whirlwind of snow as it burst through the window and whipped snow about his tall form. Raising his arms, he held a long, shimmering sword into the air and intoned softly,

Gazogal pardahûn-ob bor-ob agh akûl
Khlaar hasum-izub, khlaar mog-izub
Shakrop naakh-lab, unr krum satug-zi
Sharlob kul pardahûn-izub-ishi!

Princess Gimilbeth's prayer had been answered, and no foul weather would plague her journey, but she had paid a price. Her prayers and obeisance only deepened the hold that the Witch-king already had upon her. Now he would bind her still closer.

Closing the window, he walked to the table where rested nine candles on nine silver candlesticks. A delicate blue flame appeared in front of him and rippled atop the wicks, lighting the candles. He opened up an ebony box inlaid with torticeshell. Taking out a sheer silk nightgown dripping with lace and trim, he visualized the owner of the gown. Clearly he could see her in her study chanting before nine candles. Intoning in a soft, singsong voice, he utilized his power to conjure up a pleasant image of himself as a handsome prince. The vision seemed to float just above the candles before her.

In her mind she heard his deep voice. "Princess Gimilbeth," he touched the place where her neck and shoulders would be, "your prayers are answered. Into your hands will come all you have ever wished and more." Taking the small ceremonial dagger from his belt, he sliced across his right forefinger. He watched as the blood slowly dripped over the bodice of the fluffy nightgown, falling to the spot which would rest over the wearer's heart. He smiled as he saw an expression of rapture light up the princess' face.

*** 
TRANSLATION

Wielder of the might of snow and ice 
Behold my plea, hear my voice 
Stay thy hand, hold back the gale 
Until the woman is in my power!


Chapter 4 - Tumultuous Departure

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin palace. Morning of November 1st
Written by Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hurgon woke up with a pounding headache. This was hardly unusual, given the number of nights he dragged himself to bed drunk. Usually, though, he did not wake up with happy memories of the night before... but last night had been quite spectacular. He seemed to remember bonfires, and much dancing, and a young friend of his (whose name he could never remember) had acquired a small box of fireworks. The gathering storm clouds, and the howling wind had not bothered the crowd... it seemed instead to add an extra edge of excitement to the night. Hurgon thought had never met so many pretty women, or made so many new friends, or won so many drinking contests in one night. 

A pity he was going away - with Gimilbeth the unspeakable horror ... who had said in a curt tone to him the night before that she intended to start sharp at sunrise... which, judging by the faintest of orange lights on the horizon, seemed quite imminent.

He groaned for a few minutes, until he felt better. Then, taking a deep breath, he jumped out of bed, and began to pack. What did people take on a journey? Well, the painting. He rolled the newly-begun painting of Tarniel tenderly, and after tying it, slung it on his back. A box of paints and brushes, which he collected haphazardly. He could hardly lug his easel cross-country, which was, to say the least, inconvenient, but how she expected him to paint while he was riding along on horseback was also a mystery to him, and if he could accomplish that, no doubt he could get used to there being no easel. 

The sun was only half-way up. Time to bundle some clothes, thus, and hide the little bottle of red wine, there. After digging in a drawer, he found himself an old amulet, inscribed with a rune of protection. He hoped it would be enough to ward off any evil spirits he met on the road, or hopefully enough to give Gimilbeth a headache. 

He was ready! And when he skidded down to the front Gate of the Palace, he was, surprisingly, there in time to see Gimilbeth descending the stairs. She was, he noticed, looking younger and happier than ever. Certain this could mean nothing good, he waited deferentially until she should find something about him to criticize. To his utter surprise, she said, "Good morning!" as if she really was responsible for the morning, and took no further notice of him. 

"Well, well, that amulet's working all right. Protecting right from the start, that’s for sure. Gave her the opposite of a headache, but if it works, I'm all for it!" he said to himself. Massaging his own head, he followed her down the steps where the horses were waiting, together with the guard that would accompany them most of the way. Wrapped in a heavy fur against the cold air of the dawn, Tarnendur waited, too, to give his farewell to his daughter. 

"Fortune smiles on you, it seems. I had thought to ask you to wait a while, for there was surely a storm brewing last night. However, the day has dawned as clear as I could wish. May your errand be as favored throughout."

Gimilbeth smiled. "Fortune... is as we make for ourselves."

Tarnendur took this as a sign that she was determined to succeed, and found little more to say. They parted in silence, and Hurgon was already wishing he was back in his warm bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.
Written by Rian and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The morning dawned bright, with a merry sun playing upon the rooftops and turning the Old Tower from dull gray to shimmering silver. A crowd of on-lookers gathered in the court to say their farewells, or to gawk at the Princess's departure. At the head of the enormous party of more than a hundred fighting men, Gimilbeth, astride her prancing bay stallion, cut a striking figure in her rich fur cloak and a small matching hat upon her thick, raven-black, unbound hair. 

The Princess had always enjoyed traveling, and in her youth she used to move around a lot, from Osgiliath to Minas Tirith, sometimes to Ithilien, and quite often, at least once a year, she took a ship to Umbar, to spend winter months with her grand-parents. Now, she understood what a strain it had been to stay for twenty years in Cameth Brin, as in a besieged castle. Finally, she was on the road again!

She felt beautiful and strong this morning, despite the fact that she had got almost no sleep last night. Instead, the Holy Darkness had granted her waking visions; marvelous visions, to say the truth... Gimilbeth's cheeks blushed at the memory, and her eyes sparkled. It had been many decades ago when she had dreams like that, vague and erotic, making her heart race as if she were young again...

Gimilbeth smiled happily and surveyed the court. One hundred and twenty mounted Dunedain guards in a column three abreast were waiting for her signal. There were three wagons, drawn by small, sturdy local horses. One was full of trunks with Gimilbeth's clothes and other personal belongings - she never believed in traveling light - while another had been turned into a painter's study meant for Hurgon. Gimilbeth noticed how the bewildered painter, despite his weak protests, was firmly ushered in by one of the pages. The third wagon contained a coffin with the hapless Nauremir inside. The rich carvings of the coffin lid and sides concealed numerous holes, allowing the sleeping man to breathe. 

"I really hope he won't wake up before we reach Brochenridge," Gimilbeth grinned to herself. Then she turned to Merendil, the Captain of the King's guards and the head of Gimilbeth's escort. "The weather is fine this morning, isn't it, Captain? It seems the stars smile on our journey."

"Perhaps." The old warrior's scarred face looked as grim as ever; he seemed to be the only men present totally resilient to Gimilbeth's charms. The Captain frowned, surveying the long train. Three wagons! What a folly! They would slow the party down... With a put-upon sigh, he lifted his hand and, at Gimilbeth's nod, gave the signal for departure.

Gimilbeth and Merendil hardly rode a few paces when they found their way blocked by a herd of fine horses led by three travel-worn hillmen, obviously horse-traders. The guards were trying to stop them and clear the way for the departing company. In a following confusion, one of the Hillmen stepped forward and announced "I am looking for the Captain of the Guards! I have a crime to report." 

"Speak up, man," replied Captain Merendil. "I have no time to lose."

The ragged man looked bewildered at being addressed by a mounted knight in full battle armor. He squinted up at Merendil and Gimilbeth, then looked around in wonder. Was it truly the Witch of Cameth Brin before him? And the tall old man in furs, there on the Palace steps, was it the King himself? Forced to speak in front of the full court, he suddenly felt at a loss for words. Then, gathering his wits, he announced, his shrill nervous voice carrying far and wide:

"An Elf, sir... A pointy-eared golden-haired Elf, Glorfindel from Rivendell he calls himself, he killed a young maid at the Three Goats Inn, South of Penmorva. He took the lass to his bed and then slit her throat and got away with it!"

At this incredible news, Gimilbeth's eyes narrowed and the corners of her lips lifted ever so slightly. She turned and looked back toward the Palace steps searching for a particular person. There she was... Arinya, Tarniel's Elven tutor, looking every bit as shocked as Gimilbeth hoped she would be. Wasn't Glorfindel one of her friends... maybe even a relative? That served the arrogant Elf right - for years of nosing around and eavesdropping!

Startled out of her musings about the recent goings-on in the palace, Arinya's eyes opened wide in shock and disbelief. The credulity of the man, to believe that tale about one of the Eldar! But no, he was a Hillman - she could see that as the crowd shifted and she had a clearer view, although she should have realized that before by his voice - and his ignorance of the ways of her people was to be expected. But that didn't make it a pleasant situation; she realized with surprise and alarm that many in the crowd were whispering and pointing her way.

She felt the people standing next to her shrinking back slightly, as if from something distasteful, and was not long in finding the reason. Gimilbeth's piercing eyes were fixed on her with a curious expression of glee and malice in their depths. Arinya recoiled slightly from the intensity of the look, and then, recovering, said loudly in her clear, ringing voice:

"Of course, one of Your Highness' lineage knows well that such a story is not to be believed of the Eldar - that is not our way."

Gimilbeth paid Arinya's words no heed. Throwing a gold coin to the horse-trader, she urged her horse forward with a smirk. The wagons and the mounted knights followed. The journey to Amon Sul was finally started.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.
Written by Rian and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Tarnendur stood bewildered, listening to the weird accusation. He couldn't believe his ears. The gall of the Hillman to accuse the legendary Elf-Lord of such a base, ugly crime! Had the world grown mad? However, the truth of the Elf's words brought the King out of his stupor. 

"Of course!" Tarnendur roared. "There is no Man here who believes such a stupid tale!" He advanced menacingly toward the now pale and cringing horse-trader and hissed, trembling from anger. "You, baseborn rascal, how dare you utter poisonous lies before the face of your King? You must be a fool to think anyone would listen to you! Beware, lest you end your worthless life in the deepest dungeon of this tower! What proof do you have? It had better be good!"

The frightened Hillman fumbled blindly in his leather bag, his fearful eyes riveted to Tarnendur's red face. Diverse objects spilled to the ground: flint and tinder, a couple of silver coins, a horse-shoe, some dirty clothes... Finally the man produced a wondrously ornate dagger in a sheath of silver and gold. The thing of beauty looked incongruous in his meaty brown hands with their dirty, bitten nails. 

"This is the very same knife, my Lord King, as slit the poor lass's throat. Begging your pardon, Sir, I spoke truth and no lies. The knife is still covered with dried blood as no man dared to touch such an evil thing as this. There are some magic Elven runes on the blade."

Tarnendur took the proffered dagger. It was clearly Elven work, but fairer than he had ever seen in all his life. The King had only heard tales of such blades - work of the Noldor - that were said to gleam with blue light of their own when the foul creatures of Morgoth were near. With difficulty, as dried blood stuck the blade to the sheath, the King pulled the gleaming blade out and stared in wonder at the intricate golden flowers running along the sharp silvery blade. "Silver? Mithril?" he thought, dismayed. If it were the latter, the value of the dagger had to be breathtaking. Add to this the fineness of the craft and the rarity of such things...

Then another thought struck him. There was something in the old tales about the Golden Flower. He couldn't remember what it was exactly. Something associated with Gondolin of old... Frowning, he turned to the pale Elf at his side who, eyes wide, was also intently scrutinizing the dagger. She was a right person to ask.

"Lady Arinya, what do you think of this blade?"

Arinya drew in a deep breath, unsure of what to say. Her hand had unconsciously started to reach out towards the dagger, but she stopped short, unwilling to touch a blade said to have done such a deed. Her fingertips hovered just above the beautiful tracery of golden flowers.

"I think," she said softly, "that the days are dark indeed, when a fair name and a wondrous blade are coupled with rumors of foul deeds..."

"Elves!" thought Tarnendur with a sigh. "They never give a straight answer!" He shifted moodily; he didn't need anyone else to tell him what he already knew. The days were dark, and getting darker.

Arinya drew her hand back and continued in her normal voice, "Although it is wondrous to think, the blade looks to be of Gondolin, and the golden flower is indeed the sign of Glorfindel of the Golden Hair, although as Your Majesty knows well," and here Arinya bowed gracefully, grateful for the King's anger at the base accusation, "never would he do such a deed - if it is even true that he walks again in Middle Earth, as some have said."

As the faces of the Elves from Gondolin that she had recently spoken with flashed through her head, she concluded hastily, "Many fair things from that city were lost forever, yet some escaped - and have new owners. Your Majesty will not find the doer of the deed among the Eldar."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347
Written by Elfhild
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tarniel was in an extremely good mood that morning. At last the evil witch was leaving... well, at least for a while. She watched with eager anticipation as Gimilbeth and her entourage made ready to embark for Amon Sul. "Good riddance," she thought spitefully, "and may you never return!" She looked up at the bright sun shining in the sky. It was an unseasonably fair day; perhaps nature itself was breathing a sigh of relief?

This journey had twofold benefits; one being the absence of Gimilbeth and the other being the safety of Nauremir. The brash young man had really gotten himself in a lot of trouble, and it had taken everyone a lot of trouble to get him out of it. Tarniel gnawed her lower lip. She hoped that the ruse would be successful. She also hoped she could trust Gimilbeth to see Nauremir to safety. The whole plan depended upon the witch, and Tarniel prayed that the sorceress would act honorably and not attempt anything untoward. Undoubtedly, Gimilbeth would want some pay for her efforts, something to aid her schemes. Owing a debt to a witch was as dangerous as having a hungry wolf prowling about, and Tarniel wondered what compensation Gimilbeth would ask. But that was the future. In the meantime...

As she watched Gimilbeth's progress across the fortress court to the Gate, Tarniel barely tried to conceal the big smile which was upon her face. No one liked the witch anyway; why should she make a pretense of sorrow? Instead, she thought with delight about the future. Now that her half-sister was away, she would have the undivided attention of her father. She and Odaragariel would be the second and third most powerful females in the kingdom, under the queen. These possibilities excited her. Maybe the witch would decide to travel to the South, or maybe even move back to Umbar. Tarniel could only hope.

She frowned; Gimilbeth and her party had come to a halt. There was some commotion ahead. Was something amiss concerning Nauremir? No, it was something about an elf... and a murder? Scowling, Tarniel moved closer so she could hear more clearly. She espied Arinya, her tutor, among the crowd. The elf woman looked horrified as she heard the proclamation that Glorfindel – THE Glorfindel - had murdered a girl at the Three Goats Inn. Dismayed by these unpleasant tidings, Tarniel wondered how it would affect the kingdom. They already had enemies enough in the hillmen, without having to worry about the elves. But this was most puzzling. Glorfindel was a hero of lore, and murdering a girl at a tavern was hardly a crime that such a valiant elf would commit. To think of such a thing was absurd, and even disrespectful! This whole unfortunate affair stank of hillmen, Tarniel thought angrily.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin fortress court. Morning of November 1, 1347.
Written by Rian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arinya watched Gimilbeth's entourage ride off into the distance. The people next to her lost sight of it long before she did, and moved away from her uneasily while she was still gazing after it. The king denounced the rumors and seemed to support the elves, but change was in the air, and the people felt it. 

"Best to stick to one's own kind," said a woman to her daughter, nodding towards Arinya darkly and pulling her daughter away protectively. "I don't want you talking to her anymore!"

"But mama, the lady is so pretty and kind, and always says the most interesting things!"

"And that's how they catch their victims, most likely!" said the mother ominously.

Arinya came out of her reverie just in time to see the young girl being pulled away by her mother. She looked around - she was quite alone now. Little knots of people were gathered together, heads bend in close and talking quickly and quietly, while others had just left to go about their business. 

She sighed with frustration - all she had wanted, when she came here, was to learn more about the Second-Born. She had always loved books, so tutoring seemed to be a good idea, and she had come to love her pupil, and to love teaching. Surely a tutor could teach in peace, and wouldn't have to get involved in politics! But here she was, right in the middle of what looked to be a very volatile uprising. 

Bears and Hillmen, she thought wryly, remembering the disasterous party. I suppose you can teach them some tricks, but you can't take the animal out of them.

As Arinya turned to go, she saw Caelen approaching her, and smiled. "So young and earnest," thought Arinya. "I like her ..." 

"Oh, Arinya, I just wanted to tell you that there are others besides the king who think the Hillman's words are ... are vile and false!" The girl had started the sentence rather quietly, but finished it angrily and breathing hard.

Arinya was intrigued - and grateful. "Thank you, Caelen," she said graciously, bowing her head. "But I think we're in the minority here ... now," she ended with a grimace as a particularly loud Hillman crossed in front of them, belching and spitting.

"Are you busy now? May I come and read again?" Caelen asked hopefully.

"Certainly! I enjoy your company very much! But you need to leave some time for your husband, too, you know!" Arinya said rather loudly, for the benefit of those around them.

"Oh - well, he's going on the first part of the journey, so I'll be free for a week or so," finished Caelen, still uncomfortable with the whole marriage and pregnancy intrigue, but grateful to Arinya for her help.

"He is? But you just got here! I'm a bit surprised at that," said Arinya, puzzled why a newcomer would be preferred over men that had been there longer.

Caelen shrugged her shoulders - she didn't see anything unusual in her brother being preferred over others. "He's just really good with horses - I guess the stablemaster saw that."

"Well, then, I'm free right now - shall we go?"

Caelen looked up eagerly and nodded, and they headed off to Arinya's chambers.


Chapter 5 - Waking Dreams

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Belzagar’s Townhouse, Cameth Brin. Morning, November 1 
Written by Angmar
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"Lord Belzagar, I think that monotony will be the death of you quicker than anything," quipped Authon as he glanced out the window and looked at the mews across the courtyard. Two youths were making their morning rounds to feed the pigeons. As Lord Belzagar followed Authon's gaze, he cursed softly.

"There will be none of our little friends with messages this day, or for many days to come," Belzagar said angrily. "The Witch has seen to that!"

"My lord, there is nothing we can do about that," Authon shrugged and settled back in his chair. He sipped his goblet of brandy, noticing that his master had scarcely touched his own drink. As was their custom during their morning meetings, the spy master and his chief assistant sat in their comfortable chairs around the blazing fireplace in Belzagar's private chambers. 

"Nothing," Belzagar echoed. "Nothing! In one move, Princess Gimilbeth effectively destroyed the messenger system that took Lord Alassar and others, equally devoted, years to develop! Now messengers must travel by foot or horseback from our agents in the field and from our brutes in the Trollshaws! This can take days, while with the pigeons, sometime it was only a matter of mere hours!"

Authon was becoming concerned about his master. Five days before, one of Princess Gimilbeth's falcons had brought down a bird with a message from the Trollshaws. Since then, Belzagar had been like a man who feared that his next breath would be his last. Authon had been told that his master had difficulty sleeping; his appetite had decreased to the point where he ate very little but drank much more than was his custom; and since the incident of the capture of the messenger pigeon, none of the servants had reported that Belzagar's mistress had visited him, nor had he visited her.

"Too dangerous for the poor dear now with the trouble and all," one of the laundresses had reported to the butcher's delivery boy. "I do not think we will see the lady here for a while, and such a shame! They say she is very much in love with him."

For years, Authon had employed agents in Lord Belzagar's household who kept Authon apprised of his own master's actions. Authon had no doubt that Belzagar had spies in his own household. He would expect nothing less of the spymaster. Of course, neither one ever mentioned the possibility to the other of such a thing going on right beneath their noses.

"My lord," Authon said, "you are taking this all out of proportion. We are not under house arrest, and not once has either of us been questioned. There has been scarcely a break - other than the messages by pigeon - in our communications. Whatever happens in Rhudaur - or Cardolain or Arthedain for that matter - sooner or later, we will receive a full account of it from one of our agents. We know everything that happens in court and the city and the countryside. You fret too much, my lord. You should try to relax."

"I am relaxed, damn it!" Belzagar fairly shouted. "My only problem is that I have trouble sleeping at night. I think it must be indigestion, and I am concocting a potion that will soon remedy that. My unsettled stomach causes me to have dreams - dreams - dreams!"

"My lord, what sort of dreams? Perhaps by the telling of them, you will make them go away," Authon suggested, far more interested than he would admit.

"Authon, I am sure that you will be amused," Belzagar replied with ice in his voice. "You and I are upon a great stage in the center of the public square here in Cameth Brin and an enormous crowd is screaming for our blood. There is a massive brute dressed all in black, a hood over his head, and he holds a great axe in his hands! How the edge seems to have been honed, for it gleams wickedly! Both you and I are kneeling with our heads on the axeman's chopping block. I hear the axe as it whistles through the air and then comes down - swish... chop!" He made a sliding movement with his hand. "And your head rolls off your neck, down off the block, across the executioner's stage, and into the crowd! The crowd stills in a hush, and then they cheer, I tell you! They cheer! They will not stop cheering, and the cheers rise up as a great roar like the ocean! The image is horrible! The axeman then turns to me..."

Authon quietly sipped his brandy as he listened to his master's dream. It would be rude to ask what happened next, so he waited until Belzagar volunteered. A long moan escaped Belzagar's lips as he exhaled, and his hand trembled slightly as he reached for his crystal brandy goblet. "You want to know what happened, do you not?" he hissed out. "I will tell you! You are in it right with me! Then my head was severed and my spirit left the body but did not find peace in Mandos. Instead, both of us wandered until we came to a great dark fortress, and evil spectres came out and dragged us inside. There we were forced to stay forever, in eternal slavery to Melkor the Potent. He, too, laughed when he saw us. They all laughed!"

"My lord, this was nothing but a dream and has no significance." Though the dream made Authon apprehensive, he tried to minimize its dread portent. "Forgive me for suggesting this, but perhaps you are turning too much to the poppy potions to bring you sleep. Even those of us who are adept at drugs and spells can sometimes make mistakes. I suggest you cut the dosage down gradually until the dreams stop."

"Only a dream, only a dream. Perhaps you are right. I know what kind of dreams the sleeping draughts can induce." Lord Belzagar rose to his feet, seeming suddenly to have tired of the topic. "Authon, I feel a sudden summons to go riding on the road northeast of the Long Waterfall. Hurry now! We must go to the stable and tell the grooms to saddle our horses!"

***

Soon the two men's horses were cantering over the bridge near the Long Waterfall. A half mile further ahead, they halted their mounts, and sure enough as Belzagar had expected, dropping down from the heavens, was Honalnut the raven.

"His Majesty's messenger!" Authon exclaimed, looking at his master with new respect. "Such a thing has never happened before! They have always gone to your townhouse, but never has one come to you directly like this."

"I knew it would be so now and will be so," Belzagar murmured, a strange new light gleaming in his eyes. "I heard His Majesty's voice. He spoke to me in my mind, and he has promised to speak to me again! I am his man!"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November 1, 1347. Broggha's Camp
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Did you ever see anything like that in all your life, Captain Griss!" Heggr exclaimed enthusiastically as Princess Gimilbeth's entourage passed by the rude shack where the two men were lounging. Spitting a long stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth, he laughed in amusement as the brown liquid narrowly missed a yellow cur nosing amongst the garbage at the side of the shack.

"Aye, truly impressive, but it surely did not compare with the Jarl's triumphal entry into Cameth Brin last month. No doubt, much to the old king's chagrin, that event will be given a page to itself in the royal history," Griss remarked waggishly. After watching the end of Princess Gimilbeth's procession pass out of sight, Griss drew on his long-stemmed clay pipe. A small vagrant breeze pulled the hazy smoke towards the east.

"Maybe our names will be recorded. Do you think so, Captain?" Heggr asked after he had spat the depleted plug of tobacco from his mouth and prepared another chew from his tobacco pouch.

"Who knows?" Griss shrugged. "Why don't you ever smoke the pipeweed instead of chewing it?" Captain Griss' eyebrows wrinkled in a disapproving look. "I don't know how you can tolerate the taste of the strong stuff in your mouth."

"Captain, chewing the pipeweed sometimes eases the pain in my aching teeth, or maybe it just takes my mind off the misery." Heggr looked disappointed at Griss' nonchalant dismissal of a question he considered important. "Wouldn't you like to have your name written down in a great volume of history as being someone who did something important?" Heggr looked at Griss hopefully.

Griss laughed. "People like high and mighty Princess Gimilbeth get their names in history books, not rogues like us. Don't tax your mind on it anymore, Heggr. We have more important things to do than stand here. We need to be getting to the Jarl's keep. He will want a full report of the Princess' departure."

***

Retrieving their horses from where they had been tied behind the shack, the two men were quickly mounted and on their way to Broggha's estate. Rolling the new cud of tobacco in his mouth, Heggr was silent, a mournful expression on his homely face.

"Why so glum, Heggr?" Griss asked without much interest.

"Nothing," he spat to the side. "Only I was hoping there would be a little time to stop at the Hare and Thistle. I was hoping to see Fainwen."

"Heggr, that is impossible. You shouldn't even ask! The tavern is in the opposite direction from the Jarl's keep. You can always ride over and see her tonight. What's so important that you should want to see her now?" Griss replied disdainfully. He had never been able to understand Heggr's infatuation with the plump barmaid, who, while her face was pretty enough, was a little too old and well-used for his tastes.

"You see, Captain, it's like this. She's grown pretty fond of me, and... well, I am somewhat fond of her. You remember during the procession that one of the boys who work at the inn came up to me and whispered into my ear?" Heggr seemed almost shy.

"Yes, I remember that. What was it all about?" Griss smiled as their horses trotted into the courtyard of Broggha's hall.

"Well, he's Fainwen's nephew..."

"Aye, I know that," Griss replied as the two men dismounted and turned their horses' reins over to the waiting grooms. "I suppose the lad was delivering an important message from your lady love."

"Aye, Captain Griss," Heggr replied as he followed Griss into the corridor that led to Broggha's private chamber.

"Well, out with it, man!" Griss growled irritably as the guard ushered them into the warm confines of the audience chamber. "What does she want? Another present, I suppose?"

"Well, sir, if what she thinks is true, maybe I have given her present enough as it is." Stammering, Heggr's face flamed crimson.

"You old dog!" Captain Griss slapped him hard across the shoulders. "You've gotten the wench with child! Are you sure it's even yours?"

Heggr had not been prepared for the enthusiastic response, and the wind was almost knocked out of him. Recovering quickly, he whispered to the captain. "Aye, it's mine, or at least I think it's mine."

"Be quiet now," Griss muttered. "The Jarl is looking at us!"

A tankard of ale in his hand, the red-haired giant sat alone, attended only by one trusted servant. The Jarl nodded when they drew near to him. "Take seats," he ordered, "and tell me everything that happened."

Griss inclined his head respectfully before he began. "Princess Gimilbeth, full of her usual arrogance, rode at the head of her lackies, with that supercilious, smirking Captain Merendil coming along right behind her like a trained dog." Griss paused as the serving boy set tankards of ale on the table beside Heggr and him.

"Drink, men," Broggha's booming voice seemed far too loud for the moderate-sized room. "The draughts will take the chill from your bones." Nodding, the two men smiled their gratitude to him. "And the coffin of Nauremir? I trust it was with the procession?" He beamed a broad, pleased grin.

"Yes, my lord Broggha, the dog's coffin was right there," Griss replied after wiping the froth off his lips with the back of his hand. 

"Everything is going according to His Majesty's plan. Won't the lady be surprised when she discovers that there will be a little welcoming party for her, or should we say a little surprise party?" Broggha chortled. "She and her party will be observed every step of the way. The marvel of it is that none of them will ever suspect a thing until it is far too late for them to do anything about it! His Majesty thinks of everything!" 

Broggha's eyes had begun to take on that strange gleam which made Griss feel slightly uncomfortable. The Jarl's eyes had never appeared that way before the Great Lord had visited them back in September. Always when dealing with the emissaries from the North in the past, the Jarl had been visited by underlings. Griss wondered if it had been the King himself who had made an appearance. Whoever the lord was who visited them, he made an overpowering impression upon Griss and Broggha.

Heggr coughed uncertainly and Griss turned to look at him. Heggr stared at him in a strange way for a moment and then looked away. A shiver rippled down his spine when Heggr realized that the expression upon Griss' face was just as wild and mad as the one which was on Jarl Broggha himself!


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ford of Bruinen, November 1, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Rain fell steadily on the ground, a rough, loud, fierce rain, driven hither and thither by the wind, so that sometimes Gere was drenched by it, and sometimes the rain hardly touched her. They had camped under a grove of large trees, hoping for some shelter from the storm, but it hardly helped. It had come upon them suddenly, without warning, in the early hours of the morning from the North, and it did not look like the storm was about to let up soon. They had waited almost half the morning, and maybe they should start thinking about moving on again. And yet none of them were eager to cross the Ford in this weather...

Behind her were a few ponies, holding as much of their belongings as they could not carry themselves. Huddled in small groups under the tree, whispering in worried voices and looking up at the grey sky were thirty-two dwarves. They all looked as impatient as she felt... she did not like waiting here, so close to Rivendell. With a slight shiver, she remembered the Elf they had met at the High Pass a few days ago. She had been willing to consider him with an open mind, to view him without prejudice, the first Elf she had ever met, and he had confirmed everything bad she had ever heard about elves, and added some more. Gere wasn't sure what it was about him - not his looks, certainly, for he was tall and fair to look upon, and his clothes were sober, and the carved knife at his waist and his harp were both objects of beauty.

It was something else. It was the fear that had preceded him, that tinge of fear before he had even come into their view. It was the way he had looked past her disguise, and seemed to know that she was a dwarf-woman, and the way he had licked his lips ever so slightly. If the others hadn't been with her, if she had been alone, she was certain she would have fled from that look. And the way he sneered as he passed them, and ... well, maybe she was prejudiced, for listed like that, it really wasn't all that much. All the same, she didn't like Elves, and she did not wish to meet more of them. 

The wind died down suddenly; the rain trickled to a halt slowly. The dwarves gathered themselves up, and once more set out on the road, the leader, Hroim, setting the pace with his long strides, followed by the others. His son, Truin, fell into pace beside Gere. He was younger than her by a few years, but he had as forceful a personality as his father. 

"You look troubled," he began without preamble. "We'll reach the others in time, don't worry."

"I wasn't worried. We have three weeks before we need to be in Tharbad, after all. I was thinking I'll be glad to move on, and not meet any more Elves, and also I wish I knew what awaits us in Tharbad."

"And you wish we were back home. As you always do." He frowned. "Gere, we haven't had a home for the last two years; if you go back, all you'll find are the ruins the goblins made of it."

"I know that. All the same, I do not enjoy all this wandering around, the road is hardly a place to sleep in, and I wish that we had never decided to split the tribe up. I haven't seen my parents in so long."

"With any luck, three weeks from now, we'll be meeting your parents again, we'll find a good place to settle in near Tharbad, and you will be able to stop worrying so much! You're too young to frown as much as you do. You'll be getting all wrinkled soon!" he added mischievously.

"I may not be as young as you, baby Truin, but I can still heft that axe of mine pretty well!" She tried to look threatening, but failed at the sight of his dismal face - he hated being called a baby - and burst out laughing instead. When he joined her a few moments later, she did feel cheered. The Ford was in sight, they would be over the Bruinen soon enough, and Truin was right, they would be reuniting with the others in less than a month. There was nothing to worry about.... yet.


Chapter 6 - Buried Alive

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South of Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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The long cavalcade rode down the winding King's road onto the flat meadows below the Cameth Brin hill. Soon the horsemen passed Broggha's camp - a maze of rundown shacks and tents. Broggha's brigands eyed the passing Dunedain somberly; muttering and cursing was heard in the crowd gathered along the road. Someone cried, "The Witch is gone - and good riddance!" Gimilbeth rode impassively at the head of the party, flanked by Captain Merendil. The princess pretended not to hear what was being said behind her back. 

"Farewell, Cameth Brin!" Gimilbeth looked to her right at the looming hill. The Loud Waterfall, all foam and rainbows, cascaded from the top of the plateau with a deafening roar. Suddenly Gimilbeth's heart went cold with premonition. Would she ever see the place again? And more importantly, would she see again her aging father? Much as she scrutinized the star-charts, she was never able to read her future clearly. She only sensed danger ahead and danger behind. The bright morning seemed suddenly dimmed. 

The head of the column crossed the bridge over the Cameth River, passed the dike surrounding Tanoth Brin and rode down the main street through the town. Here the faces of on-lookers seemed more friendly; occasionally, cheers were heard at the sight of shining armor, bright banners and dancing, richly-caparisoned horses. 

Soon the troop crossed the moat and turned south. For some time, they rode along the rushing Hoarwell. The going was not easy as the old road was often damaged by spring floods and, in those tumultuous times, seldom repaired. On their left rose another highland, not so steep as the Cameth Brin Hill, but still practically inaccessible - broken crags with tall pines. Ten miles downstream from Cameth Brin, the road took a sharp turn east - away from the river. The rocky, broken ground was steadily rising. After a short halt for the midday meal, the company finally reached the densely-wooded area. The road meandered through forests of fir-trees, dark, silent and foreboding. It was easy to imagine evil creatures lurking there, somewhere in the tangle of boughs and shrubs, and only kept at bay by the presence of armed warriors.

It seemed that the others shared her apprehension - she noticed many a young soldier eye the foreboding trees warily. There were rumors that the forest south of Cameth Brin was haunted... 

Suddenly, Gimilbeth heard a commotion behind, where the wagons were... She turned round her bay stallion and went to investigate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 1, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Darkness surrounded him. Lassitude lay heavy over Nauremir's mind like a blanket of lead cast over an invalid, and he stared, not really contemplating what his eyes beheld. Of course, what was there to behold? Only oblivion, the complete absence of light, raven-black, punctuated now and then with the strange muted colors the eye sees when all is dark; shifting burgundies and tarnished golds, and shades which his mind could not place. But darkness surrounded all, and all was darkness.

How long he lay there, he knew not. Time did not seem to matter. Days could have passed, or maybe years. Mayhap the sands in the hourglass had escaped through some fissure and ascended to the heavens to hang as timeless stars in the sky. Nothing seemed to matter in this place, this nebulous realm suspended somewhere between life and death, a place visited by the dying and by the drugged.

But slowly the shattered pieces of reality began to gather and reform, as though floating through a sluggish sea. Thinking consciousness gradually returned, and with it, a pounding headache, a pain so dreadful that he feared it would split his head in two! Moaning, he attempted to lift a hand to clutch his throbbing head, but it seemed that shackles and chains of iron held his arm in an unrelenting grasp. Another attempt. The hand lifted a few inches but clashed against a barrier which lay above him, then fell down to lie limply upon a cushiony bed.

Where was he? The mattress upon which he lay was soft and comfortable, and he felt himself being lulled back into slumber. No, no, he must resist the temptation to sleep, to sink back into the senseless oblivion in which he had so recently traveled. Somewhere in the back of his befuddled mind, a sense of unease began to grow, but the rest of his mind could not yet comprehend the reason for this discomfort.

Gaining strength, he raised his arms again. His fingers brushed over the roof which hung only a few inches above his body. A thin layer of cloth, and beyond that, hard wood. He clutched his temples in his hands, groaning like an opiated sleeper making a half-hearted attempt to wake from the stupor of the poppy.

Where was he? What had happened? He groaned again. Was this the morning after a night of heavy drinking? He did not remember... He needed light – though surely it would sear his eyes in this state. His fingers explored his surroundings. Walls all around him, a ceiling above him, some sort of cushioned floor beneath him. What sort of place was this?

He lay there, staring into the darkness above him. And then suddenly his mind cleared and the dreadful realization dawned upon him.

He was in a coffin.

He had been buried alive.

His heart pounded, waves of horror crashing down on him like the drowning tides of a dark sea. The foggy bewilderment left his brain, and in its place was clarity, horrifying and grim. Left for dead when he was yet alive, would he spend his last days imprisoned within the tomb, slowly starving to death? Long would be the hours as he waited for death's embrace, for the final cessation of his young life. Surely this was the worst way to die – to die once and wake to life, only to have it wither away like a plucked flower in the confines of interment!

Powered by a desperate surge of energy, he balled his hands into fists and pounded on the roof above him. It was as unyielding as the cold stone of the tomb; his struggles as futile as the last throes of a dying man. Nauremir saw his life, his death, all flash before his eyes. Panic rising up inside him, a dreadful shriek escaped his lips, and his whole body shuddered in a paroxysm of revulsion and fear. This was it – this was the end – the slow, prolonged, agonizing finale of those entombed whilst still alive - this would be his fate – his doom – his death -

And then consciousness left him, and his mind fled once again into the comforts of the murky darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 1, 1347
Written by Serenoli and Gordis 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hurgon had imagined that painting on a horse without an easel would be the height of impossibility. Sadly, there was not much difference when you were in a wagon being pulled by horses, even with the easel. But would Gimilbeth listen to reason? Oh, no, her highness intended to see him paint during the journey, even if she had to move his hands for him. 

After four mad hours of trying to draw Tarniel's mouth, he had thrown up his hands in disgust, jumped out of his wagon, and settled on the front seat of the third wagon, muttering under his breath things like, "I wish that witch would look her age! Ha!"

The driver of the third wagon, a bored-looking fellow, who had a taste for the macabre, leaned in confidentially, and asked, “How long do you suppose it’ll take before the end of our journey?”

Hurgon, who had his eyes fixed on Gimilbeth at the front of the procession, gave a start. “What? I don’t know. Three days to Brochenridge, I heard.”

“And how long before poor Lord Nauremir there begins to rot, I wonder. He should start giving off a stink anytime soon. Although maybe the coffin’s holding in the smell.”

Hurgon gave a shudder the most delicate lady would have been proud of. “I somehow don’t think that’s likely to happen anytime soon.”

“And why not?”

The answer was supplied by young Nauremir himself, who shouted out, “I’m alive! Let me out!” This, followed by a series of pounds. Hurgon, who had been half-expecting this ever since they set out, cursed under his breath. "Darn my needles! He’s gone and woken up!" The driver pulled up short, an ear cocked.

“You hear something?” he asked Hurgon. The horsemen following them had stopped, too, looking puzzled. They had obviously not heard anything… yet.

Nauremir pounded a little more on his coffin, the sound of desperation creeping in. 

“There! That pounding! Coming from behind us, isn’t it?” The sudden light of realization flooded his eyes. Hurgon waited with bated breath for the inevitable horror and shock. It came….

… only not quite in the way he expected. With bulging eyes, and fear written over his thin face, the driver shouted, “They’re drums! Drums in the forest!”

“What drums?” a confused Hurgon asked.

“Everyone know goblins use drums to alert each other! They’re going to attack us!” His voice gaining panic, the driver began shouting over the rhythmic pounding of Nauremir’s coffin, completely oblivious to the fact that it was making the wagon rock from side to side. “Goblins! Orcs are upon us! Brave soldiers, defend us!”

Various cries of “Ready Arms!” “Where?” “What drums, I don’t hear anything!” and “What in the name of cheese is going on?!” permeated the air. The wagons in front creaked to a halt. At almost the same moment, Nauremir, his little energy spent and the drug taking hold again, gave a final shriek and fell back into blissful sleep. 

Gimilbeth got down majestically from her bay stallion and swept up to them to ask crisply, “Well?”

“My Lady, we heard the orc-drums. They’re preparing to attack us any minute! And just now, I heard them give a most blood-curdling war-cry, my Lady!”

“We? You and who else heard these ‘drums’?”

The driver promptly pointed at Hurgon. Hurgon refused to wilt under her icy stare - a first for him – and began shaking his head and wagging his eyebrows vigorously towards the coffin behind them. He mouthed, “Nauremir! He’s awake! Awake!"

Gimilbeth had no need to ask: "Who is?" Ever since they set out on the journey, she had been afraid of that moment. Should Nauremir come to his senses in an inopportune time, the secret would be out! Sure, no Hillman was allowed on the journey, save one, Algeirr by name - a trustworthy man, according to Captain Merendil. But still even one Hillman was far too many. And even the Dunedain, if once scared witless by the apparition of the unquiet dead man, were bound to chat about it afterwards, especially when drunk. 

Gimilbeth cursed inwardly, cocked her head and listened. Everything was quiet in the wagon with the coffin. Perhaps the wretch has fallen in a swoon again, if not worse. She sincerely hoped it had been the case. Anyway, nothing could be done until the evening.

Meanwhile, Merendil's barked orders rallied the men, some of whom had fanned out into the forest on both sides of the road looking in vain for assailants. The journey continued. 

By sunset, Gimilbeth's party reached an old roadside inn. But those who looked forward to warm beds and hot meal were sorely disappointed as the house proved to be deserted. It stood with broken windows and doors and the wind blew dry autumn leaves through empty rooms. Captain Merendil sent several men to scout around, appointed the night guards, and the travelers settled for the night as best they could. 

A big fire was lit in the abandoned hearth of the former common room of the inn and a small tent was set in a corner for Gimilbeth and her maid. The others took out their bedrolls and laid them on the floor. There was not enough place for everybody, of course, so Gimilbeth's order to bring in the coffin as well was met with astonished silence.

"Has the witch gone mad?" thought the bewildered Merendil. He coughed several times and then objected as politely as he could. 

"A-hem... My Lady, the late Nauremir is precisely the only one here who won't suffer from the cold. In his present...er.. condition he will only benefit from some exposure to the night's frost."

"I want the coffin here!" replied Gimilbeth icily. Her cold eyes met the Captain's and held them. Merendil was the first to lower his gaze, muttering darkly - the journey with the crazy witch was proving every bit as unpleasant as he feared.

With muffled curses from the guards, the heavy coffin was brought in and set in a small adjoining room, maybe a former pantry or a storage room as there were empty shelves on the walls. The floor of the little room was littered with debris, but still it was better than to have the coffin in the common room. To Merendil's relief, Gimilbeth had no objections to this arrangement. 

After the evening meal, which everyone ate seated on the floor on his own bedroll, the weary travelers fell asleep. Gimilbeth lay awake listening how the hushed muttering in the common room finally ceased, replaced by snores. Quiet as a shadow, Gimilbeth slipped out of her tent. First she shook awake her two pages and sent one of them to fetch Hurgon. Soon the four of them assembled in the pantry around the coffin. 

"Now, open the lid!" ordered Gimilbeth. With much effort, the three men lifted the heavy lid and laid it on the floor. They stood for some time looking down at Nauremir in wonder. 

The hapless youth lay before them pale and emaciated. His cheeks and chin were covered by long, uneven stubble, curly, and a shade lighter than his hair. The sparse, ungainly beard made him look older and somehow different. 

"Good!" commented Gimilbeth. "Now he will be hard to recognize, especially after Edelbar cuts off his hair. Here are the scissors, Edelbar!"

"Chop off his hair?!!!" gasped Hurgon. All the nobles wore their hair long and only commoners cut them. Cutting one's hair short was an outrage - a loss of stature. "But he is Elendil's descendant, your own kin!"

"He has forfeited the right to his high lineage when he vilely attacked the King's guests, putting his kin and all the Numenoreans in danger!" hissed Gimilbeth. "From now on, he will be a commoner - your new apprentice, Hurgon." 

She bent to the coffin, retrieved a bundle of cloth that lay hidden at Nauremir's feet and threw it to the painter. "Here are his new clothes - plain, threadbare stuff. Put it on him instead of this fancy dress when Edelbar finishes his haircut."

Long strands of raven black were falling to the ground. Hurgon stood at a loss watching what disturbingly looked like a degrading execution. The two pages stripped the body and dressed Nauremir in the plain clothes provided by Gimilbeth. Now the noble Daurendil's friend was truly unrecognizable. 

At this moment Nauremir's eyes opened and focused on Gimilbeth. By the sudden fear and revulsion in his gaze, it was evident that the youth recognized her. Gimilbeth laughed evilly. 

"Arise, apprentice painter!" she said haughtily. "New life awaits you - the life that is MY gift. Your old life has ended. Nauremir is no more. Helmir I name you, as your heart should henceforth be as cold as it used to be fiery. Now kiss my hand and be grateful for my gift. You are in my debt forever."


Chapter 7 - Five Dead Rabbits

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Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early hours of November 2, 1347
Written by Rian
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Callon lay quietly on his bedroll, unable to sleep because of the heavy snoring of the man next to him. He thought over the events of the last few weeks yet again - little else had occupied his mind lately. His decision to flee from their home now seemed naive and rash. He was young then, and the young are optimistic; he was older now. Age gained the hard way - by bitter experience. 

It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for his sister. Young men in the stories set out for adventures, but they never seemed to have sisters to take care of. He wondered moodily how Beren and Tuor would have fared if they had had their sisters with them. Of course, Turin had his sister, and look at all the problems they had... He sighed with irritation and turned onto his other side. The man on this side of him wasn't snoring as loud as the other man, but he had an irritating habit of getting quieter and quieter, making you relax, and then letting loose with a nasal explosion that made you leap out of your skin.

Maybe they should have stayed at Eryndil's father's place after all, but Callon had talked Caelen into going to Cameth Brin - he thought it would be safer closer to the castle, and then they could look for their cousin, too. Last he had heard, Maleneth was somewhere around Cameth Brin - but that was long ago ...

"I can't wait 'till this trip is over!" he thought, uneasy about leaving Caelen alone. Well, at least she and the elven tutor had become friends. "Stay with her as much as you can," he had admonished his sister. "And remember - I'm your husband!"

A gigantic nasal roar from the man next to him made him jerk and then turn wearily back to his other side. He made a mental note to never sleep by this fellow again.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early morning of November 2, 1347
Written by Elfhild and Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nauremir gaped up in horror at the evil witch. Her face was twisted in wicked glee like some leering female gargoyle. He still felt lightheaded, the lingering remains of the draught which he had been given and the fright which he had experienced. What had the witch done to him? He did not recognize his surroundings. Had she kidnapped him? Had she drugged him and stuffed him into a coffin, in some bizarre murder plot? Or was her intent something far darker?

Forever – the world reverberated in his mind. Life that was her gift. His heart should be cold. Kiss her hand and be grateful. What did all that mean? Perhaps he HAD died after all, and she had raised him from the dead by some unholy necromancy!

"Gimilbeth! What is the meaning of this?" Nauremir demanded shakily. "What in Eru's name have you done to me?!"

Gimilbeth tossed her head and laughed again. Seeing someone she disliked utterly helpless and at her mercy felt like heady, strong wine. It made her nerves tingle and her head swim pleasantly. For here he was - Nauremir of royal blood, the best friend of the King's Heir, the best swordsman and the best dancer, the sweet dream of all the young ladies of Cameth Brin - now brought down. This dashing youth now stood swaying on his feet and looking at her with his bloodshot, puffed eyes like a terrified rabbit...

Rabbit...rabbits... she almost forgot... Sobering, she turned to her pages: "Edelbar, have you brought those rabbits you killed three days ago?"

"Yes, my Lady, here they are," replied Edelbar, grinning. He produced a leather bag, untied the strings and tossed the contents into the open coffin. Five dead rabbits. Sweet cloying stench of rotting flesh filled the small pantry. Gimilbeth nodded, satisfied. 

"Now close and fix the lid, but don't forget to extract Helmir's bedroll first. It is there, under the pillow."

Edelbar pushed a plain soldier's bedroll into Nauremir's arms. The poor young man looked upon it in bewilderment. Then the witch addressed him again.

"This is not the right time and place for explanations, Helmir. Know only that I have saved not only your worthless life but also the Kingdom you put in peril by your foolishness. Keep quiet for now, lest nothing could save you again. Hurgon, your new master, will tell you the tale on the way - far from the curious ears." 

"Take him to the common room, Hurgon. Sleep now, but make sure to get into your wagon before the first light." 

Nauremir's lips trembled, but he said nothing. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand and turned to Hurgon, obviously hoping for some reassurance. But the painter only shuffled his feet uneasily and pulled him out of the pantry. 

"Do as she says," he whispered. "Come with me. I will find you something to eat and to drink."


Hurgon had some bread and cheese left over, and he still had that bottle of red wine. He had had many plans for that bottle, but Nauremir, that is to say, Helmir, obviously needed it much more.

He rolled out the bedroll in a quiet corner of the common room, and pushing the dazed man onto it, he handed him the food and the bottle, and sat down heavily beside him. Helmir looked as confused as a newborn pup, so Hurgon alternated between patting him on the head and wringing his own hands. He should have known Gimilbeth would do this! No doubt she had heard every single name he had called her, and this was her revenge. The amulet had obviously lost its power - or else she was far too evil and powerful for it to work against her!

"What is going on?" Helmir whispered, trying his best to keep his voice level. "I thought I was dead, but now I fear something worse than death! Were those rabbits... part of some dread ritual?" 

"Oh, no, I think they're to make the coffin smell rotten... so everyone will know you really are dead."

Helmir, who had cautiously taken a bite of the bread, choked. Hurgon hit him on the back a few times, saying "Shhh!"

"You mean I really am dead?" Helmir forced out through gasps.

"Well, everyone thought so, and many people even think she," he inclined his head towards the old pantry, "killed you herself, but Tarnendur says she didn't really kill you. Even I had trouble believing, but look at you, my lord... ah, Helmir, you're walking and talking and eating, so you can't be dead, right?"

Was it just him, or was there uncertainty in Hurgon’s last words? Oh, Eru. What if some vile work of sorcery had been committed against him, and he was now some sort of foul creature, neither living nor dead? Well, the king did not think that he was dead. That was reassuring, at least. But what if the witch had enchanted the king and he was now her thrall?

Groaning, Nauremir bent over, holding his head in his hand. Was this evil sorceress now ruling the kingdom? No, no, he was letting his thoughts run away with him! 

He seized the wine bottle like a drowning man grabs hold of a piece of driftwood in a desperate attempt to keep himself afloat. Bringing the mouthpiece of the bottle to his lips, he swilled the rest of the liquid down in one gulp, wincing as fire exploded inside his head. "What happened?" he asked at last. "I remember the fight at the reception banquet. One of those accursed Hillmen stabbed me in the shoulder. There was a fire... I was taken to safety... I remember lying on a bed," he said slowly, concentrating on his fuzzy memories of what had transpired. "After that, all is darkness. I understand that Gimilbeth is behind all this. She claims that I am in her debt forever. What vile spell has she cast upon me?" He paused, and then demanded, "Where am I, anyway?"

Nauremir was getting increasingly distraught. Remembering Gimilbeth's injunctions, and not at all relishing the prospect of explaining away Nauremir's presence to the entire room, Hurgon chose not to answer him at once, but instead led him outside to where the wagons and horses were standing. Nauremir looked around him, puzzled. "Are we on some kind of journey, Hurgon?"

"We're going to Amon Sul - but we're only a day away from Cameth Brin. Here, this way. You're staying in my wagon, and you must stay as concealed as possible throughout the journey, so no one recognizes you." 

Nauremir stood his ground. He had the air of a man who intended to find out what was going on, and no more evasion, thank you very much. "What happened?" he repeated "Tell me what is going on."

"Well... the long and short of it is that Broggha demanded your head, and Gimilbeth told him you had already died of your injuries. She gave you some potion to make it look as if you were dead - and, most of us thought you were dead, and we - I mean, some of them thought she was the one that killed you. And then the Prince - Daurendil, not Amantir - tried to kill her, and the ladies Tarniel and Odaragariel tried to stop him... and then the King himself came and stopped Sarador from embalming you, and it turned out you were alive after all." Hurgon paused to take breath. 

Nauremir slumped on the ground, and said slowly, "All of that really happened? Sarador almost embalmed me?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Gimilbeth was going to Amon Sul anyway, and she took me along to paint Tarniel's potrait. She decided to bring you along - I don't know why. But Broggha would kill you if he found out, and while I sympathise with you - obviously I would not like to be in Gimilbeth's clutches either; but of the two alternatives, if I may say so, she strikes me as slightly less nasty. Besides," he added, wishing to reassure Nauremir, "I am not a very tough taskmaster, lord." He gave a nervous smile.

"And she didn't put a spell on me? She didn't bring me back from the dead?" His voice was hoarse with fear.

"She says not," said Hurgon. He felt hesitant about putting forward anything Gimilbeth said as a certain fact. "I didn't even know anyone could be brought back from the dead. But the doctor, who is my friend, told me your health was on the mend before you died; that is, seemed to die."

"So she may have been telling the truth?"

"Possibly."

Nauremir groaned softly... it was hard to tell whether he was relieved or worried. When he looked up, a new aspect of the matter seemed to strike him. "Helmir... that is my new name. Does that mean I'm never to be Nauremir again?"

Hurgon shook his head. 

"My family... what about them?"

"I don't think they know. They are waiting for us to bring your dead body to them. I don't know whether Gimilbeth plans to tell them." Hurgon watched Nauremir anxiously for signs of anger. "Either way, the plan seems for you never to return to Cameth Brin."

A man with no family. No home. A past, yes, but one which was denied to him. His whole life was gone. Everyone thought he was dead. Where did he go from here? No longer was he Nauremir, but instead Helmir, a stranger. The witch had saved his life, but for what? Obviously not the goodness of her heart. Well, if she expected him to do her bidding out of gratitude, she was sorely mistaken. Perhaps she sought to sway him by the threat of blackmail, offering to reveal his identity if he did not do her bidding. But what could she want with him? What importance did he have? Nauremir the nobleman was "dead" and he was now Helmir, the painter's apprentice. What did he know of painting anyway? He shook his aching head.

"I need time to think on all this," he groaned. He took another gulp of wine. It was best to be intoxicated at a time like this, he thought wryly. That was often the state of Hurgon Fernik, and if it worked well for his "employer," then it was good enough for him.


Chapter 8 - Robbing a Nazgul is not a Good Idea

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Shedun Pass on the road to Angmar, at the northern border of Rhudaur, evening of November 2.
Written by Gordis
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Agannalo's journey North was proving dull and uneventful. Once past the populated lands around Penmorva, he hardly saw anyone. The houses he passed stood empty and abandoned; often nothing remained but the burned-down remnants. The previous day he passed through what had once been a thriving town, but now was a pile of ruins. Orc work, obviously - he even caught the remaining stench of the brutes hanging in the stale air. 

The search of the gardens in the burned town left him with some half-frozen apples - he collected as many as he could find, but that was hardly enough to keep the Gray going. "How low have I fallen!" he thought bitterly. It was fortunate that no one could see the former elegant courtier from Armenelos and the Dark Lord's High Nazgul rummaging about around the piles of dry autumn leaves in a dirty backyard. Agannalo fervently hoped that once in Angmar, he would find where to buy some more oats for his horse. The fodder supply he had in his saddlebags was running low, and soon the old Gray would be starving.

Water, at least, was abundant: Agannalo lost count of the rivers and streams he had to cross. Each time, he needed time to boost his courage to enter the running water - it was really enervating to travel through a country where people neglected to build bridges!

But on and on he went, and the rocky ridge separating Rhudaur from Angmar drew closer and closer. Soon the road started its winding climb to the Shedun Pass, meandering between outcrops of red rock. The firs on the slopes gave way to gnarled pines. 

Agannalo rode on, musing darkly on his sad fate, when he heard a faint whistle coming from ahead and above him. The whistle was so low and far away that mortal ears could have hardly caught it, but the nazgul's keen senses alerted him of the danger. He checked that his sword hilt was well within easy reach and the harp was firmly attached to the saddle, then shrugged his shoulders and continued further into the gathering evening gloom.

He was not in the least surprised when, after a sharp bend of the road, he found a freshly- hewed pine solidly blocking the path. No one seemed to be around, but the smell of unwashed human flesh all around was overwhelming. Agannalo remained head bent, immobile on his horse, listening to the rustle of needles and the stealthy footsteps of a dozen men surrounding him.

***

The band of border outlaws counted fourteen men - mostly from Hillmen stock, but there were also two Dunlendings and even one Lossoth scout. The scout returned half an hour ago reporting a lone traveler on the road - a Tark with a harp, a traveling minstrel by the looks of him. A minstrel would be poor catch, but it was better than nothing. Lately, with winter approaching, the travelers had become few, and those who still used the road mostly went in big groups and often hired mercenary soldiers in Penmorva or Shedun to take them over the dangerous Shedun Pass. After hearing the scout's report, Ulfr, the leader, gave a low whistle to alert the rest of the group and the trap was set.

The outlaws waited, their unease growing. The weak light of the northern day gave way to a misty evening. The silence was heavy, growing weightier with each passing moment, accentuated by the clip-clop of the approaching hooves. The cold felt unusually biting, and the very air seemed dark, with a sickly mist clinging tenuously to the ground. 

Finally, the prey arrived - a tall, hooded rider, swathed in a dark cloak. Overruling his sense of foreboding, Ulfr gave a signal and the hidden bandits scurried down to the blocked roadbed and surrounded the horseman. Ulfr got hold of the reins and brought the end of his gleaming broadsword to the victim's chest, wondering at the man's immobility.

"Now, Tark, let us have a look at your money bag. I hope it will prove heavy enough to satisfy us!" he growled, trying to see the other's face concealed in the depths of the dark hood. 

There was no reply, no movement. Exasperated and not a little frightened, Ulfr pressed his sword harder into the stranger's chest. Then the figure moved. The gloved hands slowly rose and laid back the hood. Ulfr gasped and staggered back a few steps, not believing his own eyes. There was only darkness and a pale gleam, as if of eyes, where the head should have been. But he hardly had time to process what he saw, as at that moment, a terrible cry rent the air - a shrill and high-pitched wail, full of evil and malice unfathomable. 

Darkness descended on bodies and minds: heavy, cold and stifling. Unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think, the outlaws crouched blindly on the ground with only one feeling left to them - abject terror. In the darkness, someone moaned; someone cried like a baby. There were other sounds - the ring of steel and the whistling of the blade as it arced through the air toward the necks of kneeling men. 

***

Fourteen heads... the features of each face forever contorted in horror. Agannalo stacked the severed heads in a small, neat pyramid on an outcrop of rock near the road. Not very impressive - after some battles, he had seen piles of heads almost reaching the sky. "Pity there were so few men..." he mused, looking at his handiwork critically. Sighing, he mounted the Gray and went on - North, always North. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Orc Camp in the Trollshaws, November 2
Written by Angmar
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"I don't like it, Pizbur Ashuk. I don't like it at all!" Durburz muttered dourly and then bit into the rabbit carcass, neatly severing one of its hind legs. For a moment, he sat looking in fascination at the bloody stump, before tearing chunks of flesh off with his teeth.

"Quit your grousing, Durburz, or you'll be missing that one good eye you have left!" The powerful orc leader glared down at the smaller orc, who was sitting amongst the other orcs on a long, felled log by the fire. 

"Sorry, Pizbur. I suppose I'm just a little over-eager. It seems we've been sitting here for centuries waiting." Durburz was terrified of Pizbur Ashuk. He had to admit, though, that the Pizbur was an outstanding officer and had led them out of many a tight spot. It wasn't for someone like Durburz to question an officer, but he was restless, eager for some action, and this waiting was getting on his nerves.

"Durburz, the hunting's good here. You can't say you've ever gone hungry since we've been camping in this location, can you?" He listened for Durburz' deferential "Yes, sir," and smiled, displaying his massive tushes of which he was so proud. "Corporal, we ain't never seen such easy duty, and when we get to the work of kidnapping the Rhudaurian princess, it is all going to be a matter of child's play!"

"Now, men, listen to me!" He turned to the whole company of orcs and captured their instant attention. "I am going to go over this whole operation again... the more you keep something in your mind, the fresher it will be."

All the men's' attention on him, Pizbur Ashuk spoke louder, so everyone could hear him:

"Now, men, as you know, there's good cover on both sides of the road. When we see the signal, we attack... We want to get this over with quickly. Broggha's dispatch rider promised that there would be some good booty in this for us if we do it right. Remember! No survivors to tell the tale! We are to take everything, even the horses! The princess' entire entourage will just 'disappear.' Any questions?"

One of the orcs stood up. "Yes, sir, I have a question. You say that Algeirr, Broggha's man, will provide a distraction for us?"

"Aye, Private. When he feels the time is ripe to attack, he will ride his horse to the side of the road and pretend that the beast has a loose shoe. While he is disrupting the column, we strike. Any more questions?"

"Only one, sir," the speaker replied. "The Princess Gimilbeth... I understand she is not to be spoiled. But what about any jewelry she has? Can we 'relieve' her of it?"

"No, you fool! Everything is to remain intact, and I do mean everything, so keep your filthy paws off the woman! She is considered to be quite a prize in the North! The King wants her just as she is!"

The other orc's face fell. "Not even a little fondling? If there's no bruising or cutting, how is anyone to know?"

"You idiot! Are you deaf? I said not to touch!" Moving quickly to the other orc, he grabbed him around the waist, squeezing him close in a fierce grasp. "Do you like hugging and kissing?" his raspy voice hissed in the other's face. "Want a little lovin'? I'll give you a little 'hug!'"

"No, Pizbur, no! You're breaking my ribs!" the other orc screamed as Ashuk's massive arms tightened, threatening to crush the breath out of him. "Just a little lovin', private," Ashuk laughed as he felt a rib in the other's chest give. Lifting him up over his head, Ashuk threw the subordinate across the campfire. The other orc came crashing down, nearly missing two warriors sitting near the fire.

Not even breathing hard, the massive orc stood back and challenged any other complainers, but there were none. "Let that be a lesson to you other leeches! I demand obedience, and death to any who don't give it!"

Durburz, thankful that he wasn't the brunt of Ashuk's fury, stood up. "Sir, I have a question."

"What is it?" Ashuk turned to him, a scowl on his face.

"The officers? What about them? Are we allowed any sport? What about the corpse in the coffin?" 

"We will take the most important officers for questioning on the trail. This Nauremir fellow? We can eat him. His body is unimportant."

"Sir, what if his body was pickled like the tarks like to do? I ain't ever eaten a corpse filled with pickling fluid," a grinning Durburz commented.

"Jarl Broggha thinks Princess Gimilbeth tried to play a little joke on us and that the man is still alive. But if he is really dead and has been pickled, just think of the pickling fluid as extra flavoring," Pizbur Ashuk guffawed.


Chapter 9 - The Traitor’s Mistake

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On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 2, 1347 
Written by Rian, Gordis and Valandil
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Callon shifted his weight around on the hard bench, irritated with the world, and with Gimilbeth in particular. "Why she picked me to drive this old wagon, I'll never know!" he thought moodily, looking at the riders with envy. He was a very competent driver - he was good at anything to do with horses - but he much preferred riding. "I guess those people just have their whims," he concluded with a shrug. 

He took a look at Hurgon out of the corner of his eye. Callon's few ventures at polite conversation with the painter and his apprentice had been met with vague, short answers, and an evident desire to not speak with him. "It's going to be a long week!" thought Callon, shifting around impatiently on the hard seat.

At least yesterday, after the mad painter had thrown a few brushes around and then left in frustration to go sit in the other wagon (Callon looked ruefully at the bright blotch of vermillion decorating the edge of the seat, thankful that it had missed his tunic) one of the soldiers had ridden by him for awhile, making polite overtures of friendship to the new arrival. The polite conversation turned into a discussion enjoyed by both of them as they discovered many interests in common. But now, with the painter and his apprentice (the guy sure did look ill! And frightened as a rabbit!) staying in his wagon, his new-found-friend stayed away.

"It looks like there's some decent-enough fellows here," mused Callon, playing with the sturdy leather reins and enjoying the feel of the horses that flowed through them up to his hands. "I'll be glad to get back, though."

He sat up straighter, stretching his back, and then settled down again to the mesmerizing sound of hooves on a road on a warm morning. The only thing that had really bothered him on this trip, besides the snoring last night, was the one finely-dressed Hillman in the group that he caught a glimpse of at dusk yesterday - something about the guy had reminded him of the robber on the road. "Good thing Eryndil fixed HIS wagon!" thought Callon with grim satisfaction, fingering the mark on his throat.

***

Algeirr rode at the back of the party at his humble place among the servants. The first day he felt quite intimidated - after all, he was a single Hillmen in this party of Dunedain. At the beginning, the servants were eyeing him suspiciously, despite Captain Merendil's assurance of his loyalty. But by the morning of the second day the others lost their interest and Algeirr was able to breathe freely.

This last month, Fortune had smiled at him. He was neither deserter nor mercenary anymore. Now Algeirr was dressed in fine dark-brown velvet clothes - the legacy of Gudhrun's late husband - and looked a wealthy, respectable Tanoth Brin citizen. He led a pack horse with his belongings and presents that Gudrun was sending to her relatives in Fennas Drunin. He was not going to deliver them, of course, but this little addition to his plunder left him indifferent. His main treasure - the wondrous emerald necklace - was concealed in an inner pocket of his tunic. He fingered the treasure through the soft fabric and felt his heart warming at the touch of the large stones.

There were other things he had to do than making plans for the future. Broggha sent him to spy, and, as long as it was safe, Algeirr was going to do the job. The problem was that from his place in the procession he had only occasional glimpses of the third wagon - that with the coffin. There was no way of telling whether Nauremir was alive or dead. Algeirr supposed the former. Last night the coffin had been brought inside, out of the cold, so it stood to reason that the wretch was still inside - alive. A shiver ran down Algeiir's spine at the thought. Ugh... This witch was a cold-blooded, reckless enemy.

"Perhaps she got him out last night?" mused Algeirr. He had to spent the night at a campfire outside - the crowded inn had no place for such as he. In the morning he watched the knights coming out, but it was still dark when the party set out - in November the nights were long and the days short. Also Algeirr had only seen Nauremir twice - at the memorable party and later during the funeral. He was not sure he would be able to recognize him now, especially if disguised.

As soon as Broggha ordered him to watch the coffin, Algeirr tried to become appointed driver of one of the wagons - preferably that with the body. He coaxed Gudhrun into going to the King's stables and trying to arrange the thing with her buddies there. But even Gudhrun's fabled influence failed. It was Gimilbeth herself who appointed all the drivers -a highly unusual thing for a princess to do. And what choices she had made! The stables were abuzz with angry gossip. Old Damgir, a half-deaf oaf long overdue for retirement, was chosen to drive the coffin wagon. For another wagon, that of Hurgon the painter, Gimilbeth appointed an untrained young man - new to Cameth Brin, who had hardly worked a week in the stables! And to top it all, the witch decided that her own wagon should be driven by one of her pages! Considering that the stable staff had quite a few experienced, loyal wagon drivers, such orders were baffling.

"Surely the witch is trying to cover her tracks..." thought Algeirr. He decided it was time to approach the wagons and have a better look. Casually, he looked around and urged his horse forward. He made his way up the column slowly and cautiously, slowing now and then to have an amiable conversation with nearby troopers. Men were guarded with him, he noticed, but nobody hindered his progress. In half an hour he reached the wagon with the coffin.

"Hail, Master Damgir," he called out to the driver. "A fine day, isn't it?"

"Eh?" replied the driver gruffly. "What did you say? And who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Algeirr. I don't think you know me, but you must know my Gudhrun, the one who keeps "The Sword of Elendil." We are going to marry when I come back from this trip. She sends you her greetings and this bottle of wine." 

Algeirr fished a bottle of Dorwinion red from his saddlebag and offered it to the driver. The sight of the bottle and the mention of Gudhrun made the old man relax and beam back. 

"What a pleasant surprise! How thoughtful of Gudhrun to send this bottle - and today of all days.... This awful stench from the coffin makes my throat dry as road dust. Come down man, tie your horses to my wagon and sit by me. We shall drink this bottle together."

Algeirr did as he was bidden. He was no accomplished horseman and the previous day in the saddle made his thighs ache. He climbed to the wooden bench and stretched out his legs. Damgir meanwhile fetched two bronze goblets and poured the wine. 

"To Mistress Gudhrun and to the happy journey!" he toasted. Algeirr nodded and drank deeply. The wine was good - rich, and with fruity flavor. There was some other smell in the air as well, though, the stench of rot; slight, but unmistakable. The driver was right - the coffin stank.

"Hmm..." Algeirr mused aloud, sniffing the air. "Strange that the corpse stinks - wasn't it embalmed as the Dunedain custom demands?"

"Sure it was," grinned the driver morbidly. "Seems old Sarador lost his touch. But then the body is not supposed to be brought inside to rest near the fire at night, is it? Yestereve it didn't stink at all, but after this foolishness it became as putrid as the bowels of Barad-Dur."

So either Nauremir was really dead or Gimilbeth got him out last night, thought Algeirr. Then, where was he now? He was determined to find out. As soon as the bottle was empty, Algeirr took his leave of old Damgir, mounted his horse again and rode forward to the next wagon.

When level with the driver, he offered his usual greeting. "Hail, Master! Isn't it a fine day?" 

The tall young man who was driving the second wagon turned to look at him. Algeirr saw the man's face becoming suddenly ashen. The familiar face of one of his recent victims...

As if in a nightmare, Algeirr watched the gray eyes staring at him widen in recognition. Now he was truly lost...

***

Callon turned his head towards the man who was hailing him, grateful for some friendly and coherent conversation (not much was to be hoped for from the painter or his assistant, apparently!) and then froze in disbelief. The blood drained from his face as he stared at the man who had led the attack against his sister and himself on the road. But - but - this was the Hillman merchant ... No! It was the man! It had to be - he couldn't be mistaken! That face was burned into his memory, and apparently this was just another deception the despicable scoundrel was playing...

Callon made a swift grab for the reins, but the momentary confusion he had experienced over the man's identity gave Algeirr the time he needed to evade Callon's grasp. He spurred his horse away from the wagon as Callon yelled out, half-standing in the wagon and pointing vehemently towards Algeirr, "Stop him! STOP him!! He's a thief and a murderer!"

In a panic, Algeirr galloped along the road toward the head of the column. This way he had to face fewer men, as in front of the wagons were only Gimilbeth, Merendil and the knights of their entourage. But the cries of the Tark had alerted those in front, so when Algeirr passed the first wagon he was confronted by a chain of mounted knights with drawn swords. The road was barred...

He turned his horse around in desperation, but the soldiers from behind the wagons were almost upon him as well. There was the only escape left - into the woods away from the road. The dark fir trees on both sides stood dense and ominous, leaving no clear path. Algeirr rolled from his saddle and dived into the forest in a shower of needles, tearing his way through the heavy branches. He was followed by curses and cries and the sound of snapping twigs and branches. He had hardly made a dozen steps when someone grabbed him from behind. Algeirr kicked, but a heavy weight descended on his shoulders, pulling him down. A strong hand got hold of his hair and shoved his face hard into the forest floor. A heavy boot connected with his ribs and he ceased to struggle.

"Lead him here!" came Captain Merendil's order from the road. In a moment Algeirr found himself on his belly disturbingly close to the front hooves of the Captain's war stallion.

He raised his scratched, bleeding face and asked artfully, feigning indignation, "Why were you hunting me? I did no wrong! I only came up for a chat when this wagon driver attacked me. He must be raving mad... I only tried to save my life!"

Captain Merendil's left eyebrow rose expressively. The men who knew him grinned. "Then why did you run from my men, who would have defended you from this "mad" wagon driver?" he asked with a tinge of irony in his voice, dismounting to get a better look at the man. "Stop!" he commanded as Algeirr started to answer. "We will have everyone here who is involved in this before we talk further. Let him up, but keep a good hold on him so he won't be tempted to seek the 'safety' of the wilderness again," he added to the soldier holding Algeirr down.

Algeirr got up and started dusting himself off with the air of someone who has been greatly wronged but will be reasonable about it. He took a quick look at the Captain and was dismayed at the look he got back - Algeirr was used to fights where his side held all the advantages, and he didn't like his odds here at all ... 

A look from Captain Merendil stopped Callon, who came running up, wanting nothing more but to get at Algeirr in a fair fight. With a great effort, Callon stopped, breathing hard, and bowed his head in a gesture of respect and obedience, contenting himself with catching his breath instead of his enemy, since he could see that Algeirr was now securely guarded by the soldiers. The time would come - he could be patient ... He looked at Algeirr with anger and contempt, and his hands balled into fists. 

A young guardsman, a nephew of Captain Merendil, came running up to Callon and put his hand on his shoulder in a gesture of support. Callon looked at him gratefully and then turned back to stare at Algeirr with hate in his eyes.

Captain Merendil's other eyebrow rose. This was a curious situation ... his instinct was to believe the young Dunedain over the Hillman, but he must force himself to be fair. And his first duty was to the Princess. He remounted his stallion and called to his men, "Guard these two well - I will ride to the Princess and inform her of the situation, and see what she wishes to do."

Algeirr waited breathlessly for the Princess to appear. What a fool he had been to panic and to bolt like this... But, even so, it was his word against the Tark's. That is, if only they wouldn't search him.... The emerald necklace concealed in his breast pocket seemed to burn his skin. The thought of losing it was as unbearable as the thought of his own death.

Here she was at last: the dreaded Witch, looking lordly indeed. Gimilbeth was seated on a high lady's side-saddle, her magnificent fur mantle spread all over the stallion's flanks and back and hanging half-way down to the ground. She narrowed her piercing eyes at Algeirr as if he were a rare species of a particularly disgusting insect. Then the ruby lips curled in a cruel smile.

"Ahh... so you have caught a spy. Hang him and let us ride on."

Algeirr gasped, not believing his ears. There was an uneasy silence. Captain Merendil frowned in annoyance and protested. 

"With all due respect, my Lady, we can't do that. He may be a Hillman, but he still has the right to a fair trial. Let the driver state his accusations and let this man defend himself."

Gimilbeth shrugged her shoulders and replied icily, "We are wasting our time, Captain."

But Merendil was a stubborn man, veteran of many wars, gruff but just. Pointedly ignoring the Princess, he gestured to the young wagon driver and asked in his harsh, booming voice. 

"Speak up, man... uhm, Callon, isn't it? Do you know this Hillman named Algeirr? Why do you call him a thief and a murderer? What proof do you have?"

Callon took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He realized it was his word against the Hillman's, and if he wasn't careful, the man might escape justice again. Callon was a young man, but one who was used to dealing with large, unruly animals - he knew how to keep his head. He tore his eyes off of the Hillman and spoke to the Captain, lifting his head up proudly and speaking in a clear, firm voice.

"I call him 'thief' because he stole from me. I call him 'murderer' because I heard his plans to kill me and my ... wife." Callon couldn't help the slight pause before the word "wife" - it was so unnatural to say that! - but hoped it went by unnoticed. He put it behind himself and continued. "And I heard him speak with the other brigands about killing and stealing from other unfortunate travellers." He then gave a brief account of what had happened to them on the road.

Callon noticed that the sentiment of the men seemed to be on his side and was encouraged. Algeirr noticed it too, and grew more alarmed. Men were murmuring quietly and giving each other "I told you so! That's a Hillman!" looks. Captain Merendil noticed it, too.

"Quiet!" he snapped angrily, and the men grew silent again. Turning to Callon, he asked, "Is that all? Your word against his?" 

"I can describe the knife that he used to do this to me," said Callon, and pointed to the still-healing scar on his neck.

Captain Merendil's left eyebrow rose as Callon turned to face Algeirr. He spoke softly and with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"And my 'proof' is back in Cameth Brin - Eryndil, the king's man that rescued us from this ... this coward, is there now, asked by the King himself to be his personal counselor."

Suddenly Callon could stand it no more. He turned back to Captain Merendil. "Please, sir, please - just let me fight him in a fair fight! He doesn't know what fair is - he attacked us, unprovoked, seven to two - and one of the two a girl!"

He whipped back around to face Algeirr. "Have you moved up to attacking grandmothers yet, you coward, or are they too much for you?" he taunted. "Maybe you could handle a grandmother if it was ten to one, and you had a knife and she didn't!" Algeirr was furious, but his life depended on keeping his temper. 

"Captain, what is this ..." he started, but Callon cut him off. "Fight me here and now, you coward!" Callon yelled at the man he hated. "I don't have any girls with me to protect now. Can you handle a fair fight?" he taunted, aching to get his hands on the man that had hurt his sister. He made a movement towards Algeirr, but was firmly held back by Captain Merendil's nephew. 

"Be quiet, young man!" the Captain said sternly. "You are not helping your cause!" But he knew that this was not true - attacking women was something that the soldiers despised, and they respected Callon for wanting revenge for his wife's sake.

"I'm sorry, sir, but if your wife had been abused as mine was, you would want to do the same thing!" said Callon, forcing himself to calm down again.

Captain Merendil gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and then turned to Algeirr.

"And what do you have to say for yourself? We are listening," he said, forcing himself to put aside his feelings, which lay entirely with the young wagon-driver.

Algeirr willed his hands and his voice not to shake and replied, trying to sound persuasive.

"I see now that this young man is not mad as I have thought, but was greatly wronged indeed. I understand his hurt feelings. But I have nothing to do with this crime. I am no brigand, but a honest merchant. I have settled in Tanoth Brin recently, but I came from the East, from Dol Aglardin, not from the North. Gudhrun, the keeper of "The Sword of Elendil," knows me well and can vouch for me. I am not responsible for the deeds of some murderer who may look remotely like me. Be reasonable - this man is mistaken."

Callon started to protest, but Captain Merendil stopped him. "It looks like we shall have to bind this man Algeirr and take him back to Cameth Brin with us - for regular trial. We shall have Eryndil's testimony decide the matter." He nodded to Callon "When we return, you shall testify again in front of the King's judges."

Gimilbeth, who was getting progressively bored and impatient to go on, was not at all satisfied with the Captain's ruling. The Hillman spy - he should not be left alive! Who knows how much he had already gleaned about Nauremir's business?! And then the driver, Callon, the only one who had never met Nauremir before - she needed him on the journey East and was not going to let him return to Cameth Brin with the soldiers. She glared at Merendil.

"I see you tend to believe this liar, Captain," she hissed. Then she continued, her clear voice carrying on to the whole company "Let me make a small prophesy - once back in Cameth Brin, Broggha will connive to let his man go free, brigand and murderer as he is - just like his Chieftain. Now is the last opportunity for a fair trial. I suggest asking the driver to describe the knife the other used to wound him and then search the thief to find it."

Algeirr visibly paled and felt cold sweat trickle down his spine. It was not his knife he was worried about. He had lost the knife the very day he cut Callon's throat with it - he was never able to find the small weapon when Eryndil's men scattered his gear in the forest. But there was something far more damning to be found in his pockets than the knife.... 

"Sooo.." Gimilbeth drawled, "What did this knife look like, driver?"

Callon balled his fists, willing himself to stay calm. He thought back to that awful day less than a month ago, and saw again the knife in the brigand's hand moving in to cut slowly across his own neck, the same knife later marring the soft white skin of Caelen... He gulped and replied. "The dagger is of rather poor workmanship, double-edged, about a foot long. It has an ornate wooden handle, the pommel is shaped in the likeness of a snarling wolf's head - the fangs stained red by some dye." 

"Search the brigand," ordered Gimilbeth. The ring of steel in her voice was now unmistakable. Her eyes were on Merendil, a clear message in their icy depths: "Don't you dare hinder me!" 

Without awaiting Merendil's confirmation, several soldiers rushed to Algeirr. Desperate now, he started fighting back, but was soon subdued, his face once again pushed into the dirt. Judging by the Hillman's reaction, everyone fully expected to find the dagger straight away, but the knife Algeirr carried had a simple metal handle, and was shorter than the one described.

Gimilbeth frowned. "Search him further!" The small pile of Algeirr's possessions on the ground was growing, but nothing interesting appeared. "Let me go - I have nothing more!" came Algeirr's muffled plea. Merendil raised his hand to give further orders, when one of the soldiers kneeling by Algeirr suddenly exclaimed, "Sweet Eru!" There in his outstretched hand a pile of green stones set in gold glittered, light reflecting in millions of facets.

Gimilbeth spurred her horse forward, nearly trampling the prostrate Algeirr. "Give that to me, now!" she hissed. Snatching the necklace from the soldier she raised it high for everyone to see. 

"Behold Elessya the Green!" she exclaimed, "the very necklace that my ancestor Numendil, Lord of Andunie, received as a gift from the Elven King Gil-Galad - ages ago when Numenor still ruled the world. What is the most precious heirloom of the House of Dauremir doing in the dirty Hillman's pocket?" The men around watched, gaping in awe.

Eyes flashing, Gimilbeth rose in her stirrups. "This man is a thief!" she cried, pointing at Algeirr. "Hang him!"

Merendil shrugged his shoulders, defeated. "I guess the evidence is sufficient now..." he muttered. He gave short orders to the soldiers. 

"Accursed witch! You will end your life swinging on a branch as well!" Aldgeirr growled, shaking his fist at Gimilbeth. 

"I doubt it," she replied sweetly, unperturbed, for she knew his words were empty.

Soon the company moved on, leaving the still-convulsing body hanged by the neck from a branch of a giant pine by the road.


Chapter 10 - The Lovesick Orc

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Ridge above the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 2, 1347
Written by Angmar
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"Private Saakaf, what's going on down there now?" Corporal Durburz whispered. The two orc spies had been observing the scene down below for some time. Protected from both the sun and scrutiny by the dense covering of fir trees, their observation spot was on a rocky ledge high above the road. The rest of the company was lying in wait farther down the road.

"Quite a disruption, Corporal, and I don't know what to make of it. Anytime the enemy wales the bloomin' daylights out of their own kind, is a good day for us," Saakaf chortled as he turned to Corporal Durburz, the obvious glee and sadistic pleasure heavy in his voice. "Maybe they'll kill him. What do you think?" He was almost panting in his excitement.

"Don't count on it, Saakaf," Durburz growled. "That Tark who fled from the Princess' main party is probably a thief. Though they might rough him up a bit, I doubt they'll kill him, if they can help it. You know what fools Tarks are."

"Getting more interesting, Corporal. A soldier has just smashed the runaway's face into the ground, and is now bootin' him in the ribs. This is rich!" Saakaf gurgled excitedly and then moved closer to the edge of the cliff. He was silent for some minutes. "Aww, looks like the scuffle's over, Corporal," he groaned in disappointment. 

"Saakaf, have you guzzled up all the draught? If you have, I'll break in your skull, you mangy little scum!" Durburz snarled, angry that there would probably be no fighting that day.

"No, sir!" Saakaf felt a prickle of fear move like ice down his spine, but he forced himself not to show his apprehension. "Here it is! I have hardly drunk any at all! Saving it for you, sir!" His lips drawing back from his fangs in a hideous grin, Saakaf handed the flask to his superior.

"Good, you little snot!" Durburz guzzled down the drink, some of the liquid running down the corners of his mouth and dripping on his leather armor. "What is happening now?"

"The Princess just rode up. Ooo! Ain't she a pretty sight to see in all her finery! Her all royal and everything, riding on her side saddle, a splendid mantle trailin' down her horse's flanks and back and almost dragging the ground. OO, indeed! She is a beauty!" His voice was low, rank with lust. "When we kidnap her and deliver her to His Majesty, they'll be golden coins jingling in our pockets!"

"Saakaf, I don't know you manage to do it, but you get more stupid every day! Don't you know? We ain't going to be the ones to present her! It'll be the Hillmen chieftain who gets all the credit, while we do the dirty work! That's the way it's always been, the way it always will be! When will you ever learn?"

"Sorry, sir," Saakaf mumbled. "You can't blame me for thinkin', can you?"

"That's your problem, you don't think, Saakaf! Your mind is full of smut and nothing else! What are they doing now, you lout?" Durburz tossed down another hefty swallow of draught.

"I'm thinkin' the lady's wantin' to kill him, but her captain is not taking to the idea too well," Saakaf replied moodily. "What a rare plaything she would make," he thought, cursing his luck that the princess was so far above him and unobtainable. "She's a strong-willed creature who wouldn't quail a bit at the sight of blood! She should have been born an orc!"

Corporal Duburz glanced at the sunlight filtering through the fir branches above them. "Curse this sun! At least we have good cover here, but still that light hurts my eyes! Daytime work is not for me! What are they doing now?"

"Corporal, it ain't like we're going to turn into stone when the sun hits us!" Saakaf said, trying to lessen the tension between the two of them.

"Shut up! Your humor is not appreciated. Maybe you don't really need your tongue! While you still have it in your mouth, just tell me what's going on," Corporal Durburz growled. The orc draught was not doing much to sweeten his mood, no matter how much he drank, but it wouldn't do any harm to drink some more, he thought.

"Well, the captain has talked her out of killing him, that's for sure. Now one of the wagon drivers is havin' his say."

"I'm going to take a look for myself." Durburz slid closer to the edge of the cliff and peered down to the road below. 

"What do you make of it, Corporal?" Saakaf ventured cautiously.

"It's a botched job, and I have a feeling that Broggha's man blundered someway and got himself caught!"

"What do you mean? What about the signal?" Saakaf asked, puzzled.

"You fool! Can't you get anything through your thick skull? I don't think there is going to be any signal! Besides that, there are far too many soldiers for our number to go against. Saakaf, here's what I want you to do. Report back to Captain Ashuk and tell him that if I'm not mistaken, Broggha's agent has been captured, and we need new orders. After you have reported, join up with me south along the ridge, where I will be keeping the Princess' party under observation."

***

After Private Saakaf had lumbered off along the top of the ridge, Durburz lay flat on the edge of the cliff and observed the road below him. In the past few minutes, the scene had become infinitely more interesting. His eyes lit up with a gleaming malice as the prisoner was escorted to the hanging tree. With each step Algierr took, the orc breathed harder. Durburz could scarcely bear the anticipation. His muscles were tense and straining with the urge to make his own kill. He dug his clawed fingernails into the shallow soil. When the noose was placed around the prisoner's neck, Durburz was panting in long, ragged gasps. The body dropped! When Algierr's neck hit the end of the rope, low snarls and growls erupted out of the orc's throat.

"Saakaf will hate himself when he finds out that he missed out on all of the sport," he chuckled to himself. Mind still transfixed, he watched the twitching corpse swing slowly from the tree branch. "Fresh meat," he licked his lips. That night when things settled down, Corporal Durburz would creep to the floor of the valley, cut the corpse free and make off with it. He would have his fill and then hide the body beneath a rock cairn. He could always get the remainder later, and none of the rest of the company needed to know. Only a fool shared when he didn't have to do so. It had been a good day, but the night showed promise of being even better.

***

Private Saakaf was more than a little apprehensive as he trotted along the ridge to the rendezvous with the rest of the company. He felt fear biting like a snake, bitter and harsh deep in his guts. Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong, and he was not quite certain how he could explain it all to Captain Ashuk.

"Ashuk won't like this," he grumbled as he arrived at the edge of a grove of young firs. A fire had destroyed the old growth a few years back, and now the new trees were thick and bushy. Pushing his way through the last of the branches, he walked out into a small clearing. The ridge narrowed into a bony spine here, the ground on both sides falling away into steep ravines, jumbled boulders and dense groves.

Smelling the air, he stopped by a large spruce whose top had been blasted out by lightning during some storm in the past. The night wind blowing from the northwest put him downwind from the company. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils wrinkling at the reek of filthy bodies blending with the aroma of wood smoke, earth and trees. He could even recognize the individual smells of a number of the men in the company. He knew the scent of Captain Ashuk all too well. 

"I doubt any of us have had a bath since we were born... or even then," he chuckled. "Those tarks and even hillmen keep washing up - makes 'em hard to tell apart without their smell." He would not spend much time in reflection about that, though, for he was rapidly approaching the picket post. Even though he and the picket were in the same clan, of the same blood, and had known each other almost since they were whelps, still he had to stand at attention and give the password. Ashuk wouldn't stand for sloppy discipline. With a grunt and a nod, the orderly waved him ahead. 

"Saakaf," the captain recognized his salute with a nod, "what news?"

"Sir, I don't know what to make of it..."

"Don't try to make anything of it! Just tell me what happened!"

"Sir," Saakaf stood so stiffly at attention that it looked like his spine had turned into an iron rod, "first of all sir, Princess Gimilbeth's escort is far too large for this company of only two hundred to attack with any hope of success."

"Rotten news! Anything else?" Captain Ashuk growled.

"Corporal Durburz bids me tell you that it is his opinion that the spy who was to give the signal for our attack is no more." Cringing, Saakaf watched the captain's eyes narrow, his jaw set as his face began to build to that thundercloud of anger which could erupt into a killing fury.

"Saakaf, what are you talking about!" the captain snarled.

"Sir, it's like this... Durburz saw a man take off running, but the soldiers soon caught up with him and brought him back to the main party. There was quite a bit of arguing back and forth about what to do with him. Princess Gimilbeth demanded that he be executed, but her captain of the guard was urging her to go easy on him. All that changed when he was searched and one of the soldiers found some sort of jewels - a necklace or something upon him. From all the excitement about the discovery, the jewelry must be worth a king's ransom!"

"Hmmmm..." Captain Ashuk listened intently as he reached a hand into the neck of his tunic and scratched his fleas. "Things are getting sweeter all the time. A necklace, you say, and very valuable? The North might be happy about this. Maybe it's some rare treasure from that sunken island where everyone says His Majesty was born!"

"Captain Ashuk, you really think that's true? He is THAT old?" Saakaf's beady eyes had popped open wide and he gaped at his superior officer. 

"Saakaf, you simpleton! How would I know? A mere captain of a company of orcs is not taken into His Majesty's confidences! Don't ever ask me such a stupid question like that again." Captain Ashuk's beefy hand darted out and slapped Saakaf's helmet so hard that the orc was knocked to one side.

His ears still ringing, Saakaf gulped and righted himself. "No, no, sir, no sir, never again! Accept my apologies!" 

"Saakaf, you are never going to rise above the rank of private. You will spend the rest of your wretched days cleaning stinking latrines! Appropriate, don't you think, for an idiot like you?" Captain Ashuk leered at him.

"Oh, yes, sir, oh yes! Very appropriate, sir!" Private Sakaaf resisted the urge to clutch his head and groan. His skull felt as though it was going to explode at any moment. He tried to think of something more pleasant to drive the pain from his head. Fresh manflesh, well-beaten to make the blood rise close to the surface, red and sumptuous... A female orc as lusty as he was. Rich booty, gold and silver... Tark halls and keeps belching up with flames and black smoke, then burning to ash... Nothing was working. His head was still throbbing as though someone were pounding him over the head. His old comforts didn't seem to help tonight. Then he put his mind to thinking about the most beautiful and wondrous thing he had ever seen in all his life.

The image of Princess Gimilbeth flashed through his mind. She was riding her magnificent horse with the caparisons streaming out behind it like banners floating off a standard. "She is magic," he thought as he felt his heart skip a beat. Her proud voice commanding her men, her face haughty and beautiful, her dark hair like the wing of a raven... He smiled in spite of the pain. "I must be in love," he thought, "in love for the first time in ever all my life! How can I endure this agony until I see her again!"

Captain Ashuk's bellow brought him back from his dazed reverie. "What else do you have to report? What happened to the man?"

"The princess ordered him hanged, and the last time I saw him, his corpse was swinging from a branch."

"This changes everything," the captain spat out through clenched teeth. "The company just has to follow the princess' entourage until we see a good opening. Then we hit them!" He rubbed his warty chin and laughed maliciously.

"I can follow her forever," Saakaf thought dreamily, "to the ends of the earth!"


Chapter 11 - Brochenridge

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Nearing Brochenridge from the North. November 3, 1347
Written by Gordis and Valandil
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The next day of the journey proved uneventful. After a miserable night spent in an old, draughty watchtower, the travelers completed their crossing of the dangerous Trollshaws. Thankfully, not a single troll was sighted, and few other creatures as well, if any. Captain Merendil seemed uneasy because of the absence of game and the silence of birds and kept his soldiers on the alert. The road constantly climbed up and down the steep ridges running across their way. The journey was tiring for the horses, and the wagons needed a great deal of help to be able to negotiate the steep climbs.

Gimilbeth rode at the head of the procession, flanked now by her two devoted knights, Elvegil and Gwindor, the latter only recently recovered from his wounds (an elegant way to describe the bruises from the vulgar beating he received at the hands of some Hillmen at the memorable feast). Elvegil was most entertaining, however, telling funny stories about common acquaintances back in Cameth Brin. Captain Merendil kept a morose distance: he was still sulking after yesterday's confrontation and avoided Gimilbeth.

"Well, enough of this silliness!" Gimilbeth said, still laughing. She smiled and waved her knights away. The story about Curugil was quite funny, but it was undignified and far beneath her to shake from laughter while riding in state at the head of a hundred fighting men. The knights bowed and fell back.

Gimilbeth opened an embroidered pouch on her belt and took out the emerald necklace. She frowned, remembering the day when Tarnendur, beaming like a fool, presented this last heirloom of the drowned Numenor to his dearest Tarniel - for her tenth birthday no less... Such stupidity... A wave of frustration washed over Gimilbeth again. Why give such a thing to the silly pup when he had an elder daughter? Elessya should have been Gimilbeth's by right! Tarniel was evidently still too small to appreciate it - how could she have lent the priceless treasure to Odaragariel, as if it were no more than a kerchief! And then Oddie lost it - and neither the King nor Gimilbeth were told about it.

What to do with it now? Ask Merendil to take it back to Tarniel? or to Tarnendur? The King would be angry, sure, but then he would simply return the necklace to Tarniel, maybe with some mild reproaches. Nothing to gain here.

What if she sent the treasure to Odaragariel directly? The princess would be grateful; perhaps one day Gimilbeth might ask for a service in return...

Or, better still... perhaps she could keep the necklace until her return to Cameth Brin? There was this green velvet dress in her trunk and the turquoises she wore with it were not exactly matching. Hmm...

***

Merendil sniffed the air and slowly shifted his head from side to side. But he hadn't smelled it yet today - that awful scent he had just faintly detected the day before.

"Orcs," he thought to himself. "Wonder how many and how far... or how close."

He had first noticed it about the time that whole affair came up with the man they hung. No mistake about it - after several decades of campaigning, that was ONE smell he would never forget. Didn't seem like anyone else noticed it though. Couldn't smell it - or else too intent on carrying out an execution for some lowly scoundrel. "Poor blighter," thought Merendil further - not for his hanging, but for what would likely happen to him after. Why couldn't they have just kept going and settled that affair up later?

But - it hadn't cost them their lives. Leastwise not yet - and they were awful close to Brochenridge now. Why - the very fact that the Orcs were upwind meant they were after something else.

Or else in large enough force that they didn't care.

No need to alarm Her Highness - but he had been extra sharp with his men in the 24 hours since. On his way back, he'd set to scouring the woods. Maybe bring some of the boys from Brochenridge that far back with him... He wondered if there'd be anything left of the dead man's corpse.

The King would have to know - and soon! Along with the whole Council. The borders would need better watching, and a sweep of the countryside might be in order. Oh - and winter comin' and all! Merendil shook his head and muttered to himself.

***

Merendil’s forward scout came into view around a bend up ahead, galloping back toward them. "Eru," thought the Captain, "is something after him?"

But before he could even begin to get his men ordered up into a defensive posture, the scout yelled out, "My Captain, My Lady, Brochenridge is in sight! They have opened the gate and a company of guards is riding down to meet us."

"Rookie!" said Merendil, just barely under his breath, and the man next to him chuckled just a little bit louder.

He motioned for the scout to fall in at the rear, and the party continued on their path. This particular path had settled into one of the deep valleys running more or less northeast to southwest. They were making about due south now, but the bend to the right up ahead, which the scout had just come around, would get them right in line with the ridges above and the valley below.

He had been to all the sights of this land, and seen them many times, but this was one he always liked watching for.

Slowly they rounded the bend, crossing a small bridge over a brook down below them, and the fortress came at last into view on their left side. High on the south range it was - where there was a gap, or break in the ridge. Nestled into that gap was the bulwark of Brochenridge. Once home to the Kings of Rhudaur - but now a noble mansion and a way-station - but a formidable one at that. To cross the mountains to the south, you had to go through Brochenridge - and none had been able to go through it by force.

Their own errand led them on westward though, so if they entered Brochenridge from the north, they would also leave it from the north the next day - following their road toward the Last Bridge.

The oncoming riders were almost to them now - they had come through the small town that lay at the fortress's feet, right in the path of the Valley Road. There was an inn there that was his usual stopping-over place. But tonight - it would be a special treat to stay up in the fortress!

He looked around himself once more. "Safer too," his thought continued - then looking around at his men and those in his charge, "for all of us."

***

Gimilbeth’s eyes widened when the approaching riders came close enough for their faces to be seen. Old Ormendur, Lord of Brochenridge, coming out to meet them himself! Not that surprising, though, considering that they were bringing along the coffin of his eldest grandson… And with him were his son Laengrim, father of Nauremir, tears glistening on his gaunt, pale cheeks, and even Nauremir’s mother, still young and obviously grief-stricken.

The last thing Gimilbeth had time to do before greeting the riders was to send her page Edelbar to reiterate her orders to the painter. Hurgon was to watch over Helmir and not let him out of the wagon.

The Brochenridge riders drew rein and the customary greetings were exchanged. Gimilbeth’s words of condolence to Nauremir’s family were compassionate and touching – she had had time enough to prepare her speech and delivered it really well. By the end of it, most of the listeners were crying and Nauremir’s mother had broken down in tears, wailing and sobbing, her face red-eyed and blotchy. Gimilbeth thought that if she ever needed to cry, she would do so in a more decorous and less face-damaging fashion.

Lord Ormendur, however, remained thoughtful and grim and replied rather stiffly, thanking Gimilbeth and inviting her into the Castle. Once past the drawbridge, he gave orders to bring the coffin to the family crypt and the procession moved there directly.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Near Brochenridge, afternoon of November 3, 1347.
Written by Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hurgon dipped his brush half-heartedly into the paint and experimentally dabbed at the canvas. It was no good - he felt too distracted to paint. It wasn't simply the motion of the cart - it was that he was fast becoming convinced that he was traveling with two very disturbed men.

The first few hours after his release, Helmir had talked incessantly, trying to make sense of what was going on and asking numerous questions, so that Hurgon had to remind him several times to lower his voice in case they were overheard. He seemed to be pretty sick, too, feeling hungry and sleepy all at once and sometimes feverish. The closer they got to Brochenridge, though, the healthier Helmir seemed to feel - and that was acting as a powerful restorer of hope. He was nearing his home and his family, and he could not but help think that there must be some more conventional method for paying back his debt to Gimilbeth than by being a painter's apprentice. The fact that Hurgon was a completely innocent bystander in this scheme did not cross his mind; as Hurgon was the visible symbol of Gimilbeth's power over him, perhaps it was not altogether surprising that some of his resentment rubbed off onto Hurgon. He did not rave at him, or threaten him, for he knew better than to draw attention to himself. He just sat there for hours with a mocking smile at Tarniel's potrait, occasionally making a sarcastic remark.

The cart-driver was a different kind of madman. For a long time, Hurgon was certain he was a sane person altogether, though very quiet (but then, it took all sorts), until he suddenly jumped up and ran after a man, shouting and gesticulating. In the end, the man was hanged, though Hurgon was still not sure why, and Callon came back to their cart, still quiet, but with an oddly satisfied look on his face. The kind of look that is enough to send a chill down a man's spine... All in all, an uneasy, tense journey that was making it even harder for him to render true Tarniel's innocent beauty.

Of course, Gimilbeth had her share in handing him yet another worry. She had sent him a note saying, "On no account are you to let Helmir out of your sight when we reach Brochenridge." Short and bitter.

And now the walls of the fortress loomed before them, and Helmir looked stronger than ever, and Callon was hardly the man Hurgon would confide in to help him with this. If Helmir made a run for it, what then?

“Helmir?” Hurgon asked tentatively.

He didn’t respond. Lately he had taken to ignoring the name Helmir. Sighing Hurgon tried, “My lord Nauremir?”

“Yes, Hurgon?”

“I know you may like to see your home town and everything, umm, but the fact of the matter is …”

“… that the witch you work for has forbidden it, yes?” He looked at Hurgon and smiled almost mockingly.

“She asked me to keep an eye on you. And I don’t work for her, I work for the King, but if his daughter happens to need my help ...” Hurgon floundered, trying to defend himself.

“I don’t hold it against you. Whatever you are doing to ruin my life, you’re only doing it for your mistress. I can understand the loyalty of a servant for his mistress ...”

“I am not her servant! I am the Royal Painter, and I work for Tarnendur, and believe me, no one hates that evil witch more than me!” Yes, Nauremir’s new tactic of provoking Hurgon was working pretty well.

He leaned forwards persuasively, “You hate her as I do? She makes your life miserable, yes? Then why are you helping her in ruining my life? What hold does she have over you?”

It seemed so silly to just say, “A nameless fear. When I see her cunning eyes and her twitching mouth, I can just feel the evil tainting the air around me, and I can almost see the ground quake with some new level of meanness.”

So Hurgon didn’t reply; he just shrugged.

“Now, Hurgon, how about this? I pretend to go to sleep; you start painting, intently, so that you spare no eyes and ears for me… hmmm? And then when you finally look around, you see a pile of blankets. You run out screaming my name, but it’s too late. She can’t blame you.”

“Well, she could just call me a deaf and blind idiot who deserves to really lose his ears for it…” Hurgon muttered, but he was starting to feel pleasantly rebellious.

“Or I could just give you a light tap on the head and render you unconscious? You can hardly be expected to have won a fight against me.”

“That’s all right,” said Hurgon hastily, “I have a slight headache anyway, wouldn’t want to compound it. I think I’m in the mood for painting.”

“I won’t forget this.” Nauremir almost smiled. “Lend me your cloak, will you? I don’t want to be recognized too early.”

“Yes, of course. Right.”

The wagons were already standing within the city walls. Hurgon watched as Nauremir leaped down and walked away as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he turned to his canvas. There goes one madman, he thought. And the driver had also left for a drink. Soon the maddest of them all, Gimilbeth in a rage, would make an appearance, and who knew if he would ever get the chance to finish the painting again? They were on dry land, the cart was not heaving, so Hurgon frantically dabbed his brush in the paint, and began painting. A few minutes later, he was absorbed and had forgotten his surroundings.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brochenridge, evening of November 3, 1347.
Written by Elfhild and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The family crypt of the Counts of Brochenridge was cut deep in the rock at the base of the tower, in Numenor fashion. An ornate bronze grid followed by a heavy door barred the entrance. Four guards took the coffin into the vault, and, following Count Ormendur’s directions, placed it upon an empty stab of granite next to Nauremir’s grandmother. Then, to Gimilbeth’s dismay, Nauremir’s father Laengrim expressed his wish to open the coffin, regardless of the stench that everyone could not fail to notice.

“But, My Lord,” protested Gimilbeth, “I am loath to say it, but the embalming has been inadequate. Something has gone awry and I am afraid the view of the corpse will only add to your grief and will prove a cruel blow to your poor Lady.”

At these words, Nauremir’s mother, who had sank to her knees by the coffin, finally fainted. Gimilbeth knelt by the lady, trying to revive her with a vial of smelling salts. Ormendur ordered the guards out, as the air in the crypt was stale and suffocating.

When the area cleared, the lords of Brockenridge became aware of a tall, hooded figure standing silently by the door, hidden in shadows. A sudden chill running down his spine, Lord Ormendur asked:

“Who are you, stranger, and why do you disturb the privacy of a grieving family?”

The tall figure stood brooding by the doorway, like the spectre of death itself. Beneath the dark hood, Nauremir's eyes blazed like two fires as he beheld the scene before him: his grieving family and the witch who had caused all his problems. His first impulse was to damn her right there and reveal the truth to his family. But he knew that if he did, Gimilbeth would shriek for the guards and claim he was some crazed madman. And who were they to know otherwise? Nauremir was "dead," and few would recognize him in this new disguise.

"An acquaintance of the deceased, come to pay my respects," he spoke quietly, his voice muffled. Then he turned upon his heel and left the tomb like a storm cloud.

He fled into the darkling evening, evading the members of the funeral entourage. Seeking shelter in the woods, he sat down on a rock and observed the mausoleum and surrounding buildings from afar. Several choices lay before him. He could stay as Helmir the painter's apprentice, ever under the close watch of Gimilbeth. This would mean severing all ties with his parents and other relatives and forfeiting his inheritance and position. He would go from a well-liked nobleman to a pauper whom no one knew. Or he could hide out until the witch turned her attentions to matters other than him, and then return to his family, reveal his identity, and tell them the truth of what happened. How would his family react? How could he go back to living his old life? His "resurrection" would probably be a scandal that would shake the country and be on the tongues of all in Arnor.

Gimilbeth wanted Nauremir to remain "dead," he knew. If she had been working with only his best interests at heart, she would have told his parents the truth and conferred with both him and his family. After Broggha's ire had calmed, she could have helped weave some story that Nauremir was not really dead, but merely in a deep, long-lasting swoon like, say, Turin after he slew the dragon. But, no, Gimilbeth had other plans. What they were he did not know, but he was sure there was some dark conspiracy brewing in her mind.

He was a man with powerful enemies – Broggha the Hillman chieftain and Gimilbeth the witch of Cameth Brin. He hated being so weak, both in power and in body, for he was still recovering from his wounds. Right now he needed some powerful friends and allies. Clutching his head in his hands, he struggled to plot and plan, racking his brain for ideas.


Chapter 12 - The Hunt for the Madman

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Brochenridge, evening of November 3
Written by Gordis and Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gimilbeth’s blood turned cold when she beheld a hooded stranger by the door. She was sure it was Nauremir, escaped from the foolish painter. She berated herself for not setting better guards. Meanwhile, the fugitive had to be apprehended – quietly and effectively. Muttering some excuses about fetching help to get Nauremir’s mother up to her room, she rushed out of the crypt and looked around. There was nobody of note outside, only her two pages. These she sent immediately to search for Nauremir. 

She climbed the steep stair to the main court of the fortress where the wagons were parked and most of her men had been waiting. There she spotted the driver of Hurgon’s wagon, the auburn-haired Callon, who was walking slowly across the court admiring the Tower. Gimilbeth gripped his sleeve and hissed, “Where is Helmir, Hurgon’s apprentice?”

Startled, the young man bowed to Gimilbeth. “I don’t know, Your Highness – I left him with Hurgon a while ago,” he replied. 

“Go and find him!” ordered Gimilbeth. “Be careful, he is raving mad and dangerous. Don’t listen to anything he says. Just knock him on the head and bring him back to the wagon.”

Leaving the wide-eyed Callon, Gimilbeth made her way to the second wagon, knowing already what awaited her there. Curse the foolish painter! If Nauremir escaped, Hurgon would rue his lenience to the end of his days!

***

There is only so long one can paint while concious of being in mortal danger. It was when Tarniel's face on the canvas began to assume the characteristic frown of her half-sister that Hurgon decided to abandon it, and look instead to the more urgent task of protecting himself. He was starting to wish now he had let Nauremir hit him over the head; between him and Gimilbeth he knew well whom he was more frightened of. 

He checked first that his amulet was secure around his neck. It hadn't done a very good job so far, but hopefully its magic would be activated now. He cleaned up, for the first time in living history, so that perhaps Gimilbeth might be protected from the temptation of hurling things at him. He kept a sharp lookout for her, peeking out every now and then. The moment he saw her, the glare on her face burning a path before her, he let out a bewildered wail.

"Helmir! Now where did that scamp go? The beautiful lady Gimilbeth," he couldn't help choking slightly at this point, but sometimes good men need to descend to lies for self-preservation, "made it clear he was not to go anywhere; and I did tell him not to. And, then... why he was sleeping, and I was painting, and woe begone, he must have fled while I was absorbed in painting the Princess Tarniel! Ah, me, what misfortunes have befallen! But, maybe it is not too late and Helmir has just gone for a drink. Yes, I shall retrieve him for the good princess immediately." Delivering which speech in a loud, carrying voice, he turned to get out of his wagon, and found before him a Gimilbeth torn between laughter at possibly the worst acting she had ever seen in her life, and the desire to take off her shoes and whack him soundly on the head with them. 

He gave a large fake start, and tried to look guilty. This part was not very hard, as it was his habitual expression around her. Then, the last bit of his carefully crafted speech, "You have caught me out, your highness! My sincerity and devotion to one task you have assigned me has caused me to fail in the other. I think I am no longer qualified to guard Helmir. I myself step down from the task. In fact, when you find him, I shall myself move out of his wagon and ..."

She turned away to hide the smile that would appear, despite all, and then reminding herself just how angry she was, she turned back to him. "Do you think I am a fool? I thought he had escaped due to your leniency, the kind of leniency only seen in the blindest of fools, but no... I see you and he have contrived to have him escape! A nice little plan to hoodwink me, was it? I hope you recall the fate of the last unfortunate man who tried to trick me? You must have seen his corpse swinging from the tree yesterday." She smiled painfully and began to gather up steam, and Hurgon decided there was only one way to stop her. Distraction.

He focused on a point behind her shoulders, and opened his mouth several times as if to interrupt her. She finally noticed and said impatiently, "What?"

"Behind you, my lady..." she turned around. There was nothing. "It's gone now. It was there a minute ago!"

"No more of your foolish tricks!" she hissed, "I don't know in which tavern you picked up the reputation of being a good actor, because you-"

"But I assure you, I saw..." he gulped, and thought faster than he had ever done in his life, "a large raven, which was looking directly at you, beckoning you to follow him. Maybe it is a dark portent of some sort. My grandmother used to say-"

"I don't want to know what your grandmother said!" she snapped. But all the same, she was interested. Having grown up on magic all her life, it was hardly unlikely Gimilbeth would not know of all the portents there were to know of. "Besides, how would a raven beckon to me?" Hurgon proceeded to imitate a bird and flapped his imaginary wings at her. Her anger momentarily diverted, returned again, full course.

"You are going to find your mad friend, and by whatever means bring him back. He will trust you more than anyone else right now. And when you get back..." she turned on her heel, and walked briskly away, leaving Hurgon to contemplate the various ways that last sentence of hers could have finished. None of them impressed him much, so he wrapped himself in Nauremir's cloak and dispiritedly began walking towards the houses and inns by the city wall. At the very least, he would have to put up a show of finding Nauremir.

***

Callon was searching high and low for this Helmir, this alleged lunatic; which, on reflection did not seem so strange as it had done when Gimilbeth first pounced on him. After all, though he had paid little attention to what went on in the wagon, he could hardly help overhearing some of the shouting and cursing that had gone on behind him, and it did not require much stretch of his imagination to know that at least one of the two was not quite right in the head. 

His sharp eye caught a man, half-hidden in some shurbs, swigging brandy. Callon's lip twisted in disgust at the abandon with which he was drinking. He went closer, and thought the man looked familiar... yes, he recognized the old grey cloak with the tattered hood that the painter's apprentice wore. He was quite certain this was one of his two passengers. And since he had just seen the painter absorbed in his work back at the wagon, this HAD to be that other fellow ....

He circled noiselessly around the bush, looking for something to knock the man out with. He didn't like that bit, but the Princess had stressed that the man was a lunatic, and she should know. Callon had heard about the unnatural strength of lunatics before, and he certainly didn't want a lunatic on the loose, especially a drunk one! Finding a nice handy rock, he crept up behind the man and hit him - trying to knock him out, but at the same time not hard enough to kill him. The man, already drunk, slumped forward onto his knees. Callon took his bottle away from him and threw it away, and then hauled him bodily to his shoulder, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of drink floating into his mouth and nose. 

As he neared camp, one of the men saw him and approached. He had been talking to Callon just that morning and recognized him. A look of concern stole over his face at the sight of the senseless body.

"Who's that you've got there, Callon?"

"Lady Gimilbeth's orders, for me to bring him back to camp. Apparently he's a lunatic and tried to escape." Tired from all the hauling and panting with the weight, he let the man slide to the ground for a while. His friend leaned over and gave a low whistle.

"Well, well, it's Hurgon the Royal Painter. We always did figure he had a slight crack in his head, and this just confirms it."

"Yes!" Callon wiped sweat from his brow. Then the significance of what he had just heard sunk in. "Did you say Hurgon? The painter himself?"

"None other."

"Not Helmir the apprentice?"

"Who's Helmir?" That and a frown were all the answer Callon recieved, and it was enough to confirm his worst fears. Frantically, he began trying to resucicate Hurgon. A fine lookout for him it would be if it got about that Callon had been beating up harmless, if rather drunk, painters instead of escaped madmen. He looked at his friend.

"We have to wake him up!"

"Well... I guess I could try slapping him a bit." Which he did, sharply a few times, and strangely enough, it even worked. Hurgon's eyes opened, out of focus, and he moved his lips. Callon bent to hear what he was so desperately trying to say; it turned out to be a rather rude song. Well, that was probably a good sign.

The two of them dragged him back to his wagon, where after much water, and a few more slaps, Hurgon looked shame-facedly at the two of them and said, "Thank you so much for bringing me back. Sometimes, I do drink too much and keel over, though it hasn't happened recently. I am very ashamed, I assure you, and I thank you again. I was really thirsty, see?"

Callon's friend began laughing, while he himself explained the real situation, amid profuse apologies. Hurgon tutted and wagged an unsteady finger at him, but truth be told, he was not displeased. After all, it gave an iron-clad excuse for him not to go hunting for Helmir, and besides, he could now utilise Callon to go and get him as many drinks as he could carry. With some dinner if possible. And if Gimilbeth frowned, he would be sarcastic at Callon's expense, and occasionally clutch his swollen head in agony. She could hardly call for a hangman then.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brochenridge, early morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Rian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"First, you have to clean the hoof really well so you can look for signs of the infection ... ", and Callon did just that while the Brochenridge stable master watched with interest, and Captain Merendil and Gwindor watched Callon with interest. The horse wasn't watching anything; his long lashes covered his dark, liquid eyes as he relaxed - he was just relieved to have his weight off of his sore foot. He leaned a little more heavily on this thoughtful human, and Callon gave him an elbow in the ribs to make him stand up a little straighter.

"And now you look for a little sensitivity to pressure and possibly some discoloration ... ahh, here's a likely spot ... "

Callon, holding the horse's hoof securely in his strong, experienced hands, tapped a slightly discolored area on the hard tissue on the underside of the hoof with the flat end of his hoof knife. The horse threw its head up and pulled back a bit, his eyes now wide open, but Callon had him securely cross-tied, and the horse relaxed again.

"Now I just pare away gently here until I reach the infection ... doesn't hurt a bit until you reach the pocket ... " continued Callon, and with deft little twists of the hoof knife, he followed the discoloration down until a final twist of the knife opened up the infected area, and the pus welled out. The horse jerked again, and then relaxed as the painful pressure in the hoof slowly decreased.

"Sometimes the discolorations don't lead anywhere, and you have to try another spot. We were lucky here - we hit the right spot the first time." The stablemaster grunted his understanding of the procedure, stroking the gelding's flank as he watched the pus drain.

"Now pack the hoof with some clean herbs - peppermint is ideal, it draws things out well - and keep it as clean and dry as possible, then ..."

But Captain Merendil and Gwindor never heard the rest of the follow-up care. They had moved a little farther away so as to speak privately.

"I don't know why the Princess commanded it," said Gwindor, raising his eyebrows at the whims of royalty, "but he's definitely going to be a good man to have along." 

Merendil nodded. "My nephew speaks well of him, and I like what I've seen so far. He won't be happy about being gone longer - just married, and a lovely wife, the men say - but we'll make it worth his while."

Gwindor left, and Merendil watched the young auburn-haired horseman finish giving instructions to the stablemaster, then reach his hands over his head to stretch the kinks out of his back (working with hooves is hard work on the back!) as the stablemaster led the horse off.

"Callon," called Merendil, and beckoned him over.

"Yes, sir?" replied Callon respectfully. He liked the Captain - he admired how the captain had insisted on a fair hearing for Algeirr, refusing the Princess's first demand to just hang him, even though everything inside of him had been screaming out for revenge at the time. How odd that it had turned out as it had ... Callon's warning to Algeirr had turned out to be all too true ...

"Nice work, son," said Merendil. "You really know horses.”

"Horses are what our family does," replied Callon simply. "We ride before we walk!"

Merendil smiled, then grew serious again as he told Callon that plans had to be changed, and he would be joining the Princess's entourage.

Callon stared at him in disbelief. "But sir, they're not to be back until spring!" he objected. "My wife ... you said ... "

"I know, I know," interrupted Merendil briskly. "But things change - we're adding quite a few more men to the Princess's escort - reports of orcs in the area - and I would feel much better about the Princess if you were one of them, with your knowledge of horses and all. It could come in very handy." 

Callon started to object again, but Merendil stopped him with a raised hand and a stern look. "I'm sorry, but you don't have a choice in the matter. The Princess herself requested you. The time will go quickly, and I'll make it worthwhile for you - you can send a note to your wife and enclose your extra pay for her to spend in your absence (here he allowed himself a little smile and a wink, as one knowledgeable in the ways of women and money) - we'll get it safely to her. You'll be home again before you know it."

"But ..." started Callon again, and was again interrupted by the Captain.

"The decision is made!" concluded Merendil with finality. 

Callon took a deep breath and looked beyond the courtyard into the distance, bright and beckoning in the cold, crisp morning air. Three months ... but she had Arinya, and Eryndil was there now, too. She would be fine ...

He nodded his head in resignation, and left Meryndil to go write his letter to Caelen.

And as he wrote the letter, he thought uneasily that the worst part about this new turn of events was not that Caelen would be left without his protection for three months - the worst part was that he felt so happy about it ...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brochenridge, morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning of departure was cold and crisp with watery sunshine and frost on the ground. Gimilbeth descended to the Fortress court with eyes reddish from lack of sleep and threw a withering look at her entourage: her two cheerful pages, a sleepy Nimraen, a guilty–looking, somewhat battered-looking Hurgon and a still bewildered and, for some reason, also guilty–looking Callon the wagon-driver. 

There was still no Helmir, despite all their efforts to find him. Last night, Gimilbeth sent everyone she could to look for the escaped young man, choosing them carefully among those who hadn’t known him as Nauremir. Finally she went to search for him herself – after sitting through the lengthy dinner in the Feasting Hall and striving to maintain a meaningless, polite conversation with the old Lord of Brochenridge. Now she felt bone tired and thoroughly disgusted.

Men had little gratitude, and Nauremir had none whatsoever! Out of the kindness of her heart she saved the wretch from a certain, humiliating death, maybe torture at the hands of Hillmen brigands. And instead of being grateful for her gift, he just ran away at the first opportunity. Well, she was done with him. If he got caught, she wouldn’t move a finger to save him again! What an ungrateful, base rascal her kinsman proved to be!

Gimilbeth's escort was waiting – two wagons and forty guards commanded by Gwindor. Last night Merendil proposed her 20 additional men and Gimilbeth gratefully accepted them, wondering what exactly moved the gruff Captain to such generosity. But she had to promise to send 20 guards back once they were safely at Amon Sul.

Lord Ormendur, swathed in a rich mink coat, and Captain Merendil said their farewells. The Captain and his remaining eighty men were also ready for departure – back to Cameth Brin. Merendil looked concerned and advised caution once again. “There may be orcs around,” he said to Gwindor and Elvegil, once Gimilbeth was out of earshot. “Keep your eyes open and don’t forget to set guards at night.” 

Gwindor nodded and gave the signal for departure.

Once outside the Gates and out of view of the fortress, Gimilbeth motioned for the party to stop, passed the reins of her mount to Elvegil and crawled into her wagon to sleep.


Chapter 13 - The Nazgûl and the Southron

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Shedûn Fortress at the border of Angmar, November 4, 1347
Written by Gordis and Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The last day of the journey over the Shedûn Pass dawned sunny and bright. "Disgustingly bright," thought Agannalo spitefully, while he gingerly made his way along the ice-covered roadbed. He had to dismount and lead the half-starved horse - drag him along, to be more precise. Unused to ice and snow, the old Gray trembled in fright when his shoes skidded upon the icy ground. The road was still steadily mounting toward the gap in the ridge beyond which the city of Shedûn was supposed to be.

By midday the rocky slopes on both sides of the road became level with it, and Agannalo stopped to observe his surroundings. Squinting in the sun, he looked around. The view from this highest point of the Shedûn Pass proved spectacular, even to his poor nazgûl eyesight. To the South-East, the white mass of Mount Gram rose almost to the very skies, white and glimmering like the fang of some giant carnivore. Beyond it stretched the endless chain of the Hithaeglir, its peaks topped with snow. Agannalo turned slowly around. Behind him, to the south, was the valley of the Mitheithel with its uncounted tributaries looking from this height like the finest net of silver threads over auburn hair. While to the South the leaves were still yellow and red, to the North the trees stood with bare branches. There lay a realm of ice and snow - Angmar, his Captain's new abode. 

To the North Agannalo could make out the wide valley of the already frozen Angsuul, the river that took its sources in the glaciers south of Gundabad and flowed into the Ice-Bay of Forochel, far to the North-West. But what startled him was the number of large and small towns scattered all over the valley. Numerous smokes indicated the presence of smaller villages and farms. On the Second Age map that Agannalo had copied in Khand, this land was shown as empty and barren. Now, with the advent of his Captain, that was certainly not the case anymore. 

Agannalo's gaze wandered further and he swore under his breath. What he had taken for a tall rock on his right was in fact an upper tier of a watch-tower overlooking the road. With the Sun right in his eyes he had almost missed it. So, unlike with Rhudaur, the border of Angmar was guarded. Well, that was no wonder with his Captain in charge... Annoyed, and not wishing to answer awkward questions, Agannalo turned to leave quietly the way he had come, to wait till nightfall and then try to sneak past the tower. But he soon found out that the tower was not blind. He had hardly taken a few steps when he saw that his retreat was cut off by soldiers issuing from some hidden tunnel in the rock. He was trapped.

Trying to seem unperturbed, Agannalo turned North again. A group of horsemen in black-and-red livery appeared from behind a sharp bend on the road and rode toward him.

"Hail, stranger," the foremost rider called to Agannalo. "What is your name and business in the land of Angmar?"

"My name is none of your business," Agannalo replied irritably. "I am riding to Carn-Dûm to see ...a relative, and I wish to stay in Shedûn overnight."

The guards visibly tensed at his impertinence and exchanged glances. "Come with us, then, and talk to the Lieutenant of the Tower!" the head of the patrol replied. 

Agannalo hissed in irritation, but complied. There was no denying the order. He was surrounded and could not escape without doing some serious damage to his Captain's men. 

***

As Agannalo was led forward by the corporal in charge, the other guardsmen guided their mounts to follow behind him. They had not ridden very far when Agannalo beheld the gatehouse of the south tower of the Shedûn fortress looming before them. Behind it stood the high tower itself. Gazing down upon them from one of the lower turrets stood a tawny-skinned man. He was an officer by the looks of his garb, with a red fox cape thrown around his shoulders for added warmth.

"Likely a Southron who has never become accustomed to the cold Northern winters," Agannalo surmised. 

Halting his horse before the drawbridge which spanned a deep, turbulent mountain stream, the corporal called to the gatehouse, "We have taken a prisoner! Permission to pass and see the Lieutenant commanding the tower!"

"Granted," came a voice from the other side, "but you will have to wait to see the commander!"

With a great creaking and groaning of the cogs, chains and mechanisms of the windlass, the great drawbridge slowly swung down across the chasm. Simultaneously, the portcullis, bristling with fierce metal spikes resembling the teeth of a dragon, was hauled up with a loud groan of machinery. Frightened of the noise and his new surroundings, Agannalo's steed perked his ears up, every sense alert. Becoming angry at the obstinate horse, Agannalo touched his heels to the horse's sides, but the beast balked when it heard the hollow sound under its hooves. Agannalo sharply tapped the horse's flanks with his riding crop. Not expecting the sudden sting, the horse plunged forward, hit the bridge with hooves skidding and went down on its knees.

Reins in his hand, Agannalo was off the saddle before the horse's body ever hit the bridge. Not bothering to conceal their guffaws, the guardsmen watched him as he took the crop and slapped the horse's hindquarters several times.

"Up! Up!" Agannalo commanded harshly, and the frightened beast struggled to its feet.

"Best lead your mount the rest of the way, stranger. He seems to be a skittish nag," the corporal barely hid his smirk.

Once past the gatehouse and inside the courtyard, the corporal and two other guardsmen dismounted, while the other guards rode away. Directed to turn his mount over to a groom, Agannalo was motioned inside the building by the grim-faced corporal and directed to an audience chamber, where they were kept waiting for over an hour.

"This way," a red and black liveried guardsman directed as he opened the hallway door which led to another chamber. "Lieutenant Hyarion will see you now."

Seated at the great table before him was the man whom Agannalo recognized as the officer he had seen earlier, who had scrutinized him from the tower. The lieutenant returned his officers' salutes with a brief nod. To avoid contention, Agannalo bowed stiffly.

"Sir, my men and I found this fellow on the road. He refuses to give his name or say where he is from. When asked to state his business, he will tell us only that he is going to Carn Dûm. He requests permission to stay in Shedûn tonight. We thought it best to bring him to see you, and you decide how to dispose of him."

A broad-shouldered man of slightly above average height with a lean body that reflected a life spent outdoors, the lieutenant pursed his lips. A dark-haired man of mid-years, thin-faced, with a high, arrogant aquiline nose, eyes so brown they were almost black, eyebrows which met in the middle, and lips which were both sensual and cruel, Lieutenant Hyarion's appearance betrayed an origin not of the West. He looked down his nose at Agannalo as though he were a slug or a leech.

"It is a irregular, most irregular, when a man will not tell his name," he stated in an accented nasal voice. "Those who are reluctant to reveal their doings tend to make us suspicious of their intentions."

"I have already explained that I am on my way to Carn Dûm to visit relatives," Agannalo said. Though he had taken an instant dislike to the man, he held his temper.

"Stranger, that is not quite good enough. I do not like your insolent manner and the way you are staring at me. Yes, I saw that mocking look," Lieutenant Hyarion's voice said softly, an implied threat behind his words. "Have you never seen someone from the South before?"

"Yes, of course," Agannalo replied, disliking this arrogant underling more with each passing moment. He added sardonically, "As a matter of fact, I came from Far Harad."

At that, the Southron's eyes bulged and he sputtered angrily. "Are you mocking me, straw-head? You think I am a fool? The men in Far Harad are swarthy or outright black, and you are as pale as a maggot! I have seen the likes of you - horse boys of Rhovanion. Perhaps your father was a Tark, as you are quite tall, but I bet your mother was a straw-head whore!"

"It seems you are telling me your own story, Southron," Agannalo hissed back. "I gather your own dam was a Haradi harlot. But not everyone is as baseborn as you are."

Hyarion jumped to his feet, the knuckles of his hand white on the hilt of his scimitar. 

"You will regret these words, stranger! Perhaps you have never heard of me before, but in such a backward place as this, I would expect that. Perhaps you never heard of my father, the Lord Balakuzir of Umbar? My mother was a princess from further to the interior. She was fond of telling me the way that her people have of encouraging someone to talk." His eyes cold, his lips smiling, Lieutenant Hyarion allowed the words to sink in.

"They put them out in the heat of the desert, bury them up to their necks in the sand, and let their brains bake out. Sometimes they will pour honey all over their faces and let the ants go to work on them. I learned much from my mother's people." He smiled. "Perhaps after you have tarried with us a while, we might convince you to be more...ahhh..." he paused, 'talkative.' Reflect upon it a while. I am sure you will see reason."

While the Southron had been talking, Agannalo's hot anger abated and slowly turned to cold hatred. Unbeknownst to him, Lieutenant Hyaron had narrowly escaped violent death or something far worse. But he was still in for the shock of his life. Agannalo smiled sweetly.

"Oh, noble Lieutenant, your hardly veiled threats made me see reason," purred Agannalo much like a sadistic cat would address a cornered mouse. "I decided to become talkative and to reveal my identity...." He paused for dramatic effect. 

"My name is Silmadan, which means, for your instruction, the Jewel of Mankind." At this the Southron snorted, but Agannalo's smile only widened. "And the relative I wish to see in Carn-Dûm is your King. I am his Majesty's nephew. My mother was your King's sister, not a Rhovanion whore."

For a few seconds, Hyarion stared incredulously at Agannalo, then burst out laughing. "Silmadan, the Jewel of Mankind, the nephew of the King? What absurdity is this? Not only are you an impertinent knave, but you are a lying impostor! To my knowledge, the king has no nephew!"

Agannalo stood aghast. He thought he had the Lieutenant cornered, but this man proved a bigger fool than he had first presumed... In such a situation any courtier from Armenelos would have been groveling at his feet begging for forgiveness! But the Southron was as single-minded and as thick-skinned as a rhinoceros!

Meanwhile, Hyarion continued. "Perhaps you have been sent here to spy upon us, or maybe you have been hired to assassinate the King. However, no spy or hired killer would be so bold or so foolish as to ride up on an old plug and claim that he was the King's nephew! Instead, I think you are a madman." He smiled maliciously at Agannalo. "Whatever you are, I grant you your request. You will go to Carn Dûm - but in chains!" His breath coming faster, Hyarion's brown eyes glowed with triumphant excitement.

"Guards! Disarm this man!" 

As in a bad dream, Agannalo watched helplessly while the grinning guards got hold of his sword and dagger and started searching him in earnest. In all his long years he didn't remember being searched - ever - and he didn't like the experience one bit.

But what could he do? If he killed the guards, he would have to kill Hyarion as well and the man was likely high in his Captain's favor. And then he would have all the garrison against him. Agannalo couldn't stand against such odds without turning to powerful sorcery. And using terror and Black Breath so openly would blow not only his cover, but his Captain's as well... Agannalo was pretty sure that even in Angmar no one knew his Captain's true identity - yet.

It was no way to arrive in Angmar with such a bang. From the start, Agannalo was not completely sure of his Captain's welcome. He planned to come to Carn-Dûm quietly at night, see the Captain and ask for hospitality. Now he was forced to call himself the King's nephew - without the King's permission. Enough already to make his Captain mad - even without wiping away the garrison of Shedûn.

"That is what happens when you tell the truth!" he thought bitterly. For he had told Hyarion the truth - he was indeed Silmadan, or more precisely "Silmatan" in Quenya, and he did come all the way from Far Harad and he was indeed the King's relative! Not exactly a nephew, but a third cousin twice removed on his mother's side and a fourth cousin once removed on his father's side - anyway the closest living relative his Captain had. Well... not exactly living, but...

"Look at this, My Lieutenant!" cried one of the guards, producing a small leather bag with a collection of tiny bamboo tubes. Each contained a poisoned needle of some plant and could be blown out at a considerable distance. "Have you ever seen such like?"

"Black savages from the Far South use them. How could this straw-head get those, I wonder? I bet he is an assassin sent by our enemies! Is there anything else?"

"Aye, Lieutenant," the guard went on, "this man is like a walking armory! Besides the sword and dagger on his belt, we have found hidden weapons from his cloak to his boots!" The guards placed one dagger after another on the table, the blades and sheaths clanking together. "These two wicked curving ones, crafted in the Eastern fashion, were found under his tunic, while the two wide, flat-bladed ones were discovered strapped to his back and shoulder. He wears this large leaf-bladed dagger strapped to his right thigh. And this one from his cloak must be worth a king's ransom..." A guard triumphantly held up a small curved dagger with three large emeralds on the hilt and another at the pointed end of the sheath. Both the sheath and the hilt were gold and studded with glittering diamonds. 

Lieutenant Hyarion looked at the jeweled dagger with eyes gleaming almost as brightly as the diamonds. "Not only is the knave an assassin and a murderer, he is also a thief! A rascal such as he never obtained this treasure by honest means!"

Incredulous at the gross stupidity of Lieutenant Hyarion, Agannalo was so angry that he was ready to destroy this pompous officer and all his underlings. If he gave into his urges and did such a thing, though, the king would be furious. "It is a gift from my uncle," he murmured icily.

"A gift!" the lieutenant laughed mockingly. "You insult my intelligence if you think that I would believe such a thing! You have murdered the owner and stolen his dagger! I am hereby confiscating this treasure and the rest of your weaponry. All will be sent North, and His Majesty can deal with the matter." The lieutenant turned his gaze back to the guards. "Surely there can be no more!"

"Still more," the guard shook his head. "Here are two small knives from his boots and then there is this..." The guard gingerly held out a small narrow dagger in a plain black leather sheath. The handle was covered with intricate runes. There seemed to be a faint pale light emanating from the dagger.

Agannalo found his voice. "You better keep your filthy hands away from it! Or you will rue the day you were ever born!"

"Corporal, ignore that raving madman! Give that dagger to me!" the lieutenant demanded.

"Yes, sir," the incredulous guard demurred, handing the hilt to the lieutenant. 

"You are warned ..." Agannalo hissed, but the Southron ignored him.

"A strange weapon," the lieutenant murmured as he unsheathed the dagger and held the blade close to his face, bemused by the pale glow. "Quite sharp, no doubt." He reached out his forefinger to touch the edge, but his attention was distracted by a question from a guard.

"But the prisoner, sir?" the guard reminded him.

"Chain the strawhead in the dungeon! In the morning, he is to be taken under guard to Carn Dûm! I am sure the King will be quite amused when he sees him!"


Chapter 14 - Encounters on the Road

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On the Great Road south of Brochenridge, morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Rian and Serenoli
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"Oh, come on - stop worrying about tactics and defensible positions. Let's meet these dwarves - it will be fun! What does it matter if we die, anyway? We've wandered in this world long enough, that's for sure! "

Tyaron had to smile at his friend's comment. He was right - as elves from the ancient city of Gondolin, destroyed long ago by the malice of Morgoth, they were among the oldest inhabitants of Middle Earth. They had seen many things in their long years, and had set out from Rivendell several months ago to see more ... and to bring back tidings of what they had seen.

Tyaron was the more reflective of the two; Alagos was more "hasty", as the Ents would say. Alagos tended to irritate Ents, as he would be up and on his feet with an idea to follow while the Ent was still at the beginning of a (long!) sentence, while Tyaron would sit for days at a time listening to their thoughts, the sun and the stars wheeling overhead as time flowed by. 

And Alagos the impatient had gotten the itch to see new things again, so they were off. They had been best friends since childhood, and that, as well as the pleasure of being with someone who knew your birth-language and the place you grew up, in a world where these things were just far-off memories if they were even remembered at all, was the reason they still liked to travel together.

Tyaron lay back with his hands behind his head and started to sing softly in the ancient language of the city of Gondolin that few in Middle Earth now knew. An onlooker, hearing the unknown words sung in the mysterious and beautiful language, would have guessed that it was a solemn song, perhaps about some long-ago sorrow or love, but it was in fact a comic song that Alagos had composed, while a young child in Gondolin, about dwarves and their oddities.

Alagos smiled; he had won. He extended a hand to Tyaron, pulling him up off of the ground, and they walked onto the road in front of the company of dwarves, their hands extended in front of them in a gesture of peace; Tyaron with a solemn, alert expression in his bright eyes, and Alagos unable to keep a smile off his elven-fair face.

***

Gere could not stop from gasping - it was so sudden, so uncanny the way the elves suddenly appeared before them; it was frightening... much the way her nightmares had run in the past few days. 

There were two of them; their hands were before them, gesturing the dwarves to stop... or was it a gesture of peace? One of them smiled, however, and Gere took heart from that. Hroim came forward, and spoke for them. Suspicion was etched across every dwarf-face but his; the memory of the last stranger they had encountered fresh in their minds, many hands felt for the axe resting comfortably at the waist. Gere herself drew little comfort from the cold steel but she fingered it all the same, ready to pick it up if necessary.

"Greetings, strangers," said Hroim in his deep voice, "I see you come in peace. I am Hroim, leader of this tribe, and I speak for them."

This was more or less a friendly greeting by Hroim, so the other dwarves let their hands slide to their sides. If he was going to be friendly, they would emulate him. The smiling elf said, "I am Alagos and this is my friend, Tyaron. We come from Rivendell... that is to say, that was our last home. For months now, we have been wanderers and travellers."

"So have we." Hroim had travelled much in his youth, and had seen much more of the world than many others in their tribe, which explains, perhaps, why he was so much readier to be friendly with them. He did not feel the same cold from these two that he had felt from the other elf. Their was a brightness about their eyes, a sincerity about their smiles, and they professed to have been at Rivendell. They may have heard much news of the world in that place, or during their travels. He called for a halt, and invited the elves to partake of dinner with them, which they graciously accepted. There was some small grumbling - his son, Truin, in particular, did not look pleased, but they did not complain.

Gere watched them eating from a safe distance, hardly hungry herself. The serious-looking elf - Tyaron, that was his name - he and Hroim were deep in some tale or other. Where was the smiling elf, Alagos? He must have gotten up when she hadn't been looking. She got up from the log she was seated on, and nearly fell back again when she saw Alagos standing beside her. 

"Forgive me, did I startle you?" 

"No." She looked straight at him, to show she was not afraid of him. Hmmm... he did not look so frightening close up. 

"I have been observing you for some time, but I thought you knew I was here, too." 

She did not reply to this. She had just remembered that she had to speak in a gruff voice around him, even though there was the beard on her chin - after all, the beard was nowhere near as fine as what most dwarves had, but the fact was, no one was willing to sacrifice quite so much of their own beards to give her a convincingly fake one. Still, as long as she spoke gruffly, and looked threatening, it ought to work. 

"May I ask you something? I do not even know your name, so it is probably rude of me to ask such a question, but I have lived many, many years and I have never yet had the oppurtunity to ask it." 

"Ask away, lad," she said in as deep a voice as she could manage.

"Is that a real beard? I mean, I am not insulting it, it is a very fine beard indeed. But do dwarf-women really have beards?"

Gere blushed. Why did these elves have such a penchant for penetrating her disguise? She really needed a better one, it was just not good enough.

"You ask grave secrets of me. I can only answer if you make me a promise." 

His lips twitched, but he kept his composure.

"You can not tell anyone you... well, that you found out I am a woman. I do not know how it is amongst elves, but if the others think my disguise is insufficient, they may ask me to stay in a wagon the entire journey." 

"You have my promise, lady. But... you answered my question in asking my promise. For you are a woman, are you not? And that beard is not yours, as you owned it to be a disguise."

"Oh. I suppose I did. But then, I only answered your first question. Maybe some of us have beards.... or maybe they don't. Maybe I am too young to have grown one yet. You have promised not to divulge what you found out on your own - but I don't know if I should tell you any more."

He was quiet for a few minutes. Then he asked, "Why are so many of them afraid of us? Or so distrustful? Your chief talks heartily enough, but I have seen so many unfriendly glances and mutters that I do not know what to impute it to - besides the old causes, that is, but this seems far beyond that." 

"I cannot help being both fearful and distrustful myself. You are only the second elf I have met, and the first we met was ... so unlike you. He looked the same - I mean, he had golden hair and blue eyes, not like you - but he was just as tall and slender, and the thin, chiselled features. A beautiful harp slung on his back. But... there was something else about him. Something that called to mind rot and death. And you are full of life. There is that difference between you and him. And yet, when I see you, suddenly - I see him in you, and I forget all the differences and fear is near at hand." Her voice was almost a whisper. Suddenly she realised to whom she was spilling her thoughts. "I have said too much, and maybe it makes little sense to you. It is the answer you seek, however."

Alagos looked thoughtful. "But it is an answer that raises ten more questions!" he finally responded, laughing, as Tyaron came up and bowed respectfully to Gere.

"I advise you to escape while you can, for each of the additional ten questions will raise ten MORE questions!" he said to Gere in a solemn voice, but with a smile ("he CAN smile!" thought Gere). Alagos was right, thought Tyaron; this was interesting ...

Gere decided to take Tyaron's advice; a little elf went a long way for her, and she wanted to get back to her friends. She gave a polite nod of her head to the elves, which they returned, and went off to find Truin.

"I have news, brother," said Tyaron, reverting back to their native tongue so as not to be overheard. 

"So do I! Strange news," said Alagos thoughtfully, his eyes following Gere as she disappeared into the crowd.

"Hroim has told me ..." began Tyaron, but he was interrupted by the arrival of two dwarves leading small ponies.

"Here are your mounts," they said gruffly, their eyes trying to take in everything about the elves without appearing too curious. 

Alagos turned around and covered his face with both hands as he feigned a violent coughing fit, trying to stifle the wild burst of laughter that had leapt up inside of him at the vision of Tyaron riding a dwarven pony. Tyaron stepped in front of Alagos and took the ponies, thanking the bearers graciously.

"I thought elves weren't supposed to get sick," said the dwarf to his friend as they walked back to Hroim. The other dwarf merely shrugged his shoulders; he had no idea why their leader had agreed to let the elves join their company, but that wasn't his concern. Right now, he was deciding how to redistribute the baggage that had been taken off of the two ponies that had been given to the elves.

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Brochenridge, morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Valandil
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As Gimilbeth and her party began to make their way on down the road to the south and west, Merendil led his troops back north, the way they had come the day before. If they went straight on to Cameth Brin, they’d easily cover in two days what had taken three escorting the wagons.

But Merendil knew they wouldn’t go straight there, and wondered how long it would be before he saw Cameth Brin again. Hopefully before the deep snow and bitter cold came to the land. But he was a soldier of the King, and of the realm of Rhudaur, and there was the matter of the Orcs along the road to deal with.

He didn’t know how many there were, or what their purpose. At least 20, he thought, and maybe even 50 – most likely looking for some farmhouses to raid before returning to the mountains. Although Gimilbeth would surely be safe from their reach, he thought it prudent to have sent the extra twenty men along with her. And the Count of Brochenridge had sent another twenty with him, on learning of the likelihood of Orc rovers about. It was best this way, thought Merendil. If the men from Brochenridge went with Gimilbeth, he wasn’t sure if Gwindor would command their respect – and they might be inclined to return to Brochenrdige from the Last Bridge – or even a day or a half-day out from their homes. But the men from Cameth Brin would stay with them, and Merendil felt he could handle the twenty with no trouble. And their leader, Barund, seemed like a good man - and Ormendur had called him his top scout.

It was good that Ormendur had agreed to send the men. But Merendil thought he could have taken the matter a bit more seriously. He had seemed so pre-occupied. Could it have been the loss of Nauremir? The man had other grandsons, and as a man of war, surely understood the times and the nature of life and death. Nonetheless, these extra twenty men brought his company back to a full 100. Whatever the size of the Orc band, he didn’t want to merely defeat it – he wanted to annihilate it! And the more men he had, the less risk to all. If the Orcs were few enough, or undisciplined enough, he might pull it off without losing a single man of his own! He had seen it done, years back, but hadn't pulled it off while in his own command. Two men to each Orc was a pretty safe way to pull off an extermination. And with 100, he could probably do that - or else have enough to split his forces two or three ways if the need called for it.

The six hounds would also be a great help. Unless the Orcs had Wargs with them, thought Merendil, checking himself. But no – and he could comfort himself with this thought, Wargs would have surely made some noise at nighttime, and stirred up the alarm all across the countryside.

So off they rode, 100 strong, all mounted, with the hounds at their horses’ heels. If all went well, they would reach the site of the hanging with plenty of daylight left to find whatever traces of the Orcs they could. If the Orcs were still around… he might be back in Cameth Brin by tomorrow night after all!

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On the road between Cameth Brin and Brochenridge, late afternoon of November 4, 1347
Written by Valandil
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“Captain Merendil!” called Barund from the top of the ridge. “You need to see this.”

Merendil took a last look over the remnants of the recent hanging; the cut rope, the marks of a heavy object being dragged over the ground, in the woods just off the road the grisly scene with what little was left of the hung thief, and not surprisingly, a few Orc bodies close by. They had done part of his work for him, he thought with a satisfied smile. Then he turned and headed up the ridge to join Barund.

When at last he reached the top, Merendil let out a low whistle. He was more fighter than tracker, but even he could read the unmistakable signs that Orcs had been there.

“Barund – good work! I thought the smell must have come from about this general direction, though the breeze was shifting a bit that day.”

“Yes, Captain,” replied Barund, trying to conceal the frustration of having been sent to look in a wrong-enough general direction twice before making this find on the third try.

“So…” continued Merendil. “Looks like more than twenty anyhow. What do you make of it, Barund? Fifty? Sixty?”

“At least a hundred, sir. More likely two or three times that.”

“Really now!” Merendil was honestly surprised. “Were they here for very long?”

“Less ‘n a day, I’d guess,” answered Barund, “about two to three days ago.”

“But they’re clearly all gone now,” said Merendil, his mind going back and forth between thoughts of having had so many Orcs over his shoulder two days back, and trying to keep his attention on where to go from here. “I suppose they all scattered from here, then, going different directions to disperse?”

“No, sir – that is to say, you may have observed that there’s clearly signs of movement about, but it appears just scouts coming and going, and keeping the perimeter, and the one excursion down to the stand of trees down there…” began Barund, “But after that, they clearly left this place all together, sudden-like – off west and a bit south.” And Barund extended his arm in a path that crossed the road a little south below them and on up the wooded hills beyond. “Straight as an arrow sir, sure as daylight.”

“Two days ago?”

“Yessir – two days ago.”

“Really…” and then a sudden realization struck Merendil. This was no accident - or if it was, it was a double-accident. An Orc band assembled right at this spot while his escort passed below two days’ since – and then making straight for some point that would cut them off further along. It seemed inconceivable – but he suddenly feared that his charge, the King’s eldest daughter, was in great danger.

After a few seconds to take it all in and order his thoughts, Merendil began bellowing orders. “Everyone down to the road! Assemble, men of Rhudaur! Barund, get your men down there! Sergeants, assemble the guard of Cameth Brin!”

The plans were quickly made. Merendil dictated a short note to King Tarnendur about the presence of an Orc band on the roadside, their probable attack on Gimilbeth beyond Brochenridge, and his own intended pursuit. Once finished, the man who took down the words mounted his horse and rode north as hard as he could, leading a spare horse behind. As the messenger sped away, Merendil thought, “Oh – I should have given him as well the note from the young wagoner to his wife – but it’s too late now. Anyway – better to get to his rescue than to notify his wife he’ll be away.”

Once more a sudden thought struck him. How was it that the commotion in the caravan started just as they passed the Orcs? That wagon driver seemed like such a trustworthy sort, too…

There was time to sort all that out later though, he thought as he swung himself into his saddle. Barund was starting up the other ridge, on foot, with his 20 men, and 30 of Merendil’s. That left two horses for each man still on the road. That was good – the moon was waxing toward full, so they could travel most of the night, if they and the horses held out. And Barund could follow the trail for long as well.

Still… Merendil knew there was little hope to catch up before Gimilbeth’s entourage ran into trouble – if trouble there was going to be. And in his heart, Merendil felt that trouble was coming.


Chapter 15 - The Uncanny Prisoner

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Shedun Fortress, evening of November 4, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
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"Oh, yes", thought Agannalo as the guards pushed him out of the chamber and down a winding stair leading to the dungeon. "The King will be quite amused when he sees me in chains, no doubt. He will laugh at me... what a shame! But I still prefer him laughing than wrathful." He gritted his teeth and set himself to endure.

The cell assigned to Agannalo was dank and damp with a trickle of water dripping down one wall. Instead of a front wall there were thick iron bars separating it from the guardroom, so the prisoner was under constant observation. Hyarion took no chances. A fat guard, awfully reeking of garlic, put iron manacles and foot chains on the prisoner's wrists and ankles and chained him to a ring in the far wall. Abjectly Agannalo sat down on a pile of dirty straw and tried to calm down. 

There was something good to be found in any situation. "At least they have not noticed my Ring" he thought. Had they tried to take it, Agannalo would have had no choice but to kill them all... and head back from Angmar the way he had come to wander alone and homeless through the lands.

The Ring, invisible to mortal eyes, was still there, on the middle finger of his left hand, and it meant that he could escape, if the situation became unendurable. The sight of the Ring helped him to regain if not peace, but at least some calm and composure.

Unfortunately, not for long. One of the soldiers assembled in the adjoining guardroom brought Agannalo's harp. The sound of tortured strings made Agannalo jump to his feet. Shouting curses, he rushed to the iron bars, but the guards laughed even merrier, while one of them plucked the strings mercilessly, trying to play a village tune.

That was more that Agannalo could take. He fixed his eyes on the "musician" and muttered a Dark spell under his breath. "The Captain will understand," thought Agannalo. "There is a limit to anyone's endurance. The King will not miss this rascal."

The tune abruptly stopped as with some pathetic flailing of arms the guard sank to the ground. He trashed for some time struggling for breath, then went still. Dumbstruck, the others looked in awe from the corpse to Agannalo and back again. Nobody dared to pick up the harp from where it lay on the floor.

Agannalo returned back to his pile of straw. "This lout had no call to touch my harp," he thought, appeased.

***

After Agannalo was led away to the dungeon, Lieutenant Hyarion ordered everyone to leave the audience chamber. While he had never seen another knife like it, he knew from its glow that this was no ordinary blade.

As he stared transfixed at the sheen of the metal, he felt as though he were falling through the surface of the blade. He was being pulled down, down, down, through a world of ice, filled with swirling clouds of misty vapors and stinging snowflakes. He kept falling and falling, until at last he saw the ground before him. It was stark and white, completely covered with snow, and right beneath him was a coffin made of crystal, its lid open and waiting for someone... who? And then in an instant he knew for whom it was waiting - it was waiting for him!

"Dire sorcery!" Hyarion panted, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "I have some knowledge of the craft, but this is far beyond my power! I will keep it, though, and find out its meaning." Carefully, he placed the blade back in its black leather sheath and lay it upon the table. He would take the pale blade and the emerald dagger back to his private chamber where he could study them. 

His reverie was interrupted by a pounding on the door. "Sir," came the frightened voice of the Captain of the Guards, "please, I must talk to you!"

"Come in, man, and tell me what it is that has disturbed you," Lieutenant Hyarion said, an edge to his voice. "What now?" he wondered. The day had been a strange one, and he sensed it might become even stranger before it was over.

"Sir, I do not like to interrupt you, but there has been a strange occurrence in the dungeon."

"What?" Lieutenant Hyarion waited nervously to hear the answer.

"One of the guards took a fancy to the new prisoner's harp and was playing a tune to entertain us. Suddenly he fell to the ground, gasped for breath, twitched a few times, and then died! Considering as how he was only eighteen years old and one of the strongest men in the guard, it is unlikely that his heart failed him. That harp killed him! The thing is evil! No one will touch it and the harp just lies there near the dead man's body!"

His eyes wide, the lieutenant gaped incredulously at the soldier. Clutching his forehead, he was silent for a time as he considered what should be done. Not only was Silmadan a thief and an assassin, but he was also a very dangerous sorcerer. Who had employed him to attempt the life of the king? Who else but one of the three kingdoms of Arnor! Which one? Though he was confident that his own dungeon master could get the information out of the prisoner, he thought that the matter was best left to the king. Carn Dum knew methods of torture that would oil even the tongue of a stone statue!

"Captain," he finally spoke, "have the body of the fallen guard removed. At sunrise the prisoner is to be taken to Carn Dum under heavy guard." The lieutenant caught the apprehensive look in the Captain's eyes. "The harp, you wonder? Do not fear. I have some knowledge in spellcraft and neutralizing evil incantations. Have my horse saddled, for as soon as I notify my second in command and prepare a few things, I will be going to Carn Dum with you. We will soon see if this rascal is truly a kinsman of the king!"

***

The news of the strange new prisoner spread rapidly through the fortress. Within less than an hour after the bizarre death of the guard who had dared taunt Agannalo with his harp playing, everyone from the cooks in the kitchen to the grooms in the stable had heard about the incident.

At sunset, the jailer gingerly pushed a wooden bowl of cabbage stew through the bars and used a long pike to shove it closer to the chained prisoner. Wrinkling his nose, Agannalo sent it flying back. The jailer cursed but didn’t press the matter. “They are starting to learn to keep away from me” the nazgul grinned mirthlessly to himself. He huddled in a corner and waited for the morning. 

The only sounds besides the footfalls of the jailer making his rounds and the occasional laughter of guards as they played a game of dice had been the monotonous trickle of water down one side of the wall. At one point during the night, a large gray rat had slunk into the chamber on its nightly search for scraps of food. Seeing Agannalo, the creature had not tarried, but raced squeaking across the floor, seeking refuge in a hole on the other side. 

As dawn approached, Agannalo saw the jailer and two guards walking down the hall and then they stopped at his cell. There was the sound of a key sliding in the lock, and the jailer, a fat greasy man with a bulging paunch, walked through the doorway, followed by two guards armed with spears. 

"Enjoy your night?" the jailer squinted at Agannalo. "Now you're not going to like this, but there's nothing you can do about it! Give me any trouble, and you'll have to answer to the guards!"

Agannalo found the situation bizarrely amusing. At any time he wished, he could have all three of them dead on the floor. He allowed the jailer to pull his hands roughly behind his back and manacle them there. "Now you're going with us!" The guards threatened Agannalo with their spears and motioned for him to go out the door.

Once out in the stable courtyard, Agannalo saw his mounted escort of twenty fearsome looking men. Many of them dark and swarthy, they were all armed to the teeth and appeared to be as ferocious as any criminal who might be found lurking on the docks of Umbar or in the more squalid section of any city of the east. Their black and red livery, however, was splendid, clean and unwrinkled, and their mounts were outstanding specimens of horseflesh. A number of the horses, though, were skittish, shying easily and giving their riders some difficulty. A few of the men lost their tempers at the obstinacy of their mounts, and, cursing, gave them smart blows with their riding crops before bringing the beasts under control.

Lieutenant Hyarion, already mounted on the back of his bay stallion, looked down his nose at Agannalo and then turned his head in the direction of the pack horses. Agannalo sensed that the Southron was gloating over the emerald dagger and the Morgul blade, stored safely away in one of the packs. Agannalo grinned. "The pompous fool," he thought. "At least he is still among the living, but with his ignorant recklessness, I wonder at how long."

A groom held the halter rope of a large, saddled buckskin gelding. The animal was young, no more than four years in age, yellow in color with splashes of white on its stomach and legs and a black mane and tail. Big and rangy, with placid, though intelligent, eyes, the horse had a slight bulge between the eyes which continued until it reached the nose. In appearances, the horse resembled a draft animal more than it did a riding mount. Agannalo knew, though, that such horses were usually tough and resilient, seldom getting injured, and oftentimes bold.

"Your mount," one of the guards at his side growled. "He is a lot finer animal than that old plug you rode into the fortress. Think you can ride him?" the guard asked without waiting for a reply.

Motioning to the groom, the man ordered, "Bring the prisoner's horse forward! We'll help him mount!"

The groom gave a tug to the halter rope, and the animal took a step, its ears pricking forward. As the horse drew closer to Agannalo, his right ear would flick forward, the left ear back. A tremble ran over the horse's body, then the animal balked, planting its feet rigidly. Embarrassed, the boy tugged fiercely at the halter rope, but the horse would not take one step forward.

"I cannot understand what has gotten into Prince this morning," the shamefaced boy bemoaned. "He is usually such a good beast."

"All right, you," one of the guards pushed Agannalo forward, "you are going to ride that horse if we have to tie you to him!" 

The sight of the off-balance Agannalo stumbling towards him terrified Prince. The beast rose on his hind legs, pawing the air. The young groom, pulled off the ground, lost his hold on the halter rope and fell onto the cobblestones. Prince's feet came back down, and then with a kick of his heels, he galloped away across the courtyard.

"Catch that beast!" screamed the head ostler who had just come out of the stable. Then for the next fifteen minutes, the grooms and many of the guards chased the horse as it ran wildly around the courtyard before it was finally captured. As four grooms held Prince cross-tied, the ostler soundly beat the horse over the head with a long, thick stick. "He'll give you no more trouble now, and to make sure of it, I'll have him blindfolded!" the ostler said.

When calm had at last returned, the two guards hoisted Agannalo onto the blindfolded horse's back. Prince shuddered and snorted, but subdued and dazed from its recent beating, he stood steady. 

Agannalo used his knees to direct his horse towards the head ostler who was still standing nearby. The man was apparently a barbarian – a stocky squat brute of a man. He jumped startled when he heard Agannalo’s whisper, venomous as a hiss of a snake. 

“Make sssure my old Gray is well fed and well tended, osssstler… If I don’t find him hale and ssound when I ssend for him, I will come for thee perssonally, ossstler, and I will ssskin thee alive to make a harness for my new horse!” 

In horror the man looked up at Agannalo, his watery blue eyes bulging in his ashen face. Unable to reply, he gulped and nodded many times, shaking all through. Satisfied, Agannalo straightened up in his saddle again. At least no woe would befell his old horse. 

In the confusion of the departure nobody seemed to pay attention to this short conversation. Hyarion gave the signal to leave.

Soon the procession was trotting across the drawbridge and onto the road. Occasionally Prince gave a long suffering groan of protest, but followed dutifully behind a trooper who led him with a very long rope on his halter. For some odd reason that no one was able to comprehend, none of the troopers' horses were willing to get near Agannalo, and so it was decided it would be best to lead the steed on a very long rope.


Chapter 16 - Troubles ahead

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Woods north of the Great East Road, morning of November 5, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Private Saakaf slumped against the bole of a great oak tree and pulled the stopper from his flask of draught. Lifting the bag high in the air, he let the liquid flow down his throat as he listened to the sounds around him. Accursed daylight shone down through the trees, but the shade was deep here where the company rested.

Sometimes Saakaf just liked to sit and think, and there were many things filling his mind. The image of the beautiful Princess Gimilbeth was predominant in his thoughts, and he relived the one time that he had seen the haughty princess. "As fine a piece of womanflesh as ever lived, an ivory goddess too far above the likes of me," he reflected unhappily. The orc was totally enamored with the princess. As a matter of fact, this was the first time he had ever been in love. He had once had a mate, a fine, big, strapping she-orc, ugly as sin and with a temper that would rival that of a warg, but he had not loved her. The association had not lasted long, however, for she had been killed several years ago in a brawl that broke out with several other she-orcs. He seldom thought of her now.

Off duty during the rest period, he had time to muse, and he found his mind wandering to a scene several nights ago. Pizgal Durburz had been late reporting back after the scouting mission, far too late in Captain Ashuk's mind. After Saakaf had informed Ashuk about his suspicions that Durburz was cannibalizing the hanged man, the captain was enraged. "The greedy lard-gutted bastard! Absent without leave, is he? I know what he is doing! He's taking his fill of the corpse! He will learn he can't do that after he's been flogged thirty lashes with a cat-o-nine! He will regret that little feast! Bring him back!"

While the main part of the company had headed southwest, the captain had detailed a patrol of ten men under the command of Corporal Boshok to find the missing Durburz. Assigned as part of that detail, Private Saakaf had slogged off with the rest of the patrol. Never having gotten along too well with Durburz, who was known among the company as a bully and a braggart, Saakaf was looking forward to the task. It had been a while since any man had felt the kiss of the cats.

When the patrol found Durburz, he was asleep, drunk on orc draught, and engorged upon putrefying man-flesh. The sound of the approaching patrol brought him staggering to his feet, angry at being found, and feeling guilty at his breach of discipline.

"Durburz, you are under arrest!" Corporal Boshok hissed. "Throw down your weapons peacefully and come along with us! Maybe it will go easier on you!"

"I ain't done nothing!" came the belligerent reply, a common response of the guilty person who is not sorry at his fault and is only angry at being caught.

"Neglect of duty," Corporal Boshok said matter-of-factly. "Now quit arguing and throw down those weapons!"

"You're not taking me without a fight!" snapped Durburz as he drew his scimitar and rushed towards Boshok. The corporal had seen the menace in the other orc's eyes. Quickly jumping out of the way, he drew his own weapon as the draught-slowed Durburz charged by. He landed a light cut to the back of Durburz's neck, who roared at the sudden pain and then turned to face his assailant. While some of the orcs howled in excitement at the smell of fresh blood, others placed bets on which would kill the other, with the betting favoring Durburz as the winner. Saakaf, not a gambler, seldom placed bets.

As their scimitars clashed together, Corporal Boshok let the heavier orc drive him back, occasionally landing a blow to exposed skin. The draught had made Durburz clumsy and slow, and he soon began to show signs of fatigue. Those who had placed bets upon Durburz began to mutter. 

"Too flatulent to fight, eh, Durburz?" Corporal Boshok taunted him.

"You will see!" screamed Durburz as he came charging and swinging his weapon at Boshok. Ducking as the enraged orc swung his scimitar over his head, Corporal Boshok brought his own blade up and sliced across Durburz' throat. Gurgling blood from his mouth and neck, Durburz fell to the ground, his limbs thrashing. Boshok finished him off with a piercing blow to the heart.

"All right, matey, you owe me a bundle," smirked an orc who had bet on Corporal Boshok. The orc beside him glared.

"I don't remember making that bet," the other snapped.

"You liar! You bet me half a month's pay that Durburz would disembowel the Corporal before the fight had gone ten minutes! You lost! Now pay me!"

"You filthy reneger!" came the angry voice of a nearby orc. "You're trying to cheat my brother! I heard you make that bet with him! Now give him his money or I'll cut out your guts!"

The dispute among the three orcs grew more threatening, and other orcs became caught up with it, with each one taking a side. In the ensuing tumult, Private Saakaf slipped away into the trees and watched from a safe distance.

When the fight was over, six orcs lay dead under the trees, while three were wounded, one seriously. Corporal Boshok had a wicked gash over his right eyebrow, and oozing cuts to his arms and legs. 

"Let's get out of here," the corporal ordered.

"What about the dead? Are we going to salvage the bodies? Don't we have it coming to us?"

"Take what possessions of the dead you want and hack off any of the remains that appeal, but be quick. You never know who might have heard the screaming and moaning," Corporal Boshok ordered as he wrapped a rag about his bloody arm. "And Saakaf, cut off his head! I want it for a trophy! You others who aren't injured, whack off Durburz' prime cuts! We feast tonight!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, morning of November 5, 1347
Written by Gordis
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When Gimilbeth and her entourage set out for the Last Bridge, it became apparent that their previous luck with weather had run out. The morning turned out to be one quite usual for the month of Hithui - wet, miserable, and chilly, with thick mist filling the roadbed to the brink. The horses had difficulty picking their way in this milky substance, but the old road built by High Numenoreans in ages past was well beaten and even, so Gimilbeth's party advanced without accident. 

The previous evening they had reached the Great Road and taken shelter in a rundown watchtower near the crossroads. Gimilbeth sent everyone to camp outside as best they could and took possession of the only decent chamber the old tower had to offer - the quarters of the Warden. The man, however, did not seem to mind, awed by the presence of royalty and cowed by Gimilbeth's rather intimidating personality.

So Gimilbeth had a decent supper, a bath and a good night's rest in relative comfort, including her customary nightly green mask. Now, despite the weather, she felt fresh and cheerful. Also, last night she had an opportunity to take out her green velvet dress and try Tarniel's emerald necklace on with it. As she had hoped, it fitted perfectly - which cheered Gimilbeth considerably. 

She nudged her horse closer to Gwindor's and asked playfully, "Tell me, Gwindor, do you have any idea why Merendil seemed so grim yestermorn? And, for that matter, why did he send additional guards with us? I guess the gruff Captain being both preoccupied and unusually nice bodes no good."

Gwindor smiled and shook his head. "Do not bother with it, my fair Lady, there is nothing to worry about. While we were approaching Brochenridge, Merendil imagined he smelled orcs. Can you believe it - orcs that far south?" Gwindor laughed merrily, more for Gimilbeth's sake than his own. "I bet the Captain is getting paranoid with too much campaigning."

Gimilbeth frowned slightly. She suddenly remembered Belzagar's pigeon and the vision of orcs she got when she tried to trace the letter with her magic. "I think it is not unusual to find orcs and even trolls in the Trollshaws. But hopefully, we are well past this place now."

"Quite so, my Lady," nodded Gwindor. "Anyway, we are strong enough to discourage any attackers." He guided his black horse closer to Gimilbeth's bay, took her left hand and kissed her gloved fingers, adding in a hot, husky whisper, "I wish most fervently for someone to attack us - then I will be able to prove myself to my Princess in battle!" 

"A bad omen!" Gimilbeth's stomach suddenly went cold. "How stupid of him to call misfortune upon us," she thought.

As if to prove her true, one of the scouts suddenly materialized out of the thick mist in front of them.

"There is trouble ahead!" he reported. "A company of armed Dwarves bars our way. They seem unfriendly and ready to fight".

"Stay here, my Lady" - Gwindor instantly became stern and businesslike. "Make the standard-bearer advance. Let them see the Royal colors of Rhudaur." 

Followed by the standard-bearer and two score of fighting men, Gwindor disappeared in the heavy mist. 


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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, 1347
Written by Serenoli and Gordis
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Almost all the dwarves had soon forgiven the two elves for the cold reception handed out to them by Agannalo. After all, they had more than made up for any prejudices by dangling their long legs all over the ground from that morning till now... without grumbling. Gere had confided to Truin alone her conversation with Alagos, and he had decided they were interesting enough to talk with. And as he led the fashions of their little company, and as he had already been preceeded by his father, it was soon common enough to nudge one's pony near to theirs and engage them in conversation. It certainly lightened up a dull journey.

This morning, they found a new use for the elves. They had barely started the day's journey after a hearty breakfast when they found the elves looking worried beside their new ponies.

Truin told them confidentially, "If you fear riding them for another day, maybe we can excuse you. After yesterday," he paused to allow himself a grin at the recollection, "you would not be considered rude for doing that."

"I appreciate it, but something else troubles us." Alagos replied, his bright eyes on the road behind them, but surely even his eyes could not penetrate the thick mist that had settled down that morning. "Someone... well, a lot of someones.. are on the road behind us. They will be catching up to us soon."

Hroim, listening to their conversation, said, "Well, it could be nothing, or it could be anything. We'd best be prepared."

It was the sign for them to draw their weapons and to pull their ponies and wagons back to the side of the road. They waited, anxiously, ready for anything. The one consolation - no one smelled orc. 

A noise of horses and silver armour came through first, and then the fog parted to let through around twenty men, led by a proud-looking man. The royal standard of Rhuadar hung upon itself with no wind to blow it up.

"Halt, dwarf. State your name and business."

Of course that is hardly the way to speak to a dwarf with thirty others standing ready behind him, but Gwindor's blood was running hot today. Hroim looked him up and down and took his time answering. "We are travelling to Tharbad. My name is Hroim, and I am the leader of this tribe."

Gwindor could hardly take offense at this, so he tried another tack. "The Lady Gimilbeth - daughter of the King of Rhuadar -" and a few other titles that quite slid past the dwarves, but which obviously proclaimed her importance, "is travelling this road today. You and your company will kindly move yourself to one side while we pass. She is in no mood to wait for the slow plodding of a dwarf, anyway." The last sentence was meant to be a mutter, but of course he made sure it was the kind of mutter that reached everyone's ears. 

Hroim's face darkened. Before he could say anything, Truin spoke up, "What if we're not in the mood to wait out the slow regal tread of your lady?"

Gwindor paused for a second, trying to select the best of three replies that had occured to him. He had just rejected one as too obvious and the other as too subtle, when hooves behind him announced the presence of Gimilbeth herself. 

"My lady, maybe you should turn back," he started to say. He was, of course, looking forward to the upcoming fight with the dwarves, just as soon as he managed to let off that very witty reply that he had decided on, and he did not want it complicated by having to look after Gimilbeth. Though a part of him reflected, that would be much more romantic, him slashing away with her at his back... and then she could see him in action, not just hear about it.

Gimilbeth’s voice cut Gwindor short, however. She pushed her bay stallion forward and addressed the angry Dwarves herself.

“Then, good Dwarves, perhaps you would care to join your slow plodding to our slow regal tread - so we could share our road?“ she asked with a pleasant smile. “There has always been friendship between the Dunedain of Rhudaur and the Longbeards of Gundabad. There is no need to change this now. I am Princess Gimilbeth - at your service and that of your family.” She bowed slightly in the saddle, her right hand on her breast as she had learned to do when dealing with Dwarves.

She has seen quite a few of them since she came North. Recently driven from their ancient stronghold of Gundabad, the homeless and impoverished Dwarves spread far and wide through the northern lands, seeking work and shelter. There were some who worked in Fornost, and twenty years ago a whole company of fifty came to labor in Cameth Brin on the construction of the New Palace. Gimilbeth had to admit that, despite their low numbers and diminutive stature, the Dwarves were outstanding masons, every bit as good as their reputation. She was ready to believe that their fabled prowess and resilience in battle were no mere tales either. 

Hroim’s frown slowly disappeared, giving way to an uncertain smile. He took off his funny russet hood, bowed from the waist and introduced himself again. 

“I am Hroim, the leader of this tribe of Gundabad Dwarves, at your service, my Lady, and at the service of the Royal family. We are now traveling from the Grey Mountains to Cardolan.” The other dwarves gradually let their hands fall from the axes at their waists and bowed, sweeping the ground with their hoods – blues, reds, greens, yellows and whites.

Gritting his teeth, Gwindor made a stiff bow. Inwardly he boiled. Why did women always try to spoil a nice budding fight? Oh, how he wished to hack these poor excuses for a human to tiny pieces!

Meanwhile Gimilbeth continued. “I am glad to meet a compatriot of Master Narvin who built the new Palace at Cameth Brin for us. He looked much like you, and he also had a russet hood – perhaps he was your kinsman?”

“Narvin is my great-uncle,” Hroim replied proudly. “He was one of the best masons of Gundabad. But he went to Khazad Dum about ten years ago and I haven’t seen him since.”

“If you meet him, please offer him my greetings and best wishes!” smiled Gimilbeth. “I repeat my invitation to join our forces, Master Hroim,” she continued pleasantly. “Forgive Lord Gwindor his gruffness – he was worried about our safety. There were reports of Orcs in the vicinity, so your company is welcome indeed if it comes to trouble. And even if there is no trouble, you are still welcome.”

Hroim muttered an excuse and stepped a few paces away to exchange words in his incomprehensible language with the other dwarves. Gimilbeth patiently waited. Her gaze wandered around the company – unlike among the team at Cameth Brin, here there were a few obviously very young Dwarves, with short, soft stubble at their chins instead of full beards. Excluded from the conversation their elders were having between themselves, all of the youngsters were staring at Gimilbeth with wide, curious eyes. Still there were no women or babies among the dwarves. “Do they even have them?” – Gimilbeth was uncertain about the answer. 

At that moment, she noticed two tall figures, incongruous among the Children of Aule. Gimilbeth’s heart skipped a beat. Elves! Curse them! As if it were not enough to have to put up with Arinya’s eternal perfection and her nosiness back in Cameth Brin, here there were two male ones! She gritted her teeth and willed herself to remain polite. 

The Elves came up and greeted her courteously, and after some brief civilities on both sides, disappeared again in the thick mist.

Tyaron and Alagos... that were their names. Noldor, both of them, and ancient too, if she were any judge. They said they hailed from Rivendell and were now going to visit Emyn Uial, beyond Fornost. It looked like she was going to have their unwelcome company for the whole journey. Ugh!

Meanwhile, Hroim returned and informed Gimilbeth that her kind proposal to share the road had been accepted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
High hill above the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, afternoon of November 5, 1347
Written by Angmar
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High atop a hill above the Great Road, a scouting party of five orcs surveyed the road below them. Corporal Boshok, though still in pain from his wounds of a few days previously, had been put in charge of the patrol by Captain Ashuk. Boshok was lucky in that his wounds were not too serious. Unless a man were fortunate enough to be related by clan to an officer, he might be killed if he could not carry his weight in the company. Even nepotism was not always a guarantee of survival. 

The men were under strict orders not to partake of any draught, for they needed their senses to be clear. Other orders called for them to build no fires, but that edict had been in effect ever since they had arrived in the south. Alert and watchful, they kept their eyes fixed upon the road. Any mistake, any slip up, and the whole mission would fail, and no one wanted to return to the north with that stigma.

Corporal Boshok's voice was quiet as he talked to them. Even though they were far above the road, sounds sometimes did strange things. It was always possible that the wind might play tricks and some enemy below hear them talking. Private Saakaf had heard about battles which had been fought just across a hill, but the men on the other side heard nothing, totally unaware that a battle raged close by. When Saakaf had been in training in the north, the Instructing Officer had a fancy word for this phenomenon, "Acoustic shadow."
Once when the officer had been lecturing, he explained. "Years ago, there was a great battle in progress, but a westerly wind kept the general commanding from knowing that his forces were heavily invested. Being in ignorance of the need of his troops, the general did not send reinforcements in time and the battle was lost." Saakaf had not completely understood this concept but he did understand enough to know that wind currents or topographical obstructions such as hills could play havoc sometime with sounds. However, Saakaf was merely a private and did not have to worry about such things. Officers did. What he needed to concentrate upon was the road below him, and the mission that had been given to him.

"Remember, Saakaf, that should any enemy forces be observed on the Great Road marching towards the west, you are to send one of the magic candles blazing skyward. Our other scouting post to the west will observe it and send word to Captain Ashuk and his company down near the bridge. Since you have had training with these amazing devices, you are entrusted with this duty."

Private Saakaf's chest filled with pride as he smiled. He and two others were the only ones in the company who knew how to deal with these strange fiery projectiles. Many thought the candles were pure "magic," one of the strange devices that the Sorcerer King in the north had developed. Saakaf knew better; the flares were nothing more than a form of fire that could be directed on a preset course. Saakaf did not have anything to be concerned about the flares yet, though. Everything was quiet on the road below.


Chapter 17 - Ambushed by Orcs

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth peered into the gathering darkness ahead and surveyed the high rocky cliffs on the right, dripping wet now. This morning's fog gave way to small, incessant rain, cold and penetrating, a sort of rain that soaked everything to the core. She felt cold, wet and miserable and therefore her ire was steadily rising.

"How far are we from the Last Bridge, Gwindor?"

"I am not sure, your Highness, two-three leagues at least, I guess." Gwindor answered morosely - he was still sulking after Gimilbeth's affront in the morning. 

Gimilbeth turned and tried to distinguish the forms of two wagons on the road behind them. She knew that the last wagon harbored her maid Nimraen, her two pages and her clothes, while the foremost one, driven by Callon, carried Hurgon and the two unwelcome Elves. She waited till the wagons finally came into view - and the Dwarves on their stupid ponies were riding right behind. Twenty Dunedain guards formed the rearguard. And all this procession advanced at a snail's pace! Curse the Dwarves! - she had never supposed how really slow a laden pony would be...

"I hoped to reach Iant Methed before dark" Gimilbeth complained bitterly. "They are slowing us down!"

Gwindor said nothing, but "I told you!" was written plainly upon his face. Gimilbeth's temper finally burst out. 

"It is all your fault, anyway!" she hissed vehemently. Gwindor's eyes widened in surprise, but Gimilbeth wouldn't be deterred. "You made me angry this morning with your childish attempts to start a fight with those Dwarves. If not for you, I would have never invited them to join us in the first place!"

Gwindor swallowed and lowered his eyes. "As you say, My Lady." he replied calmly. He had learned by long experience that there was no contradicting Gimilbeth when her temper ran high. When angry, she was very unfair and oftentimes cruel. Those nearby only had to keep low profile and try to get out of the way.

"Leave ten men to guard the wagons and round up the others!" Gimilbeth ordered. "We shall gallop ahead with thirty men, and let the Dwarves and the wagons plod after us as best they can." 

Gwindor shrugged his shoulders, but obeyed. He stopped the column and a scout was sent to give new orders to the rearguard. Gimilbeth waited, impatiently turning the ivory handle of her whip round and round in her gloved hands. 

At this moment an arrow whizzed past Gimilbet's head, followed by a rain of others. The darkness to the right exploded with hundreds of hellish shrieks. Dark, twisted shapes poured from the cliffs down onto the road, shouting war-cries and slashing at the neighing horses and dismayed riders.

Someone screamed: "Orcs! We have run into an ambush!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Angmar
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High up on the cliffs above the Great Road, Captain Ashuk's company of orcs lay in wait in the darkness and cold rain for Princess Gimilbeth's cavalcade to pass by below them. Captain Ashuk congratulated himself on how brilliantly he had planned the ambush. If everything went according to his expectations, Princess Gimilbeth would be in their hands very shortly. His last minute orders were passed down the line of waiting orcs, who received them with joyful expressions of maliciousness upon their faces.

The bowmen were ordered to aim primarily for the horses and kill or wound as many as possible. In the shock and confusion of plunging, screaming horses, the riders would be at the orcs' mercy. Unhorsed, it would be a simpler task to kill the riders. Then after the archers had done their damage, the lads were to rush down the hill. The orders were to kill everyone, save the Princess Gimilbeth and a few prisoners who would be taken for questioning. Any other women whom they might find were to be killed outright, for there was no time to waste in wild orgies. These latter orders had caused some muttering among the lads, but they all knew better than to argue with the captain. Captain Ashuk was known to have a fierce temper and would brook no insubordination.

"Now! They are right below us!" Ashuk whispered to the corporal beside him. Ashuk brought his right hand up and then slashed it down towards the ground in a cutting motion. At his signal, the archers unleashed a volley of poison-tipped arrows. They listened gleefully as the screams of the wounded horses and men below them gave proof that many of arrows had found their mark.

"You fool!" Ashuk growled as he moved forward and knocked a startled archer to the ground. "You almost hit the Princess!" There was no time to punish the careless archer in the way that he should be, though, and so Ashuk let him off with a kick in his groin.

"Attack! Attack, you maggots!" Ashuk bellowed as he drew his scimitar and charged down the hill. His men bellowed out their fierce war cries, feeling the heady rush of battle fury sweeping through their bodies as they smelled the scent of human and horse.

In the aftermath of the blistering rain of arrows, wild pandemonium had broken out through the cavalcade. Wounded men and horses screamed and moaned. Downed horses thrashed and men maddened by their pain tried to pull arrows out of their bodies. Nimraen screamed a long, loud, piercing shriek as she saw one of her wagon's horses go down with an arrow in its spine. She screamed hysterically as she heard the dull thud as another arrow embeded itself in the thigh of the driver.

Mixing in with mad confusion were the orcs' war cries. Both the soldiers and the civilians felt chills go down their spines as they heard the dreadful sounds of, "Diis! Azuluk, agh dik shatraug!" and listened in disbelief to the guttural chants and cries of the orcs.

"Az!" Ashuk screamed as he swung his scimitar and loped off the head of his first victim. 

*** TRANSLATIONS

"Diis! Azuluk, agh dik shatraug!" - "Attack! Kill them all, but capture the witch!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Hurgon was taking a break from painting. Dangling his legs from the back of his wagon, he was talking with the two elves he had on board. They had both admired his painting volubly, which was a feather in his hat, for everyone knew elves knew more about art and music than most people. He was still putting on a bit of an invalid act, prompting Callon to look at him guiltily every now and then, and which meant he could take as many breaks as he could without feeling guilty himself. 

A shout rent the air. "Orcs! Orcs! We're being ambushed!"

The elves sprang up, their hands jumping to their weapons. Sadly, they were in a pretty small wagon, and both of them fell back again after hitting the roof, hands clutching painful foreheads. 

Hurgon reassured them, "Relax! There are no orcs. Its just that deaf driver of the cart behind us, he fancies he sees orcs at every turn." 

His scornful laugh was cut short as a big and rather ugly face poked up out from behind the wagon. Two arrows flew behind him, one striking the horse, and the other hitting the 'deaf' driver. He fainted dead away at the sight of the blood running over his leg, and Hurgon was still considering whether he ought to follow that course of action himself, when a third arrow whizzed past his ear and hit the orc plumb in the middle of his forehead. The orc fell with a resounding thump, and Alagos, who had somehow managed to manipulate his bow and arrow in the wagon, pushed past him, followed by Tyaron. The wagon had stopped moving... turning back, Hurgon saw Callon had jumped off, and appeared to be fumbling at his belt. 

Like a mother that tries to save her child from a fire, Hurgon decided at once that he needed to preserve his painting. He lunged for it, and rolled it up, and clutching it in one hand, and after discarding his knife (it was caked with paint) he picked up the heaviest paintbrush he had, and crouched as inconspiciously as he could. Unfortunately, someone skewered an orc right into the wagon, and the spear that came through narrowly maissed Hurgon. Screaming, he jumped out of the wagon. 

Pandemonium reigned. Or was it chaos? 

A huge orc came lumbering towards him. Hurgon screamed again and jumped... to his knees, and crawled under the wagon. The orc bent down, laughing as he tried to hit the painter - unfortunately for the orc, someone saw his huge bottom sticking out, and just could not resist sticking his sword into it. 

Watching his own back so he could avoid a similar fate, Hurgon crawled out of the wagon, and saw the two horses that pulled the wagon. Inspiration struck. He picked up a scimitar lying on the ground, and slashed away the ropes holding the horses, and after a bit of pulling and pushing, he managed to get on top of one of them. Kicking his heels into it, clutching his painting to his chest, and waving his scimitar in the air, he set off in the safest direction he could think of - straight into the trees to the south of the road.

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Rian
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Tyaron listened to the painter talking, torn between amazement and amusement. In all his long years on Arda, he had never met anyone quite like Hurgon. The man had talent - that was undeniable. But for the elves, and for most men that Tyaron had met, talent seemed to go hand-in-hand with intellect. But in this case, the intellect seemed to be noticeable lacking. Or maybe it was just unrecognizeable ...

Alagos was enjoying himself immensely, and kept the painter going with well-timed remarks such as, "You don't say! Tell me more!", and similar comments in that vein. Tyaron started to lose interest, but kept up the appearance of listening while surreptitiously turning his senses to the scene that he could see outside of the wagon, framed by the canvas tent surrounding them. Suddenly the expression in his bright eyes changed ever so slightly; if Alagos had been watching him, instead of the painter, he would have stopped talking and gone on the alert.

Suddenly, a shout rent the air. "Orcs! Orcs! We're being ambushed!" Both Tyaron and Alagos jumped up, but unfortunately they were a little too tall for the wagon and sat down again, rubbing their bumped heads as they reached for their weapons, despite Hurgon's assurance that it was nothing. Tyaron had definitely sensed something amiss, and Alagos had seen Tyaron's expression, and from long experience with his friend, knew that something was up, and they weren't about to be caught empty-handed. 

Tyaron senses had not led him amiss - two arrows flew by and found their targets, and man and horse screamed in agony. Then an ugly face peered into the wagon, and got an arrow in the forehead for its trouble. "The art museum is closed!" laughed Alagos grimly as he checked the situation outside, then leapt out of the wagon, another arrow already nocked to the bowstring. "Good shot!" Tyaron yelled as he followed behind his friend, drawn sword in hand. "Stay in here," he added to Hurgon, before disappearing around the corner of the wagon.

Tyaron saw that Callon was at the horses' heads, trying to get them under control. "Get over here!" he shouted to Callon. "You're going to get shot!" But Callon stayed with his beloved horses, trying against all odds to calm them down and even suceeding a little bit. Tyaron and Alagos had gone to the front end of the wagon, and visually and physically sheltered from the orcs coming down the hill by the canvas and the wood frame of the wagon, were working in tandem - Tyaron dealing with the orcs that had worked their way in close, giving Alagos room to shoot those that were coming up from farther away.

But all too soon, Alagos had to abandon his bow and take up his sword, for there were too many for Tyaron to hold off single-handedly anymore. 

"Do you remember how to use your sword?" yelled Tyaron, jibing his friend as he slashed one orc in the thigh and then took out the orc next to him with a gash to the jugular as he continued the sword's upward arc.

"Pointed end out, right?" answered Alagos as he skewered one orc, then slashed another almost in half as he pulled the sword out of the first with a sideways motion.

"Only on Mondays," countered Tyaron, taking on three orcs at once and killing two of them, causing the third to flee and the rest to move back and regroup.

Suddenly Alagos, who was closest to Callon and had been keeping half an eye on him, heard the young man cry out and turned in time to see Callon grab his arm, and then pull an evil-looking, black-and-red fletched arrow out of his sleeve, where it had caught in the fabric. Alagos dashed out and grabbed Callon, pulling him back to the elves' position. He ripped Callon's shirt sleeve open at the torn spot with one hand and drew in his breath sharply. What he saw made him drop his sword and draw his dagger, crying out to Tyaron, "Cover me! Callon's poisoned!"

"I have been covering you, you poor excuse for a swordsman!" Tyaron yelled back, covering up his concern with more battleground dark humor, and moving to a more defensive position where he could cover the two men better. "Hurry, hurry!" he added urgently. But Alagos didn't need the admonition; he had seen the grim result of even a scratch like this one too many times.

Alagos had seen that Callon's forearm had a slight arrow scratch in it, enough to make the blood come, but that was not what concerned him; what concerned him was the unmistakeable (to the nose of an elf) odor of orc-poison, confirmed by the sight of a gooey black substance smeared on the shirt and around the wound. Speed was all that mattered now; if he moved too slowly, Callon would surely die. The poison was of the worst type - it spread quickly, but once spread, it brought on a slow, painful death. He only had a minute to get it out of Callon's body before it spread beyond recall.

"Hold still!" he said in a commanding voice, throwing Callon's arm against the wagon frame and pinning it down hard with his body as he took his dagger and, in one quick motion, made a deep, U-shaped cut under the arrow scratch, taking out the poison and the surrounding flesh. Callon yelled out in pain, but had the sense to not fight Alagos; the word "poisoned", along with the serious expression on Alagos' usually smiling face, had impressed on him the direness of his situation. Callon fought the urge to grab at his injured arm, and instead, moved his free hand the other direction and grabbed tight to the wooden frame of the wagon as Alagos flicked the poisoned flesh off of his blade with a snap of his wrist and bent over Callon's arm again, checking for more poison.

"Alagos! Watch out!" yelled Tyaron as a group of orcs made a rush for him and one got past, heading straight for Alagos' exposed back. In one swift motion, Alagos whirled around and threw his dagger at the orc. Callon's eyes widened in amazement as the orc went down with a dagger through his eye. "Got him!" shouted Alagos, letting Tyaron know he could turn his attention back to the orcs in front of him. "I don't like to be bothered when I'm working," he added to Callon with a quick wink as he looked for and found Callon's dagger, and then used it to cut some strips from his cloak. Putting Callon's dagger between his teeth to keep it handy for emergencies, Alagos quickly bound up the wound, which was bleeding profusely.

"Another one!" shouted Tyaron as Alagos was wrapping the wound. With an exclamation of irritation, Alagos held the bandage down with one hand and grabbed and threw the dagger with the other, again bringing down an orc, this time with a dagger through the side of the nose.

"Remind me to balance your dagger when this is over," grunted Alagos as he finished tying off the bandage. Callon nodded this thanks, his breath coming in ragged gasps from the pain, and then his eyes suddenly widening as he saw a fresh wave of orcs coming at them. Tyaron called out to them over his shoulder with a note of desperation in his voice, "If you're done with your primping, ladies, I could use some help!" 

"Stay here, or you'll bleed too much," ordered Alagos as he picked up his sword and pushed Callon back against the wagon.

"Not on your life!" yelled Callon, pushing back, and Alagos smiled at him as they rushed together to Tyaron's side, Callon still gasping in pain. Alagos paused for an instant to retrieve both daggers, handing Callon's to him as he said, "Here, have it back - he's done with it now!" Callon took it, disgusted by the foul black blood all over the blade, but wise enough to not let that stop him taking it back. Following Alagos' lead, he quickly wiped the blade and re-sheathed it.

"Stay at Tyaron's side," shouted Alagos above the din as they joined the battle. "He's the better swordsman - but don't tell him I said that!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, at nightfall of November 5, 1347
Written by Valandil
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Watching from the rear, Merendil’s nephew Maredur could just make out in the moonlight the whole line of the train before him. The moment the shouts of the orcs rang out, and their arrows began to come down, the Dwarves dismounted from their ponies, each swiftly grabbing hold of a battle-axe, or some few a great sword, rubbing their thumb along the edge and smiling grimly at one another as they awaited the onrush. Except that one only stayed mounted – not their leader, but the others seemed anxious to protect him.

Then, to his wondering eyes, he saw that Gimilbeth’s page, Edelbar, had bravely jumped from the second wagon and was pulling on the left-hand horse to draw the second wagon right up behind the first. This was hard work because the other horse had taken a shaft and was in a panic.

“Dwarves!” he called out to them, and they turned to hear. “We must fight together or be swept away. Will you stand between the wagons and the attack?” The Dwarves nodded grimly, with one directing the mounted Dwarf to the opposite side of the wagons.

The arrows had done little among those in the rear of the convoy. The few that had found their marks were mostly handled by the chainmail of the Dwarves and Dunedain. Only a couple horses went down, but their riders pulled themselves free. One man had fallen, an unlucky arrow through his eye.

“Quickly, behind the wagons!” he called to his men, and they all followed him there. He had thought to order the group there and come dashing out to left or right to scatter the attack. But even as he rode forward, he saw the orcs fall upon the vanguard, and the havoc they wreaked with their halberds there. He also saw with what violence they fell upon the front of the train. “Gimilbeth!” he thought.

But before they could get to her, they first had to turn back the tide that was now upon them. “Men! Dismount! Archers, form up behind the wagons and fire at will! The rest of you, split up to cover each flank!” The ten archers assigned to the convoy’s guards were all in the rear. If they could get good cover, their steel shafts and bows would tell quite the tale on the assaulting foes. Two of his men helped Edelbar bring the second wagon up against the other – and one of them gave Edelbar a short sword. The wounded driver and the maid were hauled out, both directed to crouch down beside a wagon wheel. Maredur grimaced at the thought, but at least the man's convulsions would be out of sight from the rest of his men, and the maid may be able to give him some slight comfort in his passing.

The Dwarves were just now reaching their post between the wagons and the hills. Only the swiftest orcs had come among the wagons before them, and they paid for it now. Having dispatched their first foes, the Dwarves turned toward to await the following onrush of Orcs.

At first the orcs hit them hard and pressed them back, but the axes of the Dwarves were fiercely wielded, and quickly took their toll. An orc cried out, "Dwarves?? We didn't expect Dwarves!" before a loud "THUNK" ended his complaints.

Those from the first wagon had joined right in. Tyaron came out hewing deftly about with his sword. One of the orcs shouted, "Elves as well as Dwarves? Who planned this anyway?" followed by a "THWACK!" Callon got in some good blows, and Alagos had taken up his own bow at first, until the press of orcs forced him to switch to a sword himself. Maredur saw no sign of the painter, but had plenty else to think about.

The first rush of the orcs was finally turned back by the grim axes of the Dwarves and the deadly arrows of the Dunedain. The Dwarves were now hot for battle with the spilling of orc blood. Little harm had been done among them yet. All now saw how heavily beset were their companions in front, and how poorly they fared. They ordered up together and advanced toward the flanks of those attackers. The Dunedain archers fired on any orcs that stood far enough apart from the shrinking knot of Dunedain defenders around Gimilbeth – or any more orcs that dared come down the hill, though now their arrows were almost spent, and some had already drawn their swords. The Dunedain swordsmen advanced with the Dwarves, or covered their flanks.


Chapter 18 - Capture the Witch!

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, 1347, after dark
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth felt cold fingers of fear grip her heart as the pandemonium spread. She fumbled for the hilt of the dagger that she knew should have been at her waist, but her shaking hands failed to find it. Then her bay stallion neighed and rose on its hind legs, lashing at someone with its front hooves. Gimilbeth fell forward onto the horse’s neck and gripped the thick black mane with both hands, trying to remain in the saddle. Someone screamed on her right – a high-pitched wail of death. There were hoarse orc voices all around, shouting in their guttural tongue. Then someone gripped the reins of her horse and pulled it down onto four legs. She turned and beat the attacker on the metal helmet with her bare hands, only to find Elvegil’s contorted face looking up at her. The knight was unhorsed and likely wounded as there was blood on his face.

“Oh, that’s you, Elvegil,” she sobbed in relief.

“Yes, my Lady,” Elvegil’s voice grated. “And Gwindor is there, on your other side. Stay mounted at all costs and we shall defend you until our last breath.”

Gimilbeth looked to her left. Gwindor was there all right, still mounted and slashing away at the blood-maddened orcs. “Rally to me, men of Rhudaur!” he cried. More horsemen appeared out of the darkness, forming a circle around Gimilbeth. One severely wounded guard, now unhorsed, stumbled into the circle carrying the banner. 

But the orcs were everywhere. They were coming in waves, covered in their own black blood, mouths gaping in horrible war-cries, red tongues lolling. They paid dearly for their boldness, but their losses seemed to bother them little – new attackers immediately took the place of those slain. It seemed the orcs used long pikes with hooks to drag the horsemen down. Gimilbeth watched in horror as one guard after another were unsaddled, thrown to the ground and torn to pieces by the snarling multitude. 

An ear-splitting death scream of a horse drew Gimilbeth’s attention back to her left. Gwindor was lying under his fallen mount, helpless like a beached fish, while a fat red-eyed orc was slashing at him with his scimitar, trying to find a gap in his armor. 

“Help him, help Gwindor!” Gimilbeth cried. It seemed her voice drew attention of the other guards, as, despite their own plight, several figures rushed to the rescue. They killed the orc and managed to drag Gwindor to his feet when a new wave of assailants came upon them, led by a strong ugly orc, probably the leader of the others. His red eyes were ablaze and his white-and black painted face was like a mask of death. He pointed at Gimilbeth with a bloodied pike and yelled: “Dik shatraug!” 

Gimilbeth sat frozen staring back at the approaching orc when a heavy object hit her knee. She glanced down and screamed. It proved to be Gwindor’s severed head that bounced on the road leaving a trail of red blood in its wake. She felt a wave of dizziness cloud her sight. Striving to remain conscious, she gripped the stallion’s neck and buried her face in the black mane.

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Angmar
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Captain Ashuk could smell the fear that rolled out over the young Tark like waves. The young man was actually trembling. The private beside Ashuk thrust his pike forward, ramming the point into the screaming man's eye. There wasn't time for even a grunt of approval from Ashuk, for the jubilant orc's tongue lolled out of his mouth as the sword wielded by another Tark sliced through his throat. Ashuk slammed his mace over the Tark's head, rending the helmet, cutting through metal, and digging out a trough of blood, skull shards, and brains.

As the man fell, the orc beside him speared him through the intestines with his pike. Another Tark went down in his turn, a look of complete disbelief upon his face as the pike point went through his mouth and came out the other side of his head. Slashing and thrusting, the troop beat its away forward, drawing closer and closer to their objective - the Princess. Gurgling bloody foam, another Tark went down to Ashuk's left.

The way ahead was clearer now, and with another savage battle cry, Ashuk led his troop forward, slashing through the last resistance. He could hear the terrified Princess screaming, "Help Gwindor!" They would help him, Ashuk thought maliciously - they would help him right to the next world! She was not far ahead of him now and more of the lads were coming up on the double.

"Az ta! Az Tark!" Ashuk bellowed, pointing to a man trapped beneath his horse. He heard the sound of steel connecting with flesh, and he smiled as he ran forward. There she was, right in front of him, the witch Gimilbeth, his purpose for being there! He would be the one to claim the credit for capturing her! He would get the glory! No one else!

"Dik shatraug!" He pointed to her with the pike drenched red in Tark blood. He could smell the fear on her, just like all the rest. Even royalty know fear, he thought with satisfaction. The haughty princess was afraid of him and all his lads with their fierce expressions and battle paint. She would learn to fear him even more!

"What a shame that no one will ever get to enjoy her except His Majesty. Curse the lot of the common soldier!" Ashuk thought regretfully. He saw her face and read soul-wrenching terror on those proud, arrogant features. Then she gripped her horse's neck and buried her lovely face in its mane. The Princess was cringing. Ashuk felt like bellowing out his elation.

"Princess Gimilbeth," he called out her name in Common Speech, "hear my name! I am Captain Ashuk! You will remember that name as long as you live!" Then motioning towards her with his pike once again, he barked out the order. 

"Dik shatraug!"

And with a howl that would curdle the blood of the bravest man, a mass of orcs rushed towards her horse.

***

"Az ta! Az Tark!" "Kill him! Kill the Tark!" "Dik shatraug!" - "Capture the witch!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth felt dizzy and her head swam. There were clash of metal on metal, curses and terrible cries all around her. Elvegil and the last of the guards fought desperately at her side; both were sorely wounded and leaned heavily on the flanks of her horse. The guard staggered forward a few paces to ward away three approaching orcs. He didn't come back, disappearing in the pile of bodies around the princess. 

The orc leader bore down on Gimilbeth. "Flee now, my Lady!" Elvegil cried, moments before the orc drove his pike into his stomach. With the last remaining strength the knight beat Gimilbeth's stallion across the rump with the flat of his sword and collapsed on the ground spewing blood. 

Maddened by pain and fear, the bay stallion sprang forward biting and lashing out with its front hooves, but the orc leader gripped Gimilbeth's trailing skirts and yanked her down. She felt the seams at her waist give way, the skirts being ripped from the bodice. At this moment her hand found the ivory hilt of her dagger. Without thinking, she bared the small weapon and, swift as a snake, lashed out at the sneering muzzle of the orc who held her skirts. She aimed for his left eye, but the brute managed to jerk his head away in the very last moment and the dagger ripped his cheek open, baring the hideous yellow fangs.

"Bitch!" the orc yelled. "You will pay for it!" Black blood dripped from his chin, but he held Gimilbeth fast. The bay stallion made another mad rush for freedom and the orcs parted like the sea before the beast's onslaught. The bay managed to fight his way out of the circle of orcs but he was already riderless. As for the princess, she was lying in a heap atop the wounded orc, her heavy damp skirts spread around her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Angmar
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Captain Ashuk could see the fear in the witch's eyes as she lay sprawled atop him. She would pay for her boldness in stabbing him with her silly little knife! He grabbed her wrist, twisting it viciously and shaking her hand until the dagger slid between her fingers, and enjoyed seeing the agony written in her features. He leered up at her as she grimaced and groaned in pain. Digging his fingers deeply into her hair, the tips of his claws skimming her scalp, he pulled her face down to his. Ashuk kissed her roughly, watching the disgust and terror in her eyes as his loathsome tongue probed between her teeth. Gimilbeth was nauseated at the foul taste of his mouth and felt as though she might retch if the kiss continued.

"You like this, don't you, wench?" he snarled into her ear. "Not so proud anymore, are you?"

Grunting, he kept kissing her, his leathery lips smearing drool over her face and mouth. The orc's bloody cheek oozed onto her skin and his giant paw searched over most of her body, groping her painfully with his talons. Then with a growl and a last painful tweak to her backside, he threw the princess aside. Rising to his feet, he picked up her dagger and thrust it into his belt. With a lecherous sneer on his face, he glanced at her once again. 

"Princess Gimilbeth, if you weren't considered prime meat, I'd carve that pretty face of yours with your own dagger. Then, I would be oh-so-careful as I started cutting just under the skin and decorating your flesh with the marks of my clan. If you cried too much and didn't admire my handiwork like I thought you should, I might just cut your nose off to boot! You wouldn't be so pretty then!" Enraged at the wound in his cheek, Captain Ashuk glared down at the woman, his mouth twisting up in a snarl while he cursed her in a language harsh and guttural.

He turned away from her and started barking out orders in Black Speech. There had been a lull in the fighting at this end of the column. In places, the bodies of both man and orc were lying atop each other, the wounded and the living tangled in masses of bodies. Down the road the sounds of the skirmish still raged hot, but at this end, things were relatively quiet, the moans of the injured mingling with a few cheers from the jubilant orcs.

While the rain drizzled down in the darkness, the captain gave the orders for the return home. All those Dunedain at the front of the Princess' entourage were either dead or dying. The captain took the initiative in decapitating one young soldier and turned the rest of the killing party over to his lads.

"All right, men, there is little time to spare. We are all committed to getting the Rhudarian Princess back north, or die in the trying. I am naming Sergeant Ushdurz of the First Company as head of the rear guard. They have the honor of defending our retreat when we leave out of here." As those orders sank in, he turned to a gangling, long-armed orc, who had a cunning, vicious look in his eye. "Corporal Tharb, you are to head up the troop of ten responsible for guarding the Rhudarian princess on the return home. Tie her up, assign a couple men to carry her, and get going now! We will be right behind you as soon as we finish up here!"

"Aye, sir." Corporal Tharb licked his lips and motioned to another orc to help him. Together, they wrestled the struggling, biting, kicking and scratching princess down and bound her ankles and tied her wrists behind her back. Throwing the shrieking, squirming Princess over his shoulder, Tharb gave her bottom a mighty pinch and set off at a sprint at the head of his troop.

"Form on me!' Ashuk shouted as he lifted his pike high. The war horns were just sounding for another charge, when on the ridge to the east, a flare arched upward into the heavens. Captain Ashuk cursed. The flare meant two things: a party of the enemy was heading this way and Saakaf and the group of scouts would be moving towards the trysting place! Curse the luck! Ashuk thought. The knowledge that they might soon be fallen upon by a group of cavalry spread like wildfire among the soldiers. Ashuk scowled. They had been so close to complete victory!

The captain growled out a command which was passed all down the road - "Withdraw in an orderly fashion! If any of you maggots run, I'll hunt you down, and when I find you, I'll have you staked out spread-eagled and rip out your bowels! Now, steady, steady! Fall back! Fall back!"

The war horns blared out again, this time the call for retreat. Now there would be little time to take prisoners or collect booty. However, Captain Ashuk still had much for which he could be proud. They had kidnapped the princess, and there was still the opportunity to take prisoners and booty before the cavalrymen charge onto the scene. They would soon be safe up in the wooded cliffs to the north! Try as they might, no horseman could ever reach them there.

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On the Great Road further east of the site of the ambush, November 5, after dusk
Written by Valandil
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Merendil's men had been riding hard - for a day, a night and another day, with very little rest. They had reached Brochenridge a few hours before dawn, just as the moon was going down the night before and had taken a few hours sleep there, only to get right back on the trail before sunrise.

Alarmed at the report of the large Orc band, and the possible danger to the King's daughter, Count Ormendur of Brochenridge had rounded up 30 more of his men to send forth. With the time it took them to make preparations, they had left only a short while before Merendil's 50, but being fresher - might be a good deal ahead. Brochenridge didn't have enough horses left for all Merendil's men, so their own mounts had to ride on with what rest the men had.

So far there had been no signs of trouble. There was very little sign of other movement on the road - tracks probably from Gimilbeth's party, from the 30 men sent ahead, and from some other party as well, but they had seen no other travelers all day.

Merendil hoped that he would be wrong about the Orcs - that they might catch up to Gimilbeth's party, traveling along in safety, and all share a good laugh at his concern. But each time that hope crept into his mind, his heart told him it was not so, and he spurred himself, and his horse, all the harder.

"Captain Merendil! Sir... what in blazes is THAT?" said the man next to him.

Merendil lifted his eyes and saw from the hills far ahead, a trail of flame flying upward through the sky. What the blazes WAS that, indeed? Some strange magic? No flaming arrow would leave a trail of flame like that one... nor could it fly nearly so high!

And what was that? Still further on now, barely to be seen, a second light appeared in the sky just like it.

Tired as they all were, Merendil knew that some mischief was at hand, and that the time for action had come. He raised his right arm high and held it briefly that all his men might see it and called out, "Alright now men... we must fly!" Then throwing his arm forward he drove his horse harder.

And on they rode, westward down the Great Road.

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Gordis
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Gritting his teeth, Lammir, the youngest of Gimilbeth’s pages, watched in horror how his Lady was brought down and maltreated by the savage monsters. Tears of rage ran down his face as an orc ravaged her lovely mouth… Lammir was helpless to aid her, as his lower body was solidly jammed between the ground and his fallen horse. He closed his eyes unable to watch further. Minutes passed, long as centuries.

“Kill them all!” 

He heard the guttural voice of the orc commander pronounce his Doom. He opened his eyes – to see the struggling Gimilbeth being carried away uphill. The orcs prowled around slaying the wounded and mutilating the corpses. Lammir tried to lie as quiet as dead, although the horrible pain in his arrow-pierced shoulder made it next to impossible. 

A clawed hand gripped his hair and jerked his head up. Pain burst in his strained neck and Lammir cried out, forgetting his plan to try to pass for dead. 

”Yet alive, little tark-brat?” the orc sneered. “T’will not be for long.” 

Lammir felt the wetness of the blood-smeared blade at his throat and mentally sent his farewells to his parents and to his poor Lady. He failed her dismally today…

“Afraid, tark-snaga?” the brute jeered, drool dripping from his chin. “And right you are - but what do we have here, eh? An arrow-wound! Har! Rotten luck, buddy, eh?... I have reconsidered, y’know - I will not cut off your pretty little headpiece, I will leave you to die slowly of poison on yonder arrow. You will squirm like a roasting maggot, you will wail and convulse, while it takes you… slow-like. Pity I can’t stay and watch!” Hooting with laughter, the orc spat at Lammir and swaggered away in search of another victim.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to remain conscious. He knew that the orc had told the truth about the poison – he felt its slow fire coursing in his blood. 

“Sweet Eru,” he prayed, “let me live long enough to tell the others about the plight of my Lady – and to sent them in pursuit, before it is too late for her.” 

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Serenoli
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There was an unfortunate obstacle in Hurgon's path to freedom. In front of his horse sprang two people fighting so fiercely neither had the time to pay any attention to Hurgon. For some time he watched them fascinated - it was hard to tell where orc ended and where human began, they were swirling around so fast - but one of them got too close and nicked the horse's leg, and whinnying in pain, the horse thrashed and throwing Hurgon off, ran away in terror. Equally, or maybe more, terrified, Hurgon ran after it, calling its name. His lucky charm strung around his neck to protect him from Gimilbeth's 'evil' spirit, was probably the only reason he was not skewered five times over in this mad dash, because surely one man can not have so much luck at a time. 

A horn blared somewhere ahead of him. To the utmost amazement of the shouting Hurgon, he saw the orcs retreating. The closer he got to them, the farther they went back. He had never before frightened anyone or anything in his life - he had been content to be the cowardly one. And these mighty orcs, with their strong muscles and generally ugly faces (what bad luck for a race as a whole to be ugly, he speculated in some distant corner of his mind - it almost justified their hatred for everyone else) were retreating before him! Heartened, he waved his scimitar even more wildly, and screamed louder than ever, trying to think of some good battle-cry. He had no intention of fighting, however, and when something large stepped in front of him, with not one, but two scimitars bared to confront this fearless human fighter, his own scimitar flew out of his hand, and he turned tail and ran for his life.

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, after dark
Written by Angmar
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Captain Ashuk had just hewed off the sword arm of the reckless guardsman who had challenged him. As the man shrieked in pain and looked at his bloody stump in disbelief, Ashuk decapitated him with his scimitar, sending the head toppling to the ground. He licked the warm blood off the side of his blade and found the taste stimulating as always.

After the retreat had sounded, his lads began disengaging themselves from the enemy and falling back towards the cliffs. Though the fighting was at a lull along most of the road, there were still pockets where the hand-to-hand fighting was savage. 

A fierce gash on his leathery face and a vicious looking wound on his right arm, a corporal appeared through the gathering misty darkness. Three other stout warriors followed closely behind him.

"Corporal Bidroi with a report, sir," the warrior panted after saluting.

"Out with it, Pizgal!" Captain Ashuk barked.

"As ordered, sir, the men are falling back all along the road in a more or less orderly retreat. I regret to report that there have been a few desertions," the soldier stopped to catch his breath. "There was some fierce resistance from those dwarves that our scouts had reported earlier, but I don't yet have a good estimate of casualties." The orc swayed slightly, dizzy from pain and loss of blood.

"None of the men are wasting time ransacking the bodies and collecting booty, are they?" Ashuk asked suspiciously.

"Not many, sir. After they saw the flare, they just wanted to break off the fighting and get out of here." 

"All right, corporal. You need to do something about that arm before you bleed to death. Now get going back towards the cliffs. We'll be right behind you." As Ashuk watched the four men retreat, he heard a loud scream. "The accursed princess! That fool Tharb should have gagged her! If he doesn't shut her up, the Tarks will hear her bleating for miles around!" Another full-throated shriek cut through the night, but ended in a gurgling moan. 

"Good!" Ashuk thought to himself. "He's finally gagged her! I wonder what His Majesty wants with a shrew like the princess! Must be planning to hold her for ransom. Maybe her father will refuse to pay and the king will be forced to keep her," Ashuk laughed raucously, remembering the wicked wound she had dealt him. "Or maybe he wants to use her in some kind of sorcery. That is all she would be good for! I hope he turns her into something that she would find repulsive, like a purple spotted lizard!" Although the orc was titilating himself with possibilities for the Princess' transformation by magic, he felt a shudder creep down his spine at the thought of sorcery. The idea of such wonders always made him feel uncomfortable. 

Ashuk had never seen any of these sorceries himself, but he had always heard rumors that the king spent hours in his chambers devising marvels of alchemy and invention. His Majesty had been the one who had developed the marvelous blazing arrows which rose high into the air. Such things were beyond him though. It was useless to think about it. He was only a common soldier, after all.

"Never know when one of these workers of magic might decide that you would make a good candidate for their experiments!" All the lads felt the same way; they were fascinated by the concept of magic but feared it. Some of the lads even said that since they were of elvish ancestry, the gift would be with them, too. However, few had ever mastered any of the esoteric arts. They sensed stirrings of powers beyond themselves.

He saw eight of the fellows approach him. Their corporal had just saluted and was about to give his report when he bellowed out a warning. "Sir! Above you!"

Ashuk looked up to see a scimitar plunging downward straight towards him. The sight was enough to make him freeze in fear. He was unable to take a step as he gaped upward at the descending weapon. "Magic! Melkor pro--" he shouted. The words died in his throat as the soldier closest to him shoved him out of the line of the blade.

"Sir!" the private gasped in terror. "Swords don't come flying down out of the air like that! There must be a powerful shaman among the enemy, maybe even an elf!"

Ashuk blanched, turning a lighter shade of greenish gray. "Elves? The Rhudarians are now in league with elves? Come on men! Make haste! Let's get out of here!" the orc shouted in panic as he turned and fled, his men rushing behind him.


Chapter 19 - Methods of Cross-Country Transportation of Captured Princesses

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, 1347, after dark
Written by Valandil
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Just as the contingent of Dwarves and Rhudaurian regulars drew almost near enough to engage the knot of foes at the front, the Orcs looked high above them and behind them in fear. Turning, Maredur saw a blazing light flying straight upward into the night sky - like a flaming arrow that left a trail. The Orcs murmured in doubt and began to lose heart; their defense seemed to waver.

Meanwhile, the allies were now near enough to see – that just beyond the line of Orcs standing in their path, more Orcs beyond were rushing about, stabbing, slashing or impaling all the fallen… finishing them off! Then... the rearguard fell upon the Orcs before them in a mad attempt to rescue their fellows.

With a valiant effort, they managed to win that part of the field, as Orcs were hewn by Dwarven axe and Mannish sword. But it was costly ground… and it took time. The Orcs had now withdrawn before them, and continued withdrawing still. One of them called out, loud enough for Maredur to hear, “No good tryin’ to kill ‘em all now – there’s too many left. ‘Sides, we got what we come for!”

Maredur called for torches now, and gave orders for a few men to search for survivors – and to find the Princess Gimilbeth, wherever she might lay amid the carnage. There was confusion among his men at first, finding torches, getting them lit, going through those on the ground before them – all the while seeing the mutilated remains of friends and comrades-in-arms. When a torch at last came forward, the first thing that came into view was the bloody face and fixed stare of Captain Gwindor - and it was only on closer inspection in the dark that they saw that his head lay there by itself.

There was more commotion off to the rear now. Apparently a band of 20 or more Orcs had been separated from the rest, and now tried to join in with the main body. But while the Dwarves advanced before the still somewhat steady retreat of the Orcs, Maredur led the Dunedain, aided by the two Elves, to stand and hold off the smaller group – and then closed with them. The main body of Orcs seemed half inclined to come to the aid of their stranded mates, but some confusion arose in their ranks at about this time – from about the place where the Orc who seemed in charge was. Then, the main group of Orcs melted more quickly into the hills, abandoning the rest to their fate.

The Dunedain pressed into them, while the Elves stepped out to cut off the escape of any to either side. Soon, the grim work was drawing to a close. But just at the last, Maredur lost his footing and fell over a body lying on the ground. The Orc before him pressed the advantage and got off a wicked slash and a broad sneer, before Tyaron relieved from the creature's shoulders the burden of its helm-rest. And then all was still.

Maredur’s sword-arm was badly wounded, but as he winced in pain, he noticed movement in the body beneath him. He rolled off it in wariness, then pulled the head up by its hair with his good hand. “Argh! The fool painter!” he spat, then slammed the head back down to where it had been. A couple of his men helped him back onto his feet and back toward the search among the fallen, while Hurgon lay still in his place, whimpering and moaning.

Reaching the scene of the slaughter, Maredur could see that there were no more living Orcs in sight. The Dwarves had already caught the few that had still been milling about, trying to strip the dead. In fact, that had started when the lone Dwarf still mounted lept down from his pony, took up an axe and sliced through the helm of an Orc intent on the booty of a fellow Dwarf. That had drawn the other Dwarves over, for by that time, the retreating Orcs could be seen no more, and the Dwarves dared not follow them into the woods. They should have saved a few for interrogation, thought Maredur – but he and his men hadn’t done that either.

A man came forward with a report on the search, and Maredur braced himself. It might now fall to him to tell the King of his daughter’s death… to bring her body back to him.

“Sergeant Maredur… all the men in the van-guard were slain. The only one still living is Lammir, page to the princess, but he has taken a poisoned arrow, and has but a short time left.”

“The Princess Gimilbeth, then?”

The man was silent for a moment, looking into Maredur’s eyes, “You had best hear it from the lad, sir.”

He was led to where Lammir lay, squirming and twitching on the ground in the convulsions of the orc-poison. He reached down and cradled the lad’s head in his good hand and asked him, “Young man… what happened here in the front? What is become of Lady Gimilbeth?”

Lammir coughed violently and choked between gagging sounds as he tried to speak. But at last he forced out the word, “Taken!”

Maredur’s face turned still more grim. As hard as would be her death, this was worse. There was no telling what the Orcs would do to her… may have done already!

“What… Did the Orcs do her any harm? Here in your sight?”

Lammir put forth his effort again, “One… with cut face… kissed her!”

Then Lammir’s eyes opened wide and he began breathing rapidly, violently, gasping for air. At last his breathing slowed, and then finally, stopped altogether. Maredur slowly laid his head back down on the ground and then closed the lad’s eyes. He looked at peace now, and Maredur thought that he would be proud to have a son like him one day, any man would – so fair, and so brave… but living still.

He took a step back and sat down upon the ground, while one of the Elves took to bandaging up his right arm. Probably 50 or 60 Orcs had made their retreat, at least. No good trying to follow them now. They had been gone a half hour or more, the moon wouldn’t last more than a few hour more, and his forces were depleated, weary, and mostly unsuited for following a band of Orcs up a trail. They needed Eryndil for a task like this! Of the 40 Dunedain in the convoy, only 13 still lived, 3 with serious wounds and 3 with lesser – including himself. Of 20 Dwarves, 8 had fallen, and 4 more were wounded. They still had 2 Elves and one wagon driver – and a painter! Maredur wasn’t sure yet about the other page and the maid… but they had one less princess than they’d started out with.


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In the hills North of the Great Road, night of November 5, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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Gimilbeth winced and cried out as a clawed hand painfully pinched her backside. The small, long-armed orc who was carrying her uphill was panting heavily, his red tongue lolling, saliva dripping from his open mouth. Once he reached the crest, the orc wavered, stumbled and dropped his burden on the rocky ground. Gilmilbeth screamed again - a high-pitched wordless wail. 

"Lugurz, now is your turn to carry the blasted witch," the orc said, trying to catch his breath. "By Melkor's holy guts, she is as heavy as a sack of stones!" 

"Aye, corporal Tarb." Another orc approached, seeming not at all happy to take over. 

Tarb produced a dirty piece of cloth from his pocket. "Gag her first, lest she wakes the dead with her wailing"

Lugurz grabbed Gimilbeth by the hair and with assurance born of much practice started to push the filthy rag into her mouth. Here Gimilbeth's stomach finally revolted and she started to vomit.

"Stop, you, stupid snaga!" cried the corporal. "We shall have to wait till she is done, or she will choke to death on the gag." 

At this moment the horns on the road blared the signal of retreat. The ten orcs around Gimilbeth exchanged worried glances. The time was running short. 

"Well, no time for the gag now. Put her on your shoulder and let us run!" Tarb ordered.

Lugurz complied. Gimilbeth was taller than him by far, so she found herself with her stomach on the orc's shoulder, her legs hanging in front of him and her upper body draped along the orc's back, head down. Blood was pounding in her ears, her bounded wrists were paining her immensely and she was still vomiting - right on the backs of the orc's legs. The company departed at a run, following an almost imperceptible trail.

Hanging there on the orc's shoulder, Gimilbeth suddenly realized that she was afraid no longer. She was disgusted and in pain, but her anger was steadily mounting until it finally drove away all other emotions. Red spots danced before her eyes - she was literally seeing red and shaking from anger, not fear. She was not worried about her safety anymore - she only wished to make the orcs pay for her humiliation. She thought of her little spell-book, now left behind in the wagon - in its hiding place in a secret compartment of one of her trunks. Words of ancient spells were milling in her brain: the knife spell she had used on Broggha, various others that she had learned by heart. "By Melkor! I am a Witch, she thought - let the Holy Darkness help me, if Men would not!"

Gimilbeth concentrated, ignoring her pain, the orcs and her impending peril. She started whispering in ancient Adunaic - making a spell of her own - a spell of death, torture and destruction. Her rage and her strong will fiercely bent on a single goal, she drew mental images on the red background of her closed eyelids - vicious and heady images of the orcs falling under a shower of arrows, of them drowning in boiling water, of them skewered and gutted alive, their severed heads staked on pikes atop a fortress wall. 

"O Melkor the Potent," she prayed, "O Annatar, the Giver of Gifts, help me in my plight! Crash my foes like worms under your mighty feet and let the Holy Darkness devour them!'

The orc who was carrying Gimilbeth stumbled and slowed. His pointy ears twitched back trying to catch the words. Few even among the Dunedain knew the ancient Adunaic, but still there were some words it shared with Westron, so what he heard left the orc deeply alarmed.

"Corporal!' the orc whined. "The Shatraug is cursing us!"

"Let the snagalob who thinks she can curse us rant until her dying day!" snarled Corporal Tharb. "She can't do nothing! Lugurz, you are just grumbling because you have to carry her!"

Convinced that Princess Gimilbeth had singled him out for some evil spell, Lugurz slowed to a walk. Frightened though he was of her words in Adunaic, he was even more terrified of Tharb's anger. He had to have some plausable excuse for being unable to carry her, or the corporal would be very angry.

"Sir, my back is aching something fierce! She's done something to it! She's put a hex on me!" Lugurz panted. 

"Private, what nonsense! If you don't do your duty, I'll take the flail to you myself! She's just a sharp-tongued harridan! Now quit that sniveling, and carry this vile-mouthed shrew!"

"But, sir, she's so heavy, she's going to break me back! Hauling her around like this will only slow us all down!" Lugurz protested.

"I have an idea," piped up one of the other orcs. The goblin's minuscule size made him one of the weakest orcs in the troop, but he made up for it by his cleverness. Always eager to gain favor with his superiors, he had come up with an idea to handle the problem of transporting the princess.

"What is it?" growled Tharb. "Make this fast! We don't have any time to waste!"

"Sir, let's cut a pole from a stout sapling. Then we can tie the witch hand and foot to it. Two of us will take one end of the pole and two of us will take the other end. We'll carry her like a deer shot in the forest!"

"Four of you to carry one female? You lazy maggots! Two I can see, but four is ridiculous!" Tharb's face had darkened in anger. "All right, private, since it's your idea, you find a sapling stout enough to hold this fat cow's weight! Take another man with you to help you carry it back!"

"Sir," Private Lugurz simpered, "can I put her down now while we wait?"

"Aye, you weakling!" Tharb bellowed. "While we're waiting, gag the wench again so we won't have to listen to her ramblings!"

"Thank you, sir. Carrying her another furlong would be the death of me!" Lugurz dropped Gimilbeth like a heavy sack of rocks. Her eyes flashing with anger, Gimilbeth lay sprawled upon the ground, quietly intoning the words she had learned from her spellbook.

"I'll gag her all right, sir, Lugurz exclaimed gleefully as he ripped off the remains of Gimilbeth's skirt. Gimilbeth opened her mouth to curse him in Adunaic, but the orc leered at her and stuffed a wad of cloth into her mouth. He tied it behind her head with another strip. "That'll keep her quiet!"

"And if it doesn't," Corporal Tharb drew out a wicked dagger, "we'll cut her tongue out and gag her with that!" Quickly he bent over Gimilbeth, pressed the dagger to her neck, and watched gleefully as a thin trail of blood followed behind the blade. Gimilbeth's eyes met him with a look of pure fury. The orc laughed menacingly as he licked the blood off her neck. "Now I don't want any more tricks out of you, Princess! Keep your trap shut and we'll get along quite well!"

"Look here, men!" Corporal Tharb boasted as he held up the blood-stained knife for them to see. "It's just like I said! She can't do anything to us"

Soon the small orc and his helper had returned with a long poplar sapling. Gimilbeth soon found herself trussed up like a slab of meat to the pole. Then the orcs were off, the princess swaying wildly back and forth with the orcs' heavy running feet.

Traveling on a pole like a trussed dead deer was hardly better than hanging head down on an orc's shoulder. At first Gimilbeth felt some relief, but then the agony in her wrists, knees and ankles made her reconsider. Worst of all was her neck - her head lolled left and right at the rhythm of the orc's pace and her vertebrae seemed like they could snap any time. She pressed her chin to her breast to ease the tension, but it soon became evident to her that the moment she lost consciousness would be her last. 

The orcs paid no heed to her plight - perhaps their undeveloped brains were unable to grasp the problem, or they simply didn't care if she were dead or alive. Instead, they bickered among themselves - arguing over the turns to carry her. After some time there were already two orcs at each end of her pole - and still they complained about the heaviness of their burden. The smallish orc - the one who had proposed this mode of transportation – jeered slapping Gimilbeth's thigh "Let us cut away all the extra meat and the witch will be much lighter!" The gang responded by raucous laughter.

“Keep your filthy paws off her!” snarled the corporal. “She ain’t for the likes of us! Run ahead, worm, make yourself useful – if you are not strong enough to carry her with the other lads, at least make sure the way is clear.” The smallish orc obeyed.

Gimilbeth couldn't mutter spells anymore but she continued her mind spell-work, imagining thousands of ways for the brutes to die. She found herself quite inventive - the images that flew before her eyes were unparalleled in their viciousness.

Minutes dragged by - long as hours, punctuated only by the trump of orcs feet, their heavy breathing and occasional growls and snarls. Soon the track started descending in a steep rocky ravine. At the bottom there was a small open space - a little mossy mire surrounded by thick old firs. The track ran straight through it and up to climb another ridge. The company slowed and stopped.

"Corporal", pleaded Lugush, "'tis high time for a break! Let us wait for the others to catch up with us!"

"Our shoulders are sore!" joined another. "And we crave a swig of draught to keep us going!"

"Shut up, maggots!" Tharb roared, brandishing his whip. "You gonna carry the witch to the very pits of Hell without whining, if I say so!" His ugly face contorted in worry, he looked back. “The order was to run ahead. We shall wait for the rest in the old camp.”

At this moment a white-fletched arrow buried itself in his stomach. Tharb looked down in disbelief only to get two more - one through his thigh and another in his chest. The arrows were obviously let loose from a very close range – right from the surrounding fir-trees - and Tharb's leather jerkin was no impediment to them. Soundlessly the orc crashed down. The others dropped Gimilbeth's pole and tried to run for their lives, only to fall under more arrows.

Gimilbeth felt the tension in her bound limbs ease as her pole fell to the ground. Half-consciously she pressed her burning face into the soft moss - divinely wet and clean. Tall fluffy heads of cotton-grass were swaying in the moonlight above her. For a moment she just lay there, oblivious of the battle around her, just glad of the respite. Soon she became aware of the Men around her, talking quietly in Westron. One of them squatted nearby - he was eyeing her warily.

"Now - let us look what the orcs were hauling..." the man muttered to himself. He got hold of Gimilbeth's shoulder and lifted her into a sitting position. Squinting in the pale moonlight, he peered at her in utter astonishment. "P-princess..." he stuttered. Gimilbeth replied by an angry glare and motioned with her bound hands for the man to pull out her gag. The other seemingly didn’t understand what she wanted - he half-rose to his feet and called rather stridently "Captain Barund, please, come here!"

Gimilbeth’s rage resurfaced. She hooked the thumbs of her bound hands through the strip which held her gag in place and pulled it over her head. Finally it came loose making a total mess of her hair. She spat the gag out and started cursing and raving at the bewildered man, who, unprepared for this verbal assault, lost his footing on the damp moss, fell back and just sat there blinking at the angry princess.

“My Lady, please, calm down” said another man, with an air of authority about him. “My name is Barund from Brochenridge and I am in charge of these men. Are you injured?”

“Injured?” she spat. “You have the gall to ask me if I am injured? Cut the ropes, spawns of wargs, NOW!”

Using his long sword smeared in black blood, Barund cut the leather ropes that held Gimilbeth’s wrists and ankles together. Then he drove his blade into the ground and started unfastening the clasp of his cloak.

Gimilbeth was up in a blink. Without a word, she grasped the sword and staggered away to where the orc corporal’s body lay. Tharb was yet alive and his yellow bloodshot eyes met Gimilbeth’s steadily. 

“Your debt will be paid in full,” Gimilbeth hissed, bringing the blade down on the orc’s neck. It was a messy work. She missed twice, first hitting the shoulder, then the cheek, but with a third stroke the ugly orc’s head was finally free of the body. Surprising even herself, she gripped the tuft of oily hair and raised the head in the air with a savage cry of triumph. 

The assembled men stood around watching her silently - in awe or in disgust? Gimilbeth couldn’t care less. Her rage assuaged, she dropped the head and wearily walked back to Barund. The leader of the Brockenridge men took off his cloak and offered it to Gimilbeth.

“I think you will need this, Lady” he rasped looking her straight in the face. 

Gimilbeth looked down. Her sumptuous skirts were gone and apart from the now tattered bodice the only thing she had on were the fluffy cream colored knickers elegantly trimmed with lace.


Chapter 20 - The Princess Rescued

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On the scene of the ambush on the Great Road, night of November 5, 1347
Written by Valandil
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It was an hour or two after midnight when Merendil came suddenly upon the scene of the ambush. Two campfires burned brightly about a furlong up ahead – still distant enough that he retained his night vision though, for he could see the contorted figure of a slain Orc, lying just beside him on the road. Sweeping his eyes about, he saw a scene of discord... and death. He gulped. Had he come too late? Were those Orc-fires up ahead? Well… not likely, for even after a victory, they’d likely not have the boldness to camp right on the road. The thought gave him hope, but he retained his caution.

“Men,” he half-whispered behind him, “Pass it down, to arms – and ride!”

They rode forth, spears at the ready, and in moments had drawn near enough to make out more clearly the forms around the fires. From one fire, two figures already stood and now approached him. Their faces were in shadow for their forms were backlit by the fire beyond. But they were clearly men, not Orcs.

“Gwindor?” asked Merendil, as he drew up his horse before them.

“Dead,” came the reply. “I am your nephew Maredur.”

“And I, Dimloss of Brochenridge, captain of the thirty men sent before you.”

“Tell me then,” said Merendil, “What has happened here?”

Then Maredur told his uncle Merendil of the ambush of the Orcs upon the party, how the rear had been beset and defended itself, aided by twenty Dwarves and two Elves who had joined the company (which spurred further questions from Merendil, answered in their turn). Then, seeing the front engulfed by Orcs, they had turned and driven them off.

“And the Princess Gimilbeth? Was she at the front or at the rear?” asked Merendil with dread, knowing full well where she preferred to ride.

“She was in front sir. For long we sought her among the slain, but after much searching, found that she had been… taken captive by the Orcs.”

Merendil sat upright in his horse and drew in his breath in horror. “How many men did you send after her?”

“Sir,” began Maredur, “we had only a handful of men left, some wounded, like myself – and three or fourscore Orcs escaped. But also, it was nearly half an hour afterwards ere we knew that she lived still, and was taken.”

“Dimloss!” said Merendil, turning to the other, “You are still here. Why did you not pursue?”

“Well sir,” replied Dimloss, shifting from one foot to the other, “We arrived maybe an hour or two after the battle, and it was some time before we had everything all sorted out. And then… we thought it best to wait for your orders, knowing you were so close behind. Besides…” and his voice trailed low, “Orcs are known for killing their prisoners when rescue parties arrive.”

Merendil fumed and stared hard at Dimloss. Was it cowardice or incompetence? He wasn’t sure, but he sure wished he had a man like Taurenol with him.

“Alright then, these are your orders. Round up your men, and quickly. Join them to mine. We go in pursuit of the Lady Gimilbeth immediately. Maredur…” he turned back to face him, “Show us which way the Orcs fled.”

As Maredur led them to the place, Merendil looked about him. The waxing moon was shining bright, but low enough in the west that it wouldn’t do any good for much longer. It was likely a doomed pursuit, but he must press it on. They wouldn’t likely catch up to the Orcs, or be able to follow their trail for long with what moon was left. And if they DID come upon them, it’d likely be in an ambush that could cost him and his men their lives. Still – an attempt must be made.

Maredur had taken them around the greatest heap of dead bodies, and Merendil saw for himself hints of the carnage and slaughter that had been. When Maredur pointed up into the hills to where the Orcs had gone, Merendil gave the order to dismount. Two Elves came forth to join him and offer to act as trackers and guides (which was a greatly appreciated offer – and brightened Merendil’s hopes for their success), but the Dwarves stayed at their own fire, tending their wounded and lamenting their dead.

But as they made ready to depart and take up the trail, they heard a rustling sound off into the woods. Merendil’s men drew back and were silent. The sounds grew, and voices could be heard now as well – not Orc voices at all, but the words were mostly indistinct until they heard;

“And Princess, as I have promised you, my men will FORGET - all that they have seen in regards to your per…”

And just then, from the woods emerged a sight that made Merendil’s heart leap for the sheer relief it brought. For here came Barund with his men, right down the Orc trail. And in their midst, seated high on a sort of stretcher carried by four men, her head stooped low and arms before her to ward off stray branches, sat the Lady Gimilbeth, alive… and to all appearances, quite well.

“It will be the LEAST they can do, Captain, after the unpleasant ride they have given me. But as I’ve said three times before, I desire quiet. Or if you must speak, direct it to your own me…”

At that point, the Lady Gimilbeth’s voice trailed off as she became aware of all those before her, as Barund had just before. But then, after a pause, she smiled and spoke to her new onlookers.

“Greetings Captain Merendil! How charming to see you once more. These boys of yours have taken me on a moonlit stroll through yon forest, but…” and looking down at her litter and bearers, “were thoughtful enough to spare my frail limbs the delight of an actual walk.” And then she rolled back her head and laughed, a laugh of relief that nearly drew her to tears. Barund signaled his men to lower her, and he himself took her hand and bowing low, helped her off the contrivance.

“Lady Gimilbeth, it gives me great joy to see you safe,” said Merendil with a bow. “We have just come on the scene and made ready to give chase, for our hearts dreaded the thought of you in captivity to the Orcs.”

Then turning to Barund, Merendil asked for his report.

Barund told how, on parting the day before, he and his men had only made about three leagues up into the rugged terrain, then camped for what he had in mind for the next day. This morning they had risen early and made ten more leagues by sundown, the Orc trail clear before them. Instead of setting up camp, they had made a short rest until the moon was high enough to give them good light among the trees, but a storm had arisen, so they went forth cautiously, to keep on the trail as well as they might. They had a bit of confusion on the way where the Orcs had appeared to split up two or three ways, but followed on the way clearly taken by the main body. At last, the rain had wiped aside most signs of the trail, but they made their best guesses about how the Orcs would go and kept close watch for more signs.

It was then, an hour or two ago, that they heard an Orc voice singing a strange-sounding song as they drew near a marshy clearing ahead and below them. They waited and watched as a single Orc ran over a path, straight toward them. Then into the forest he came, right up unto the trail before them, and nearly impaled himself on Barund’s spear – though Barund made sure to finish what he had started. Then Barund signaled for his men to ready their bows and spread themselves out along each side of the woods’ edge.

Before long, there came a small band of Orcs, carrying the Princess Gimilbeth in a most undignified manner. They all fell to the arrows of the Dunedain. Inquiring of the Princess, Barund found that more Orcs were likely to follow, so they dragged the bodies into the mire at each side. They had barely finished this task when they heard shouts of a larger Orc party coming near, and drew back to the cover of the woods once more.

Once this body of Orcs came into the clearing they slowed. Their leader seemed suspicious. Then, one of them spotted Orc blood upon the ground, and another found a dropped knife. When at last one found a pole, with which our Princess had been… conveyed, the leader Orc flew into a fury. He rallied his lads, they all drew their weapons and gave chase.

Several Orcs fell before a wave of arrows once more, but they soon engaged Barund’s men along a wide front, for the Orc leader had sought to out-flank them, though not knowing their size by the forest’s concealment. Barund’s men met them along the entire width of their assault, and with superior strength and the higher ground, took a heavy toll. At the last, their leader flew into a great rage and rallied the last of the Orcs for a concentrated attack up into the trail. There, Barund had met their leader in single combat and slain him.

After that, the few remaining Orcs had tried to scatter, though many of them were brought down by Barund’s men. But Barund had called off the chase into the forest, where he felt the Orcs might have the advantage. So they had recovered the one pole, found a second to make a bier for Her Highness – and then traveled on the last league and half to where they now stood.

Well-satisfied with the report, Merendil gave orders for all to camp for what remained of the night. In morning’s light they could sort out the bodies before proceeding to the Last Bridge. But Dimloss’ men must stand guard in three turns, for the men under Merendil and Barund were overcome with weariness.


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Near the scene of the ambush on the Great Road, November 5, 1347, after midnight
Written by Angmar
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"Get a move on, you sluggards! You've rested long enough!" Corporal Boshok growled out the command. There was the usual grumbling among the four scouts, but this time, Private Saakaf was not one of the complainers. It was not that he was eager to fight; no, far from it, for whenever he could, he would stay back while others rushed ahead. He was planning to live a good, long time. If some of the men talked behind his back and said that he was a coward, it never bothered him. He would do just enough to keep his superiors satisfied, but no more. No, he was not one of the brave ones who looked forward to the next confrontation. Let someone else get killed; he intended to remain cautious and alive.

The orcs were soon at a brisk trot, hurrying along to the scene of the ambush. Corporal Boshok was a brave one, determined that his men would arrive in time and give what aid they could to their comrades. "He wants to impress Captain Ashuk because he's working for another promotion," Private Saakaf commented to himself as he loped along at the rear of the party.

Long before they reached the road, the orcs could smell the blood and death. As he flicked his ears forward, listening, Saakaf's sensitive nostrils twitched at the scent. He had a bad feeling about this. Corporal Boshok must have had the same sensations, because he motioned with his hand for the men to keep low to the ground and advance with caution. Far up ahead of them, they could see campfires and the silhouettes of men.

"Saakaf," the corporal whispered, "see what is going on up there. We will wait here for you."

"Yes, sir," Saakaf whispered as he crouched down and crawled forward until he was close enough to see and hear. His heart beat faster when he saw Princess Gimilbeth near one of the campfires. He thought she looked pale, but none too worse for wear. As he looked at the group, he could not take his eyes off her. He licked his lips as he felt a deep stirring for her and cursed his luck that he had not been born a man. He tried to look away, but it was though she had him bewitched. He wondered if she was aware that he was staring at her. She had been talking to one of the Dunedain but suddenly she turned her head and stared straight to the place where he was hiding. He wondered if she saw him and would give him away. At that moment, the officer beside her said something that Saakaf could not hear and she turned her attention to reply to him. Saakaf relaxed; he had not been detected. He had seen all he needed to see and needed to get back to the others before he was discovered. 

"All right, Saakaf," the corporal hissed when he had returned to the group, "what's the report?"

"Corporal Boshok, sir, it is my unpleasant duty to tell you that from what I can see, all our men are dead, and the Princess has been rescued." Saakaf bowed his head.

"Damn!" Corporal Boshok exclaimed, his face convulsed in a grimmace of disappointment as he clenched his fist. "All this and we have gained nothing! His Majesty will not be pleased! Not one bit! There's nothing to do for it but save ourselves and get out of here!" The corporal gave the order to retreat, and soon the orcs were silently creeping away from the scene.

Saakaf was glad that it would be Boshok giving the report of the disaster to Alassar, the king's chief advisor, and not him. It was always dangerous to be the bearer of bad news to these high officials. "Well," he thought with glee, "Corporal Boshok always liked to make an impression. I'm sure he will this time, but not the kind he wanted. Maybe he will be tortured. I would like to see that!"

After the orcs had moved back a safe distance from the gathering of soldiers, they fell into an easy lope. In the distance, Saakaf saw something on the ground. The others moved on ahead of him, and when he reached the spot, he bent down and picked the object up. Instantly he knew what it was! The soiled and tattered skirt of Princess Gimilbeth's gown! Breathing hard, he caressed the ornate material. Making sure that no one had noticed him, he brought the cloth up to his lips and kissed it. Then, looking around furtively, he wadded up the material and stuck it in the pouch at his belt. "What Corporal Boshok doesn't know won't hurt him," Saakaf chuckled softly to himself. No one was getting this treasure away from him!

"Maybe someday, I'll see her again and can present it to her in person!" The thought pleased him. He increased his speed, soon catching up with the others before the corporal ever even knew he had tarried behind.

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At the site of the ambush, evening November 5 - morning November 6, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Evening, November 5 and Morning November 6

It was a sick sight that had met his eyes when he screwed up enough courage to re-emerge from the trees where he had hid himself. The battle had been an ugly one - and Hurgon, who, shut up in the Palace all his adult life, and having led a pretty comfortable life before that, had never seen a dead man - walked around aimlessly for a long time, shell-shocked. He was hardly aware of what was going on, but finding the familiar faces of the two elves - who appeared to be tending to the wounded - he sat down near them. He was still clutching Tarniel's painting to his chest, and soon afterward, exhausted by all that had happened and all that he had seen, he fell into an uneasy sleep right there on the ground. Luckily, one of the elves had the good sense to cover him up with a blanket - else he might have frozen right where he slept.

The next morning was worse. He woke up feeling guilty - he should have been less cowardly, that was his reproach to himself. So when they started sorting out the corpses, he volunteered to help, even though he would much rather not touch the dead bodies. A vague, undefined sort of thought passed his head, that maybe he would have done better to have run away with Nauremir while he had the chance. Or even better, if he had painted Tarniel properly at the very start, as opposed to giving her purple hair, he at least would have been safe back home in Cameth Brin now. 

But nightmarish at it were, that hour passed too, and after washing himself thoroughly, and partaking of the slight breakfast that was available, he had just enough time to scavenge the wagons for his paint supplies. Most of them were spoilt or destroyed - but he thought he had enough with which to finish off the painting. He gathered them all, and one of the ponies that had lost its master was commisioned for his use. And so they started off for Iantbarad - a small fort at the Last Bridge, and Hurgon was not the only one of the party to look nervously around them at the slightest sound.


Chapter 21 - Losses and Gains

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Fortress of Carn Dum, Kingdom of Angmar. Early morning, November 6, 1347
Written by Angmar
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During the previous night, Alassar's sleep had been interrupted by disturbing dreams. Several times he awakened to find himself trembling and drenched with sweat. When the feeble light of the winter dawn peered through his window, he was wide awake. Alassar, foremost of the King of Angmar's counselors and a gifted sorcerer, was not a man who was frightened easily, but these dreams had puzzled and alarmed him.

While many dreams were to be discounted as of little consequence, some were fraught with signs which, when analyzed by an adept, could shed light upon the future. While nothing terrible in themselves, when taken with other signs which he had observed in the entrails of the sacrifice of the day before, his dreams were harbingers of dire events.

"What do these dreams presage?" he asked himself as a servant helped him dress. "Nothing good, surely." In his most vivid dream, he had stood upon a high, lofty mountain above a plain where grew a crop of ripening wheat which had swayed as the wind blew across the stalks. He saw a lone falcon, a female, soaring unchallenged high above the earth. He had watched her graceful flight and marveled at the beauty of the bird. A small speck appeared in the northern sky and began to grow steadily larger until it became a cloud which filled the heavens. As it grew closer, Alassar recognized the vast number of dark shapes for what they were - ravens. The black cloud of birds drew closer to the falcon, screaming out their harsh cries.

As his dream unfolded, the mass of ravens engulfed the tercel in their midst, obliterating his view of the scene. As thunder crashed and boomed, great bolts of lightning cut through a sky streaked with red. When the vision finally cleared, the ravens had vanished and the tercel flew away unharmed. As the sun came out from behind the clouds and shown upon the field, a stag ambled into the field and began to graze upon the wheat. Then, rearing up in the midst of the wheat field, a gigantic red bear growled and roared, frightening the deer away into the forest. Alassar could see that the beast grasped a loaf of bread in one paw as he tore off chunks and ate them.

Puzzled and unable to comprehend the meaning of the dream, Alassar barely listened to the trivial conversation of his valet. Before he had finished dressing, the counselor received a summons from His Majesty to go immediately to his private chambers. When Alassar arrived, His Majesty did not wait for the usual civilities, but went directly to the point.

"Alassar, you know already, do you not?"

"Know what, Your Majesty?" The counselor was startled at the question, for even though he had been with the King for years, he was always awed by his amazing displays of foreknowledge. "I know nothing with any degree of certainty. I can base assumptions and calculate possible outcomes based upon my observations from the auguries of yesterday evening. That, along with certain vague premonitions which can neither confirmed nor denied, is about all that I know." He looked up as a servant set a goblet of wine before him.

"You are far too modest, Alassar... you had a dream, did you not?" The King sounded mildly amused.

From the moment that the counselor entered the room, he had sensed that the King's mind sought entry into the depths of his thoughts. At first, the mental probing was no more than a gentle nudge, requesting admittance. Then as his brain had yielded information, the probing grew stronger. As the King attained total access, it seemed to Alassar that his mind was an open door through which information was freely exchanged. The counselor had no desire, of course, to deny His Majesty the sanctity of his mind, for all who had sought a high position with the King were expected to yield their total being, and that included their every secret. The honor and privilege of His Majesty's favor far outweighed the loss of privacy. Consequently, the granting of even a shred of his arcane knowledge was beyond the value of the greatest treasure. Alassar enjoyed his high position.

"Aye, Your Majesty, a strange dream which puzzles me," Alassar admitted as he looked to where His Majesty sat across the table. "Shall I tell you?"

"I already know," the King chuckled.

Suddenly uncomfortable, the counselor shifted his position in his seat and clutched the stem of his wine goblet. Alassar coughed nervously. "Then, Your Majesty, can you tell me the meaning, for I am perplexed?"

"The meaning is quite simple, Lord Alassar. The tercel represents the Princess, while the ravens represent the company which was sent to capture her. The field of wheat is Rhudaur, the stag is King Tarendur, and the bear stands for Broggha and the Hillmen."

"But, Your Majesty, what does it mean?" Alassar leaned forward eagerly.

"Princess Gimilbeth has escaped our net, and her kidnappers have mostly perished in the attempt. The King is weak and ineffectual, and his resolve will crumble with this new attack upon his authority. The only one who will gain any advantage will be Broggha, who is clever and wily. He and his Hillmen will use this turmoil in the Kingdom to further their own ends." The King lifted his own goblet and sipped at it sparingly.

"But, Your Majesty, I am still confused. Does this dream portend good or ill for us?"

"Great good." A slow smile crept over the King's face, and the thrill of victory tinted his eyes a rosy hue.

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At the site of the ambush, morning of November 6, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Exhausted as she was, Gimilbeth still slept little this night. The autumn wind howled outside her tent and it seemed to her that hundreds of orc voices joined in the hellish choir. The scratch on her neck ached, although it looked like there was no poison in it. 

Unable to sleep, Gimilbeth rose well before first daylight and washed her face and rinsed out her mouth yet again. Yesterday she had what amounted to a full bath, but somehow she felt that no amount of washing could ever cleanse her of the lingering orc reek.

Her thoughts wandered back to Cameth Brin. Many there would feel only joy and relief upon learning of her death, certainly the Queen and all her brood, as well as the lords of the Private council... Only her father the King would mourn her, and Gimilbeth's heart filled with warmth for the old man. On an impulse, she found a piece of parchment and her writing implements and sat down on a low stool under the oil lamp suspended from the pole of her tent to write a note to Tarnendur.

My dear Father,

I decided to send you this short note to assure you that I am alive and well, and safe for now. 

Yestereve we have been attacked by a large company of orcs. They have been repelled - but our losses are dire. It pains me to tell you that both our kinsmen, Gwindor and Elvegil, have fallen like heroes, defending me from the orcs to their last breath. We have also lost Guramir, Maldor from Aglardin and my poor page Lammir. Please, send my condolences to their families, and to Lammir's parents in especial. Tell them that Merendil will be bringing their bodies back to Cameth Brin for burial.

Please inform Edelbar's parents that their son remains unscathed. All the survivors praise his courage.

As for other losses, Merendil will give you the full report upon his return. As far as I know, we lost about 30 guards and both wagon drivers, one of them dead, another wounded. Merendil sends 40 men with me to Amon Sul, although now, when we are within direct sight of the Palantir, orcs are unlikely to repeat their assault. I hope to reach Amon Sul safely.

Your loving daughter, 
Gimilbeth 

Having sealed the letter, Gimilbeth stepped out of the tent into the blowing storm. The heavy clouds overhead were rushing to the south, faintly illuminated by the first pale shadow of daylight. The campfires hissed and smoked trailing sparkles in the wind. Near the biggest campfire Gimilbeth spotted the large figure of Merendil - the Captain was already up. Gimilbeth approached and hailed him.

"I need a messenger sent to the King," she said coldly, showing him her letter. "After your last dispatch he must be in a great worry that I wish to assuage as soon as possible."

"But, My Lady," Merendil replied, "the men are exhausted and the horses even more so. I will return to Cameth Brin quite soon myself and I will report to the King."

"Nonsense" Gimilbeth countered sharply. "Just pick the best rider among Brochenridge men and give him one of the surviving horses of my escort. We have been going at a leisurely pace, so the horses are still fresh. The rider will be back to Brochenridge this evening and there Lord Ormendur will send another man to Cameth Brin. In three days the King will get the message, while you and your men are bound to be on your way a whole week, burdened as you are with the bodies."

Merendil grumbled for some time, but Gimilbeth remained adamant. Finally the Captain sighted and ordered Dimloss to send the swiftest rider to Brockenridge with Gimilbeth's letter.

Gimilbeth thanked the Captain and turned to leave, then suddenly stopped. 

"Merendil," she said, "I just remembered something... Has anybody seen my ..." she trailed off.

"Seen what, your Highness?" Merendil prompted

"Never mind" Gimilbeth sighed in exasperation. "I better ask Barund." 

Merendil explained where the Brochenridge scouts were camped. Gimilbeth found Barund near a campfire, sound asleep. She had to shake the man twice, before he finally sat up and looked at her.

"Barund," she said, hoping that the dim light would hide her flush. "Has anyone seen my skirt - the one that the orcs tore away and discarded?"

Barund blinked. "No, my Lady, I don't think they have. But I can go ask them, if it is important." 

"Please do! You know, I have had some ... valuables in the pocket. Jewelry, to be precise."

"I understand, Lady. I will be back shortly." Barund got out of his bedroll and disappeared in the gloom. 

When he returned, he only shook his head sadly. A small party of scouts was sent to the mire where Gimilbeth had been rescued, but, well after the sunrise, they have returned - empty-handed. 

Gimilbeth sighed. Elessya, the wondrous green necklace, the most precious heirloom of the house of Dauremir was irretrievably lost.

After a meager breakfast - Merendil's men had little food with them - the camp was broken and the company divided. Dimloss was left on the spot of the ambush with orders to bury the dead, guard the corpses of the nobles destined to be taken back to Cameth Brin, and search the surrounding area for remaining orcs. Gimilbeth's depleted party started the short travel to Iantbarad by the Last Bridge. Merendil decided to accompany Gimilbeth as far as the Last Bridge with all the Cameth Brin men and Barund's men. After having nearly lost the Princess, he was still worried about her safety. Moreover, at Iantbarad, he planned to find wagons to transport the bodies back to Cameth Brin and to order simple sturdy coffins. Some of the corpses were literally hacked to pieces, many decapitated, and Merendil wished to return the bodies to the grieving relatives in a seemly fashion.

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Old Orc camp at Pennath Toreg, Trollshaws, night of November 8, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The march back to the old camp in Pennath Toreg had been accomplished in good time with the five men making 50 miles in two days. On the way there, all the men had been edgy, fearing that the Rhudaurians were so angry and vengeful that they might follow them. When they reached their camp, all of them were breathing easier. After Corporal Boshok put the men to work setting up camp, he checked the cache of supplies that they had stored when they first arrived in the Trollshaws. Nothing had been disturbed. At least they would not have to worry about what they would have to eat. The men would have plenty of dried food and orc draught, along with extra weapons which would more than take care of them on the journey back to Carn Dum.

The corporal allowed the men to build a campfire, for the air was raw with the nip of winter. They could rest here for a day or two and wait for any stragglers to catch up with them. Corporal Boshok would feel a great deal more comfortable if he had more than four men with him. The trail back to the fortress was a long one, and though he doubted it, there was always the possibility that they might meet a Rhuduarian patrol.

A thick wool cloak wrapped around his shoulders and a leather cap lined with fur on his head, Private Saakaf was at last warm for the first time in days. As he sat on a log and warmed his hands at the campfire, he looked around at the other soldiers. Not one of them, not even Corporal Boshok, had a cloak as fine as his. Two years before, he had come upon the camp of a Rhuduarian dispatch rider. He waited until the man had gone to sleep for the night, and then he had stolen into his camp, slit his throat, and rifled his body. It was then that he had come into possession of the prized cloak. An orc had to be able to think and learn to live by his wits if he wanted to survive in this harsh world.

Under the cloak was a thick woolen shawl, woven of orange and red with shades of green, trimmed with long red tassels at the edges. It had belonged to a Rhuduarian woman whom he had surprised one evening at her small farm when her husband was away looking for a stray cow. He had raped her, taken her jewelry - which consisted of only a wedding ring and a locket with a miniature of her husband inside - and all the food that he could carry. He always thought of her with a sense of longing, for she had been a very lovely lady. He could not bear to kill her and so he had left her alive, crying on the bed that she shared with her husband. As he had looked down upon her, an emotion approaching guilt came over him. This alien sensation did not last long, and he quickly dispatched the feeling into the dark recesses of his mind. Still he could not help feeling something resembling pity for her, and before he had left, he covered her with a blanket. He always kept the shawl with him, for he fancied that even after all this time, it still retained her scent. 

Saakaf looked up to see the Corporal staring down at him. "Get some sleep, Saakaf. Private Bidroi has first watch; you have second. While I don't think that there's anyone on our trail, keep a watchful eye just the same. We don't want to let our guard down and find ourselves surprised."

After Boshok had left him, Saakaf found a place to sleep within the radius of the fire's comfortable warmth and spread his oilskin on the ground. He covered himself with his cloak and the shawl. The addition of the green woolen blanket would keep him warm until it was his turn of picket duty. He had taken this fine blanket from a traveling peddler whom he had beaten and robbed a year ago on a lonely Rhudaurian path. Saakaf knew how to provide for himself, and provide well.

As he lay under his thick coverings, he took a neatly folded section of fine material from his pouch and unwrapped it. The ornate cloth would have been a treasure enough itself, for it had been the ripped skirt of Princess Gimilbeth and was perfumed with her scent. He remembered the night that he had found the scrap abandoned along the trail. He had concealed it in his pouch, later thoroughly inspecting the cloth when he was alone. Then when he had unfolded the material, he discovered inside it a rich treasure concealed within a secret pocket. He held it up before his face and saw a wondrous green necklace that sparkled when he held it to the firelight.

Waiting for his turn at guard duty, Saakaf kept the necklace concealed under his covers as he rubbed his fingers over the stones. He marveled at the the skilled work of the jeweler who had cut the gems, the fine craftsmanship of the setting, and the artistry that had turned out a masterpiece of rare and costly worth. "I must never let these dogs know that I possess this treasure! Boshok is a boot licker, always trying to curry favor with the higher ups. He would take this necklace away from me in a moment, and upon a return to Carn Dum, he would present it to His Majesty, hopeful of a grand reward. He will never get it!"

Saakaf clenched the necklace in his hairy paw. "I will show all of them! I will bury it somewhere along the trail, and then when I find my chance, I will come back and dig it up. Then I will make tracks to my clan in the Misty Mountains, where I will be safe among my own kind!"

Saakaf had barely fallen asleep when he was awakened by the picket's shout, "Who goes there?" Quickly, he thrust the necklace inside his tunic. When he learned that the disturbance was caused by the arrival of eight members of the company who had limped back to the camp from the ambush, he turned over on his side and fell asleep. He would find out more about them when it came his time for picket duty.


Chapter 22 - The Magick Blade

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Fortress of Morkai, kingdom of Angmar. Morning of November 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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The small town of Morkai was bustling with activity this morning. A crowd of curious onlookers gathered in the courtyard of the fortress and in the neighboring streets to have a look at the mysterious prisoner that the Captain Hyarion of Shedun was bringing to Carn Dum. 

Most uncanny rumors had spread over the town last evening after the procession of weary travelers had filed into Morkai and stopped for the night in the New Fortress. Some said that the pale straw-head prisoner was a spy sent to murder their good King at Carn-Dum. Some even went as far as to call him an Elvish spy, though everyone knew that Elves never really existed, but were just a tale for small children. The list of weapons found on the assassin had much grown in the telling and one drunken trooper had told a story of the magic harp that killed anyone foolish enough to touch its strings. Whether the Morkai citizens believed the story or not, they enjoyed the thrill it provided at the beginning of yet another long dull winter. 

Their patience was soon rewarded. A tall man in heavy chains was led into the court and helped onto a horse. The hood of the spy’s grey cloak hung low, hiding his face, to the disappointment of the people who hoped for a glimpse of the monster. The crowd edged nearer.

One small boy in dirty tattered clothes threw a rotten turnip - it hit Agannalo in the back causing him to wince and to look up in disbelief. The crowd whistled and jeered. ”Kill the spy!” someone roared. A shower of missiles followed: more rotten turnips and carrots, even some stones. 

Agannalo gritted his teeth and felt his patience melt away as snow under the cruel sun of Harad. Not that he ever possessed much patience... Knowing full well that he would regret it later, Agannalo hissed words of command in the High Tongue.

“Gaakh Bûrzum Motsham norkulûk!”

The pale grey morning light vanished faster than it had come. The colorless pall of clouds that was covering the sky suddenly seemed to descend - dark and ominous. Cries of fright went up as the people stared about them in befuddlement, not comprehending what was happening. Then a searing lightning illuminated the scene, followed by a great blast of thunder right overhead. 

A great confusion followed with horses bolting and rearing and people running madly for their lives. In a matter of minutes the court was empty, but for the guards that crouched low to the ground covering their heads. Agannalo laughed - a harsh, cruel sound.

“Captain...Where is the Captain?” someone wailed. 

__________

Translation: “Gaakh Bûrzum Motsham norkulûk!” - “Let The Ancient Darkness take them all!”

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Fortress of Morkai, kingdom of Angmar. Morning of November 6, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Lieutenant Hyarion had spent an uneventful night in the chambers which had been assigned to him in the Morkai Fortress. He had half expected some new uproar from the strange prisoner, Silmadan, but from the reports which he had received, the scoundrel had caused no trouble. "'Jewel of Mankind,' he calls himself," Hyarion snorted. "He is nothing more than a thief and a would-be assassin! When he arrives in Carn Dum, he will find out the rich sport that His Majesty deals out to those who would kill him!" The thought of seeing the arrogant knave sufffering under the agonizing pain of the hot tongs made Hyarion chuckle gleefully. 

After a leisurely breakfast with the fortress commander, the Umbarian officer returned to his room. He had not been able to take his mind off the peculiar glowing dagger which had been taken from the prisoner. Although the entourage would soon be leaving to resume the Northern march, there was still time for him to spare a brief look at the mysterious weapon. Walking over to his pack, he retrieved the knife and unsheathed it. He ran his fingers over the hilt and felt his hand grow cold. He remembered the vision which he had recently had when gazing at the blade. The patterns which had formed in his mind had been a dire warning of death. Though they were disturbing, he had concluded that they were merely warnings to the uninitiated. To one as knowledgeable in the craft as he was, the blade would be harmless.

He held the knife up and studied its luminous glow. "A sorcerer's blade," he smiled. "What strange powers does it possess? There must be some magic word, that once spoken, would unleash the powers." He needed only to discover that word, and the blade would be his to command. He began with a few simple spells in Black Speech, but other than growing a little brighter, the blade remained quiescent. He probed his mind for spells in Sindarin and Quenya, and even Adunaic, but there was no effect upon the blade. He would go to the language of the South, his mother's people, the wise ancient ones. Their sorcerers possessed great knowledge of the esoteric. He softly intoned the powerful spell. Still the blade was unresponsive.

"Blood!" he exclaimed. "These objects of great magic often require a small sacrifice to unleash their power!" He laid the blade down and drew his own dagger from his sheath. Quickly slicing across his left forefinger, he watched as crimson drops of blood fell towards the glowing dagger. As the drops hit the blade, they did not splatter upon the icy surface, but rather disappeared entirely. "It is as though the dagger is drinking it," Lieutenant Hyarion thought. He began to chant, "A shum dara ningak!" over and over again.

The glowing dagger had been warded by its owner with magic which Hyarion could never begin to understand. The magic surrounding the blade retaliated. He heard a crash of thunder and found himself being hurled head over heel through the air and then slammed against the far wall. Behind his eyelids he saw spinning stars and colliding planets arrayed across the heavens in a celestial display. Then the world went black. When he awoke, he discovered with shock that the slight wound on his finger was bleeding profusely. The price to pay for the hidden knowledge was well worth it.

"By the eternal Darkness," he moaned, "the spell was successful in freeing the potency of the blade! Now if only I can learn to control its magic!"

When he went to the courtyard below, he found his men cringing upon the cobblestone pavement. The sergeant of cavalry rushed up to him, gibbering some incoherent rubbish about "an evil storm... the prisoner..." Hyarion smiled enigmatically. Only he knew the source of the storm, and it was surely not the prisoner! He looked over to Silmadan, who was sitting quietly upon his horse and smirking.

"There will be order here!" Captain Hyarion barked out a sharp command. Shouting and cursing, his officers soon had the terrified men on their horses, and they were on their way to their next stop - the Bridge over Angsuul.

The small settlement around the bridge boasted a tavern, The King's Arms. The inn's cellar would provide a strong cell to contain the prisoner. Hyarion expected no trouble from him that night. After the usual nightly discussion and round of drinks with his officers, Hyarion looked forward to further experimentation with the blade. Perhaps tonight he would finally unlock all its hidden secrets.

--- "A shum dara ningak" - Empower blood magic, Sumerian


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At the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347
Written by Gordis
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It was late evening when Hyarion’s tired company finally reached the King`s Arms Inn at the Bridge of Angsuul. The troopers filed into the common room, happy to be out of cold and snow, and the Lieutenant was given the best rooms in the Inn. He retired for the night, giving express orders to lock the prisoner in the cellar and to guard him well. Agannalo was led down a flight of stairs to the freezing basement.

”Still not eating, strawhead?” inquired the scarred one-eyed soldier assigned to guard Agannalo. “And not drinking either?” The guard shook his head disapprovingly and grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth, “Watch out, or there will be nothing but a wraith left of you when we reach Carn-Dum.”

The last statement made Agannalo smirk despite his bad mood. The captivity was taking its toll on the nazgul and the absence of subsistence caused this queer hollow feeling inside – not exactly hunger or thirst, but some vague dissatisfaction, some persistent yearning. Unfortunately, Agannalo was well aware that nothing that the guard could offer him could slacken his thirst. The ringwraith’s nostrils quivered catching the scent of the guard’s blood – both alluring and revolting... but mixed with the male’s scent more revolting than alluring – yet...

Something in Aganalo’s intent gaze must have unsettled the guard, for the man broke the eye-contact and roughly pushed the prisoner towards the low door of the cellar assigned for him. 

“I wish you a cheerful night, weird one” the soldier jeered. “I reckon it is a tad cold in the cellar, but I am sorry to say we have no wenches to warm your bed.” 

The mention of food and wenches made Agannalo hiss in frustration and clench his hands into fists as the heavy door clanged shut behind him and the key turned in the lock. It has been a long time since he last had a wench and drank warm red blood. Two weeks or more have passed since he killed this plump fool of a servant near Penmorva. He had so looked forward to reaching Shedun, promising himself a girl there, but one mistake brought his plans to naught. Here he was now - cold and hungry and weaponless - locked in a icy stone cellar of a roadside inn. 

When would he be able to feed again? In Carn-Dum – maybe- if the Captain would deign to grant one of his female subjects to an old comrade. Or, perhaps he would be able to buy himself a slave girl, like he did so many times back in the East? But did they practice slavery in Angmar? Agannalo was uncertain.

Ever since the cursed Ring he received from Annatar had perverted his senses, Agannalo killed for blood - again and again. He was wary at first, taking infinite precautions to cover his tracks, but then, with time, he grew careless. The disappearance of a number of maidens in Numenor couldn’t have passed unnoticed. Soon the authorities became suspicious of the noble Lord Silmatan, and though the King’s cousin could not be accused publicly, Silmatan soon learned that the King’s patience had its limits. One fine day he got an order to leave Numenor for the colonies and never come back. 

And so he complied, settling at first in Umbar and then moving further and further south, away from the accusing stares of his compatriots. There in idleness and debauchery he spent his long mortal life, until one dark and stormy night he simply disappeared without trace, leaving his palace filled with priceless objects of art and his many slaves behind. It was a fitting end to a sinful life - as everyone agreed, so King’s relative or not, nobody really looked for him in earnest. The invisible Silmatan made his way to Barad-Dur and the Dark Lord had got yet another of his nazgul.

Agannalo sighed, remembering the cozy South, where maidens were so easily acquired and men so easily fooled. Oblivious to the cold, he stretched on a bare stone bench and stared at the frosted ceiling preparing to spend yet another long night of his eternal life.

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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn Near the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
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Lieutenant Hyarion had been well satisfied with his rooms at The King's Arms, which were, after all, the best lodgings in the entire inn. Even though the journey had had a less than auspicious beginning, there had been no serious problems since. Eager to share a few drinks and some conversation, the lieutenant had called his officers to his apartments to join him for supper.

The meal, served in generous portions, had been adequate but lacking in appeal. There were several soups - both asparagus and yellow split pea soup - both lacking in any flavor. The inn featured a number of vegetables cooked in various ways - red and green cabbage, beets, cauliflower, spinach, turnips and onions - all of which were overcooked and bland. The bread - both rye and white - was excellent, and there were cheeses, pickles and jelly and various condiments to add flavor, but the lieutenant was not one to be satisfied with bread and cheese.

Then when the servants carried in the main course on a great platter, Lieutenant Hyarion frowned. As the serving boy lifted the covering, Hyarion's eyebrows arched high. There before him was a boiled sheep's stomach stuffed with the animal's heart, liver and lungs, as well as onion, oatmeal, suet and spices. The smell was pungent. "The accursed cuisine of the North," he muttered. 

"This is food for the lowly peasant's table, not the table of a lord and his officers! How dare you serve us tripe! Take this disgusting effrontery out of my sight!" He scowled at the lad who waited to serve him. 

"Certainly, sir, immediately," the boy stammered as he nodded to the other serving boys to remove the platter. "There are several excellent main courses on tonight's menu. Please choose from any of them. The cook has prepared black pudding, which, as you know, is made from blood; there is some of that left. Then there is roast duck served with baked apples and prunes, liver cooked with onions; ham and sausage. For dessert, there is oat porridge, delicately flavored with nutmeg, cinnamon and honey, or you could choose this autumn's apples and pears."

"The duck, you will bring us the duck, boy, and for dessert, we will have the oat porridge," Lieutenant Hyarion grumbled.

After the boy had scurried away, the lieutenant, his face flushed, his tawny flesh reddened with his anger, turned to his officers. "This is what we have to expect here, so far from the south! Unimaginative, poorly flavored cooking! These clods misuse even the most delicate of spices, indiscriminately adding them to dishes which are too foul to be consumed by man. These rustics have no concept of what constitutes good cooking! When we reach Carn Dum, you will see a world of difference!"

After the officers had gone, the lieutenant, still disgruntled, considered retiring early with a bottle of the house's best Dorwinion wine to bring him some solace. He knew better than to request one of the inn's serving girls to keep him company, for they were as bland as the food. With a mutter, he actually lay down in the bed, propped his head back against the headboard, slowly sipping his wine as he looked at the flames glowing in the fireplace on the other side of the room. He was restless, though, and sleep evaded him. He turned back the cover, and climbed out of bed. 

Sheathed, the magic dagger lay on a stool near his bed. He remembered the last time he had experimented with the strange blade. When a drop of his blood had landed upon the blade, the blood had disappeared. He had been convinced that that this event had sparked a fierce blast of thunder which had rocked the Morkai fortress, and so he was hesitant about further testing. He decided, though, to perform another experiment. He went to his baggage and took out a small, round piece of glittering crystal and walked back to the blade. This stone was one he used in his magic rituals.

Unsheathing the strange gleaming weapon, he touched the crystal talisman to the blade. Since he had just taken it out of storage, the crystal had been cool to the touch, but instead of warming to his hand, it grew gradually colder. Icy condensate gathered where the blade touched the stone, like frost upon a window. A pale mist rose up around the crystal as the mystic blade caused its surface to sublimate. Gasping in fear, Hyarion dropped the prism, and it fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces like a slab of ice dropped upon a stone.

The lieutenant was both frightened and mystified. "Blood touched to the blade disappears - the magic talisman breaks as it sends up clouds of mist. Yet I can draw no conclusions. Perhaps I should conduct one last test to conclude the series of three, the magic number. Perhaps that third test would unlock the secrets of this blade!" He knew that he was becoming obsessed with this blade. He found he was thinking about it more and more all the time - when he was riding with his troops, when he talked with his officers, when he ate, and when he slept, he had even begun to dream about it.

Holding the blade up to the light, his dilated eyes gleaming, his heart hammering in his chest, Hyarion watched the pale light undulating in luminosity, darkening and lightening as the light reflected off its surface. He must have the answer to its secret! He would summon the prisoner and see what information he could glean from that scoundrel. The knave probably knew nothing about the powers of the blade, for Hyarion was convinced that the arrogant thief had stolen it from some sorcerer. Still, perhaps under threats, he could intimidate him into telling the name of the sorcerer from whom he had stolen it.

A command to the guard stationed at his door soon had the prisoner brought before him. "You are not needed. You will be called when you are," Hyarion told the amazed one-eyed man who been guarding Agannalo. After the man left, the lieutenant turned to the prisoner. "Take a seat, Silmadan; I believe that was the name you called yourself. I have some further questions for you."

A smirk on his face, Agannalo nonchalantly sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the lieutenant. "I thought I had answered all of your questions before, lieutenant." 

"You answered nothing, or nothing I would believe! You allege that you are the nephew of the king of Angmar, a story which I do not believe for one instant. When you get to Carn Dum, His Majesty will be able to separate the truth from the lies." He walked over to the stool where he had placed the unusual blade. Unsheathing it, he walked back to Agannalo. "Where did you steal this, you lying dog? I want the name of the wizard who owns it! Start talking, and tell me the truth, or I will promise you I will cut off your nose if you do not!"

Much amused, Agannalo reflexively touched the tip of his nose and narrowed his eyes at the gleaming Morgul blade in the Southron’s hand. Now that was going to be interesting! Hyarion’s curiosity provided an unlooked-for and welcome distraction from the sad musings that had assailed the nazgul down in the cellar. A slow smile crept over Agannalo’s face. 

“So, you did not believe me when I said this blade was a present from my uncle?” he drawled, rearranging the folds of his cloak around his tall frame to make them fall down in an elegant cascade.

The Southron only snorted loudly in reply, his face gradually turning redder. 

Agannalo sighed and shook his head disapprovingly –indeed the other never believed him when he happened to tell the truth! Well, now was the time to see whether Hyarion would believe lies more readily. Now was the time for the cat to play with the mouse…

“Well… tell me first, what do you already know about the blade? Have you been … ahem… experimenting with it?” Agannalo asked mildly.

“I know it is magical, you, knave!” the Southron shouted. “I know it gleams with its own light, I know it shatters magical stones, causes blasts of thunder and absorbs blood without a trace! The only thing I don’t know is how it is supposed to work!”

Agannalo’s left brow arched at the mention of thunder. Hmm… that was new. He managed to wipe the smirk off his face and nodded sagely at Hyarion’s words. 

“I can’t say I know all about the blade myself…” he drawled. ”But listen to me -I will tell you the blade’s story.” 

Hyarion was all ears. Agannalo’s voice acquired a sing-song quality, common for wandering minstrels.

“Far-far to the East in a dark stone castle on a hill there lived a wizard. The tribes around, both the Balkots, the nomadic barbarians, and the horse-lords of Rhovanion held the wizard in awe and in great esteem, for he helped them out sometimes, when it suited himself. The magician was hundreds of years old, it was said, and wizened by years, yet he had managed to retain the vigor of a young man, especially when it came to women. I heard his appetites were insatiable and his prowess in bed remarkable.

“Years in the Wide World passed, but not for the old man. Every full moon the nomadic barbarians brought a young comely maiden in tribute to him– never to be seen again. And every time a maiden disappeared, the old wizard seemingly got even stronger as if he fed on her life-force.

“About five years ago I happened to pass through these lands and I grew most interested in the old wizard’s secret. It so happened that at this time, the old man became enamored of a young maiden, the daughter of a Rhovanion noble, but the maid despised the wizard and had declined his advances. Now, unlike Balkotes, the men of Rhovanion do not sell their women, however high the offered price might be. The wizard tried everything: sweet promises, money, threats and blackmail, but still the woman he desired remained unreachable.

“Here was the opportunity I was waiting for. I went to see the wizard and we made a deal, profitable for both sides. I offered to abduct and bring the maid to him. In return he promised to teach me his spell.”

Hyarion leaned forward in his chair and drank in the nazgul’s words as the desert absorbs water. “And so, did you manage to kidnap the woman?” he prompted with gleaming eyes.

“Oh, that was not really necessary,” Agannalo replied nonchalantly. “I had only to smile and wink to her once and she became all too willing to elope with me. That’s how I have brought her to the wizard.” He laughed softly.

“Now the wizard was obliged to stick to his part of the bargain and to reveal his secret spell – but then again he had never planned to let me out alive to tell the tale…” Agannalo paused for dramatic effect. Hyarion was forgetting to breathe. 

“He undressed the screaming maid and tied her to the bed. Then the wizard produced this very knife. Slowly and very carefully, as not to damage the blade, for it was quite fragile, he said, the wizard cut the maid’s neck and opened the blood flow. He poured the blood into a silver cup, stirred it with the knife and, chanting spells, drained it. Then, while the maid’s body was still warm and struggling, the magician occupied himself to defile her.

"Disgusted by such vileness, I managed to cut off the magician’s head while he was thus distracted, and took his knife as a memento.”

“And what about the spell?” Hyarion asked breathlessly.

“I have memorized it, of course,” Agannalo replied dryly. "But it is a powerfull spell - it won't do to utter it in vain."

The nazgul slowly rose and leaned over the Southron looking him directly in the face.

"So, Hyarion, will you find a maid to make a demonstration?"


Chapter 23 - A Maid for the Magick Experiment

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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn Near the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
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Uncertain whether he believed the prisoner's tale or not, still Lieutenant Hyarion had listened to his bizarre story. Now the wretch was staring at him right in the face. "You mean sacrifice an innocent virgin to unlock the power of the blade?"

"Precisely." A slow smile uncurled itself on Agannalo's face. 

"You are asking me to sanction murder!" Although he had absolutely no compunctions against murder, the repercussions of kidnapping a maid and killing her could be great. If her kinsmen had any suspicion that he was involved, Lieutenant Hyarion was quite certain they would hunt him down and kill him some hideous way. 

"You wish to know the secret of the blade, do you not?" Agannalo taunted. 

"Yes, yes," Hyarion said through gritted teeth. "But at the expense of some girl's life?"

"It is the only way the spell will work, but if you are not interested," Agannalo shrugged his shoulders.

"It is too risky," Hyarion grumbled.

"Then I suggest you call the guards so I may return to my cell." Agannalo started to turn.

"No, wait! I need more time to think before giving you my final decision."

"When do you think you might be able to make up your mind?" Agannalo asked sarcastically. It had been far too long since he had drunk human blood, and he was weak from thirst, almost overcome with cravings. He glanced at Hyarion's neck, but put the thought out of his mind.

"Before we reach Angoul, which should be in one day's time." Nervous at the inspection that Agannalo was giving him, he looked at him questioningly. "Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked nervously. 

"No reason," Agannalo smiled. "I just think that we might be able to come to an understanding."

"Perhaps," Hyarion evaded. "But now you are going back to your cell. Guards!" he shouted. "Remove this man!" 

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By the Angsuul river, morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Musing upon his choices Lieutenant Hyarion had little sleep over the night. The next day, prompted by the angry commander, the party set off early – before the first light. They had traveled a long way when at last the pale dawn came, revealing a dull white plain beneath the low pall of dark clouds heavy with unshed snow. 

The road ran along the bank of the frozen Angsuul - all the way to the town of Angoul which they planned to reach in the evening. From there, the road would leave the river and start its winding climb into the foothills of the mountains of Angmar, where Carn Dum stood.

Agannalo tossed his head to readjust the hood of his cloak - a difficult task to do with hands chained behind him. With the hood more out of the way, he looked around. He squinted his eyes in puzzlement when he detected a movement on the glimmering surface of the river – some sort of vehicles were coming downriver, but he couldn’t make out what they were... 

“Njamo’s muzzle! It must be the Lossoth!” one of the soldiers exclaimed. “Look like their sleighs glide on the ice! They go much faster on them bones than we do on horse hooves.” 

Agannalo watched open mouthed as the Lossoth Party drew level with them. He saw the laden sleighs drawn by strong grey dogs - or were they wolves? A group of short squat brown-skinned people clad in embroidered skins followed. All of them had long flat bones of a whale attached to their feet and glided over the glistening ice with incredible speed and easiness. In all his long years Agannalo had never seen the Lossoth, only heard tales about them told in the South - and he discarded those tales as pure invention. In a matter of minutes, the Lossoth party left the mounted Angmarian guards behind. 

“But what are they doing here?” another soldier inquired. “I thought they lived along the shores of the Ice Bay far to the west.”

Agannalo’s one-eyed guard, who happened to be native from Angmar, explained importantly to the others “The Lossoth never sit long in one place. In summer they go north, in winter they go south, and sometimes they come upriver – to the towns along the Angsuul to sell their wares – fish, skins, bones and fat of sea monsters, and often fancy leather garments and shoes their women make –all decorated with seashells they are. They buy things they need - wood mostly, but especially they value iron. ‘Tis very profitable to trade with the Lossoth for they are simple people. You can get quite a lot out of them for a steel knife – a heap of skins, or a couple of those dogs, maybe, or even a woman.” 

Agannalo, who watched Hyarion closely during this short conversation, noticed that at the mention of a woman Hyarion suddenly grew very still. Then the Southron shook himself and barked the order to move faster - in the same direction as the Lossoth party had gone.

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By the Angsuul river, morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Their horses pressed to keep up with the swift-moving Lossoth on the river, Lieutenant Hyarion's party whipped their mounts to a faster pace until finally they drew abreast with them. A shout of "Hail!" brought the Lossoth to a halt, curious as to why a military patrol would have any business with them. Perhaps trade, they concluded. Their bodies covered with foamy sweat, their nostrils snorting steam with each breath, the horses were almost enveloped in a misty vapor of condensation, giving the scene a feeling of unreality. 

Lieutenant Hyarion motioned for a corporal to ride up beside him. Aware that the man knew several of the native dialects, Hyarion enlisted his services as an interpreter.

"Sir, what do you wish for me to say?"

"Ask for their headman," he replied tersely.

A rapid exchange of words transpired between the corporal and the Lossoth until finally a man taller than the rest stepped forward. This man was wearing a more ostentatiously embroidered tunic of skins than the others, and around his neck was an elaborate necklace of seashells held together with leather. 

"What did the savages say?" Hyarion asked, his nose wrinkling in contempt as he looked down at the Lossoth leader.

"Sir, as you directed, I asked to speak with the leader. His name is Arnaldr; he is the taller one in that fancy embroidered tunic and the fur cape. He understands Common, though, and said he would rather deal with someone besides an underling like me. A rather arrogant chap, I would say," the corporal muttered in Haradric. 

"All right, at least he can speak Common. That is more than I can say for some of these barbarians." Hyarion frowned. He had always considered himself far above these backward people who drove whalebone sleds pulled by dogs and earned their livelihood by fishing and hunting. "Introduce him to me, corporal, and tell him that I have brought him a gift.. That always impresses them."

After the corporal had completed the formalities of introduction, the lieutenant directed an aide to go to the packhorse. There, the man fetched several beaded necklaces wrapped in brightly woven wool and presented them to the chief, who seemed delighted to receive them.

"Lieutenant, by the generosity of your gift, you have established that you wish to be friends with my people," the elder's wizened face beamed in a broad smile. "Have you brought things you wish to trade with us? We have pelts, furs, dried fish and meat, and the fat from the great creatures that swim in the sea. What do you need?"

"A woman." Hyarion looked the chief in the eye without the flickering of a lash. "I have brought valuable goods to trade."

"Oh, yes, yes," the chief bobbed his head up and down. "I understand. The nights are long, cold and lonely and you need someone to share your furs. That can be arranged."

Hyarion nodded. 

"Is it important that the girl be very beautiful, or are you not particular?" Chief Arnaldr looked at him appraisingly.

"What is important," Hyarion's voice was cold, "is that she must be a virgin."

"That, too, can be arranged. My youngest daughter is a pure, innocent girl. I have had a number of offers for her, but no man of my people has enough to pay me. She is very beautiful, you know." Hyarion noticed that the old man's expression was sly, and he did not quite trust him. With so little time remaining ere they reached Carn Dum, he would be forced to accept whatever the old man was asking.

"Chief, I offer you a fine steel knife and another bundle of glass beads." Hyarion was not a man to be overly generous with money. He would try to get the girl for as low a price as he could, but he was sure that the old chief would rob him if he could, charging him an exorbitant fee.

Arnaldr shook his head. "Not enough."

"Two knives." Hyarion's voice was firm.

"No." The old man took off one of his fur-lined mittens and held it in his teeth. Taking out his knife, he cleaned his fingernails and ignored Hyarion and his party as though they were not there.

"Is there not some other maiden that I can get for a lower price?"

"You should have said that in the first place, Lieutenant." Chief Arnaldr wiped the blade off on his leather pants. "Yes, there is a girl, an orphan, who lives with my family. Her father was killed last winter when he fell through the ice. She is not so beautiful as my daughter. Pretty," he shrugged his shoulders, "just not beautiful."

"How much will you take for her?" Hyarion was annoyed. Whenever he looked at Agannalo, he thought the man was sneering at him. "The sarcastic devil," Hyarion thought. "He is enjoying my difficulties in obtaining a woman for him. If this blood ceremony does not give me the power to use the pale blue blade, I just might see that Silmadan has an unfortunate accident and never reaches Carn Dum. A little poison in his wine will soon end his problems."

The chief by this time had ordered the girl brought away from the sleds to stand beside him. Hyarion's breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful! Her face was not so brown as the men of her people, but rather a dark tan, almost the same shade as his own. She was short, aye, but petite, graceful and well-made. Hyarion resisted the urge to gape at her, but his eyes did travel the whole of her body.

"Three steel daggers and five bundles of beads - nothing less. If you are not interested, this discussion is at a conclusion." The chief put his glove back on and folded his arms across his chest.

"That is outrageous!" Hyarion wondered what the other girl who was reported to be beautiful would have cost. 

The chief turned to go. 

"No, wait, I will pay it!" Hyarion shouted angrily at him. Agannalo smiled knowingly.

The price was paid, the girl was placed upon a spare horse, and the entourage was soon trotting away towards Angoul. The maiden, who had never ridden a horse before in her life, clutched at the pommel and tried to stay on the animal's back. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as the chief cracked his whip over his dogs' backs, sending them bounding forward across the ice. Up ahead of her she could see the back of the grim man who had purchased her from her guardian. He was frightening enough, but she did not fear him so much as she feared the pale man who kept staring at her. That man had an evil air about him. Shuddering, she wondered what fate held in store for her.

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By the Angsuul river, late morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Agannalo witnessed Hyarion’s deal with the Lossoth chief with growing contempt. The nazgul never understood how anyone could be content with second best. He himself certainly couldn’t - ever. And now the Southron bought him a plain fish-smelling flea-infested diminutive morsel of a girl instead of the chief’s beautiful daughter! 

Agannalo snorted and shook his head. He was lucky indeed that Halflings didn’t live in this land, or Hyarion, because of his avarice, would have bought him a virgin of that species - with hardly two pints of blood inside!

The thought of blood made Agannalo nostrils quiver. He caught a whiff of the girl’s smell - mostly fish oil and unwashed flesh, but mixed with those unsavory odors were the sweet feminine smell and the heady, intoxicating aroma of warm blood. Agannalo’s mouth watered and he unconsciously urged his horse forward, trying not to loose the elusive smell. 

Surrounded by guards, the girl was riding in the middle of the party, a short way in front of the nazgul. Feeling the increasing pressure of Agannalo’s knees, his buckskin gelding drew level with the grey mare the Lossoth girl rode. Unfortunately, both the girl and the mare felt the nazgul’s presence at once. The girl turned her head and gaped at him, her pretty features contorted in fright. As for the gray mare, it suddenly stumbled, glanced sidelong at Agannalo, and then neighed and reared. The girl’s grip on the pommel slipped and she was thrown head over heels into the deep snow by the roadside.

Hearing the commotion behind, Hyarion barked “Halt!” and harried to the fallen girl. He dismounted and lifted the small figure out of the snow. Agannalo watched how he wiped the maid’s face muttering reassuring words in Haradic. “Are you hurt?” he asked over and over, first in the Southern tongue, then in Westron. The girl must have understood the latter, for she shook her head. 

“No, no hurt” she replied and shyly, tentatively tried to smile. The smile, however, froze on her lips when she noticed Agannalo looking down at her with that strange, that horrible expression... as if he wanted to eat her, or worse... 

Hyarion turned to the smirking Agannalo. “Do not come near her, you rascal!” he lieutenant shouted. “Guards, make sure the strawhead rides at the back of the troop. And the girl will ride by my side”. 

Hyarion lifted the girl back into the saddle. “You will be safe, my beauty,” he reassured her. Agannalo rolled his eyes.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, early evening of November 7, 1347 
Written by Angmar and Elfhild 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After leaving the Lossoth that morning, the military escort had ridden east along the bank of the frozen Angsuul. The lieutenant had commanded them to travel at a far slower pace than what was normal for them, for the girl could not ride well. Agannalo, riding at the rear of the column, had bristled at this nonsense, as he considered it. He was thirsty, the need having grown now to an uncomfortable ache. What would it matter if the girl fell off the horse a few times if she still arrived alive at the next town?

As dusk settled over the land, Lieutenant Hyarion ordered a halt at a small, modest inn still several miles short of the town of Angoul they were striving to reach. Without even bothering to look at Agannalo, he had ordered his guards to imprison him in the inn's root cellar, where he had remained ever since in a cool, damp, musty chamber filled with bins of parsnips and turnips, and crocks of pickled vegetables. "How long will he keep me here?" Agannalo fumed to himself. He heard his one-eyed guard and others engaged in a lively conversation outside the root cellar. Agannalo knew what that meant. The guard and some of the other men were enjoying flagons of ale while they threw the bones.

"If he tries to break the agreement..." Agannalo's face contorted in a scowl. 

Since taking occupancy of his lodgings in the inn that evening, Hyarion had lounged in a comfortable chair, watching an almost constant procession of the inn's servants pass through his sitting room. First it had been two stout lads who had carried a leather tub and buckets of hot, steaming water. "My lord," they had asked, bowing in awe at him, "where do you wish the tub to be placed?"

"Back in my bed chambers," he waved them dismissively into the room with the stem of his narghile. Next to ask admittance to his rooms was the innkeeper's wife, a large, buxom middle-aged matron with every hair in place and a cap atop her head. Following her were three attractive young chambermaids who carried trays laden with jars of soap, herbal fragrances, towels and cloths. As he lazily looked over their willowy forms, they dropped their eyes, blushed and giggled nervously as they saw the way his eyes gleamed. 

"My lord," the matron curtsied and the three girls followed suit, "where is the young lady whom we are to bathe?"

"In there, mistress," he motioned with the narghile stem, and as they all passed, his dark eyes followed the movement of the women's hips, which seemed to sway even more appealingly under the influence of the floral scented smoke.

"I am finished with my smoking for the time. Take the pipe away, boy," he ordered his pipe-bearer. Hyarion knew that if he continued inhaling the narghile's smoke, he would become far too relaxed and could drift off to sleep. He had considered doing that, for ever since the girl had come into his possession, he had been beset with feelings of guilt, an emotion almost alien to him. If he allowed his mind to slip into a state of peace and complacency, he would be almost immune to her screams when Silmadan performed his dark ritual. He did not dare risk the chance that the prisoner would kill her... or perhaps even him if his mind was too hazy. Though the pipe had made him feel calm and relaxed, still his mind was clear. He did not trust Silmadan. Perhaps the scoundrel was telling the truth that if he provided a virgin, he would indeed show him the secret of the blade. Maybe he was lying and did not know the secret either. Perhaps he was nothing more than a madman with a bizarre tale.


Chapter 24 - The Spell on the Blood

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Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, early evening of November 7, 1347 
Written by Angmar and Elfhild 
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Inside Hyarion's bed chamber, a small drama was taking place. Elína, the Lossoth girl, held a stick of firewood clutched firmly in her small hand. When any of the other women approached her, she would lunge forward, threatening them with the weapon, coming uncomfortably close to two of the chambermaids' faces on several occasions. 

"My dear, why are you so frightened?" asked Muinadaneth, the inn-keeper's wife, as she looked at her kindly. "No one is going to hurt you. All we want to do is help you take a bath. Would you not like that? A nice, warm bath?"

"No!" the girl wailed, answering back in Westron. "Too cold to take bath in winter!"

"But, my dear, Lord Hyarion, your new own-- new guardian, insists that you have a bath. Look at all the soap and fragrances he has provided. He is thinking of your welfare." Muinadaneth was trying to spare the girl's feelings by not telling her that everyone thought that she stank. Muinadaneth herself could hardly stand to be in the same room with her, and only by smelling the lavender-scented handkerchief that she kept in her bosom could she tolerate the stench.

"I care not how much soap there be! No take bath!" With a wild look in her eyes, she moved forward a step and shook the log at Muinadaneth. 

"Well, I do not know what to do," Muinadaneth sighed in resignation. "I suppose that we will just have to ask for Lord Hyarion to come in here and reason with you."

One of the servant girls leaned over and whispered into Muinadaneth's ear loud enough for Elína to hear, "Maybe m'lord Hyarion will give her a bath if she will not allow us. I wonder how she would like that?"

The Lossoth maid's frightened eyes darted between Muinadaneth and the servant girl. "No!" the girl shouted. Dropping the piece of wood, she began to tug off her fur and leather clothing and drop it in the floor.

"Here, dear, let us help you with that," Muinadaneth said solicitously.

"No! Tark woman, stay away from Elína!" the now nude girl wailed as she jumped into the tub, sending water splashing over the four women and the room. Elína began to rub water wildly over her face and hair. "There, I done!"

"No, my dear." Muinadaneth's motherly heart had opened to this poor, lost waif. "Girls, show her how," she said kindly as she stepped back from the tub. The three girls soon were lathering the protesting girl's long, lustrous black hair as she screamed and cried. A bucket of rinsing water over her head had her crying even more frantically. Efficiently, the girls worked on with determination, and soon, even though the dresses of all of them were soaked to the skin, Elína's hair and skin were glowing. 

"What about these, mistress?" One of the girls held her thumb and finger over her nose as she pointed to the pile of furs and leather garments which reeked of fish oil and sweat.

"Slip a stick under the bunch of them, take them out to the courtyard and burn them," Muinadaneth replied. "Ewww!" she wrinkled her nose. "They do smell!"

"But what Elína to wear?" The tears were pouring down Elína's cheeks and she gasped and choked upon them. 

"Why, dear, don't think anything about it," answered Muinadaneth. "My youngest daughter has some dresses which she has outgrown. I have brought them along. I think you will find some which suit you. Now let me see," she stood back and surveyed her. "What can we do with your hair?"

Elína looked up at her uncertainly as the older woman began combing and brushing her wet tresses. Within an hour after the four women had entered Hyarion's chambers, Elína was gowned in a dark blue dress, her hair braided and wrapped around either side of her head in twin buns. The girl smiled as the others complimented her.

"Beautiful," Muinadaneth sighed as she took her by the hand and led her into the sitting room, where she seated her at the end of the table across from Lieutenant Hyarion. "Exquisite, is she not, my lord?" she asked, pleased with the transformation she had effected in the girl's appearance. 

"Yes, delightful," he replied, looking boldly at the girl. Reaching over to a small ebony box on the table, he took out a purse and put it in Muinadaneth's hands. "A little something for your efforts."

She weighed the purse in her hand. "My lord is most generous." 

Excusing herself quietly, Muinadaneth left to help the chambermaids in ordering the Southron's room. Soon the four of them took their leave, departing into the hall where they passed the servants bearing Lord Hyarion's supper.

Too frightened and upset to do more than stare at her food, Elína waited until the servants finished setting the plates and platters down before looking over at him. What she saw was the Southron staring intently at her, his chin resting upon his hands. 

"Eat, my dear," his voice was deep and heavily accented. "The beef is very good.

"Yes, my lord," she stammered, grabbing a handful of meat from a platter and tearing it into pieces, stuffing several pieces into her mouth at one time .

"No, no, my dear! That is not the way it is at all! You must learn proper table manners." He shook his head. "Let me help you." Rising to his feet, he made his way over to her, took her knife and showed her how to slice the meat into pieces and then spear them with the point. Moving the knife tip to his mouth, he slid a piece into his mouth. "See how it is done, my dear?" He put his arm around her shoulder. "Now you try it."

A knock at the door interrupted Hyarion's pleasant interlude. A cavalryman, his dark face ruddy from the cold, stepped into the room, closed the door and bowed. "My lord, a word with you... in private, please." The trooper looked over to the girl.

"Speak in our own language," Hyarion hissed to the man.

"Yes, my lord, yes," he nodded humbly.

"What news?"

"My lord, Sergeant Tishur and two troopers you sent to find another girl have returned...empty-handed and in a sorry state, teeth missing, ribs broken. It seems the girl they chose to kidnap had four brothers - native Angmarians and stout fellows. They beat our men almost senseless so they hardly made it back. There might be more trouble if the girl's relatives followed their trail here."

"They will present no problems. Our contingent outnumbers any we would meet in this remote place. But is it possible to find another girl?"

"I don't think so, my Lieutenant. News travel fast. All the neighbourhood must be on the alert by now, men armed and waiting for robbers."

Hyarion sighed. Much as he wanted to find another virgin to spare Elina, his attempts came to naught. He turned to the trooper. "Now you are excused. Go down to the cellar and inform the prisoner's guard that he is to bring him here in an hour. I am inviting him for a late supper," Hyarion chuckled grimly as the soldier saluted and departed from the room. He then turned back to Elína, who looked up at him with frightened eyes and poured her some strong Dorwinion wine. "Try this, my little Elina" he offered. "The vintage is quite good."

The girl took the goblet, sniffed at the red wine and sipped it hesitantly. "No drink wine" she explained. "First time now." She swollowed more, finding the sweet fruity taste pleasant. Soon the goblet was empty and Hyarion poured her more. 

"Well," Hyarion thought, "I hope she gets drunk as not to feel too frightened. But Silmadan is just going to have to be satisfied with carrying out only part of the ritual. I do not intend to let him take it to full course and drain her of every last drop of blood. Seldom have I seen such a comely maid in the north, and I have developed a fancy for her. I have devised other plans for her... very pleasant plans." Hyarion felt his blood growing hot at such thoughts. The girl must not die! If there were no secret of the blade, or if Silmadan balked and refused to tell him, Hyarion would have him tortured. Fifty lashes on his back could be very persuasive. 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, night of November 7, 1347 
Written by Gordis, the Black Speech spell by Angmar.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, down in the cellar, Agannalo was awaiting Hyarion’s summons. Mad from impatience and thirst, the nazgul started pacing back and fourth like a caged animal, his mood turning to outright murderous. Like a cloud of darkness his feelings must have reached beyond the heavy door, as the guards stopped their merry game and huddled near the fire, silent and uneasy.

It was well past midnight when at last Agannalo heard footsteps on the narrow stair and a rusty key turning in the cellar’s lock. Four heavily armed guards entered, manacled the prisoner’s wrists behind his back, and took him upstairs to Hyarion’s rooms on the first floor. 

Hyarion seemed grim and preoccupied. He paid no heed to Agannalo’s murderous stare and without a word of greeting ordered the guards to free the prisoner’s hands and to leave them alone together. 

“Are you sure, my Lieutenant?” one of the guards ventured hesitantly. “He is quite dangerous and with his hands free, he might try to escape.”

Hyarion shook his head. “There is no escape here. The shutters on the windows are barred and locked for the night. The only door is this one, and you four will be guarding it. Stay here and wait till I call you. I don’t want to be disturbed whatever happens.”

The guards saluted and remained at the landing. Hyarion closed the door and locked it carefully from inside.

Smirking at such precautions, Agannalo walked nonchalantly to the table. There were two half-empty plates with meat and an almost empty flagon of wine.

“Do you want a drink, Silmadan?” Hyarion asked, cold hatred plain in his voice.

“Thank you for the offer, o illustrious Lieutenant.” Agannalo replied with a mock bow. “So very generous of you to think about my needs... at last. But I humbly have to decline. If you are finally done cuddling the Lossoth girl, I would like to start the ritual straight away. Where is she?”

“She is in the bedroom, this way,” Hyarion made for the door to the adjoining room but then stopped abruptly at the threshold, turned and gripped Agannalo’s shoulder.

“Look here, you, rascal” Hyarion hissed looking up into Agannalo’s face. “I will go along with your plan, but only as long as the girl is safe. I will not let you kill her!” 

Agannalo stared at him incredulously. The stupidity of this mortal was really unfathomable! “But why wouldn’t you kill her? You have bought the girl just for this, didn’t you? What has changed since?”

But Hyarion was not in the mood to give any explanations to this weird cold-blooded killer. “You will do as I say, Silmadan. I will cut not her throat, but her wrist, and pour only a little blood – just enough for the spell, no more. And then I will quench the blood flow and the girl will soon recover.”

Agannalo threw back his head and laughed. Melkor forbid, the silly mortal became enamored of the filthy little wench! “And you think the spell would work?” he asked the Southron sarcastically. “I think not. One life should be taken to prolong another – that is the whole point, as I see it.”

“You should pray that the spell works, Silmadan”, Hyarion replied stubbornly, his hands clenching into fists, “for if it doesn’t , I will order you lashed until there is no skin left on your back. I would love to see you smirking after that!”

Agannalo inhaled the air deeply and slowly let it out to calm down. He could smell the girl’s blood – so very near - just beyond the door. Now her scent was mixed not with fish oil, but with the sweet flagrance of exotic flowers. The want for blood almost made him faint. “Well, Hyarion” he said at last. I agree to your terms. Lead me to the girl.”

“That is not all,” the Southron pressed his advantage. “Once you have chanted the incantation and I have drunk the blood, you should leave. I don’t want you to witness how I… complete the spell.”

“I perfectly understand.” Agannalo couldn’t resist smirking again. 

Hyarion briefly nodded and led the way into the other room. There stood a large four-poster bed and on it the girl lay, small and dainty in her thin white chemise. She turned her head to look at the men, but her eyes were unfocussed, uncomprehending. 

“Drugged, or simply drunk?” Agannalo asked Hyarion, much like a physician inquires about the health of a patient.

“Both”, replied Hyarion grimly. “I did give her some hashish as a dessert, but I think I should better tie her to the bed, in case she returns to consciousness.”

The mention of hashish made Agannalo’s mouth water. Barring blood, it was a thing he enjoyed most. He crossed his arms at his chest.

“So you have hashish…” he drawled. “I won’t do anything before you give me at least a few ounces. It will make my nights in various cold cellars so much more enjoyable.”

Cursing in Haradic, Hyarion strode to a wall cabinet, took a small mahogany box inlaid with ivory and threw it to Agannalo. “Take it, blasted scoundrel! I am in no mood to haggle with you!” Agannalo pocketed the box without argument.

Hyarion meanwhile sat on the edge of the bed and was whispering something soothing to the girl, something not meant for Agannalo’s ears. The nazgul, however, had no difficulty to catch most of his words.

“It is our marriage custom” Hyarion was explaining to a befuddled girl. “Do not be afraid. In my homeland the groom drinks a few drops of the bride’s blood during the ceremony and then the marriage is completed.” The girl muttered something unintelligible and moaned softly.

“Now, Silmadan, come here and hold this silver chalice.” Hyarion ordered with more assurance than he actually felt. He unsheathed the Morgul knife and put the girl’s limp arm on his knees.

“So small a vial?” asked Agannalo petulantly. “Half of the blood will be lost on the floor.”

Hyarion shot him a murderous glance and slowly, hesitantly started to cut the girl’s wrist.

The pain instantly brought the girl out of her stupor. She jerked her arm away from Hyarion and wailed in fright. The nervous Southron dropped the pale blade, nearly hitting his own foot.

“Take care, you fool!” Agannalo growled and scooped the knife from the carpet in one fluid motion. Quick as lightning, he caught the girl’s flailing arm in an iron grip and deftly made a deep cut across her wrist. The blood poured out in torrent, right into the silver chalice that Agannalo held.

“What are you doing?” screamed the Southron. “I told you not to hurt her! Stop it, you, monster!” He managed to push Agannalo away, but not before the nazgul filled the silver vial. Hyarion reached frantically for dressing materials he had prepared beforehand, put a tourniquet above the girl’s elbow, and dressed her wounded wrist.

Agannalo stood observing the Southron sarcastically, the vial of blood in one hand, the Morgul knife in the other. “I will leave you soon, Hyarion” he said “and this I must tell you before our ways part. I didn’t enjoy your company one bit. You are a dull chicken-hearted scoundrel. You will never rise higher than a commander of a remote fortress, be it in Angmar or elsewhere.”

“What?” asked Hyarion, not believing his ears. Now the knave was offending him!

“I am tired of you, Hyarion. Are you still interested in the spell or did the wench steal all your reason? Now listen to me - for I will not repeat twice."

The flow of curses and threats that Hyarion was about to utter in reply froze on his lips when he noticed that the magic blade that Agannalo now rose skywards started to glow with its own light. The pale greenish glow intensified and the candles in the room dimmed. Soon the room was full of pulsing evil light that somehow drained the things around of all color – everything now appeared a mixture of stark whites and velvety blacks with gray shades in between. Agannalo’s face seemed white as bone, with dark shadows around the sunken eyes, much like a grinning skull. Hyarion’s skin crawled. 

Then Agannalo turned the blade downwards, holding it above the chalice with Elina’s blood. As if drawn by a magnet, the surface of the red viscous liquid stirred and curved, following the circular motion of the blade. Stirring the liquid with the knife, but never touching the surface, Agannalo started to chant the spell. Its words, in the High Tongue of ancient Mordor, were comprehensible to the learned Southron who listened open-mouthed, striving to memorize every word.

Pardahûn-zan ronku-ob ghaashug, muzûrz ghaamp-ob,
Burzum-zan ukû -- gothûrzûk, levûk --
Gaakh matum skaat nar akral-u grish-ob za!
Gaakh ash amirz akr grish pash slaiug ukû,
Durbûrz ukû, agh gothûrzukû!
Bugd-izgu Lat, Ai Melkor, Goth-ob Pardahûnûk!

In Westron that meant:

In the name of the power of the hot, burning depths of the earth,
By the everlasting darkness - all powerful, all encompassing - 
May death not come to the drinker of this blood. 
Let the one who drinks the blood be forever living, 
Forever strong and forever powerful. 
We beseech thee, O Melkor, Master of all Power!

“It seems that Silmadan’s tale about the wizard was true, after all,” Hyarion thought, much impressed. “It is impossible that the knave could invent such a spell himself, especially considering that it is composed in the Sacred language. The powers of the blade became unlocked. The spell clearly works!”

At the invocation of the Dark God’s name, the blade’s glow became unbearably bright. Hyarion averted his eyes in awe and looked back only when the glow gradually vanished. Agannalo stood looking down at the now smooth surface of the blood.

“And so be it!” he smiled at Hyarion. “Let the one who drinks the blood be forever living. But that will be I, not you.” 

With that he lifted the chalice and took one long swallow. 

For a moment Hyarion was speechless. He struggled to his feet and walked on unsteady feet to his treacherous accomplice. With a placid smile on his blood-smeared lips Agannalo proffered him the now empty vial. Hyarion looked down at the last drops of Elina’s blood obtained with such pains. It seemed to him that these drops grew to fill all his vision. He saw red. 

With a wordless animal growl, ready to tear the accursed strawhead to pieces with his bare hands, Hyarion rushed forward...

And stopped dead. Silmadan, who just a moment ago stood facing him, has disappeared. Hyarion looked wildly around. The room was well lit, but the weird strawhead was nowhere to be seen. Then the Southron thought he heard a low chuckle. Yes, he was not mistaken. The quiet laugher was coming seemingly from all sides at once – or was it only in his own mind? The volume of the sound grew, and soon Hyarion’s head resonated with the horrible diabolical laugher. He clutched his head and sank to the floor, feeling more frightened than ever in his life. 

At this moment beyond the drawn curtains and locked shutters, in the backyard of the inn, an old rooster flew to the top of the fence, tossed his red crest and started his morning chant. The clear sound cut through the shadowy nets of wizardry like a knife through butter. The laugher abruptly stopped and Hyarion slowly regained his wits. He told himself “I am an officer of Angmarian Army, His Majesty’s Lieutenant, I will not cower on the floor like a beaten slave.” Dwimmercraft or not, he had to find the prisoner.

“Guards, to me! The prisoner has escaped!” he cried, forgetting that he had locked the door on the inside. The soldiers hearing the urgency in the Lieutenant’s call, made short work of the door and rushed in. “Search the room”, Hyarion ordered. He himself went to check the windows. All were duly locked.

For some time the guards occupied themselves looking under the tables and behind the sofas. The area around the bed had been searched most thoroughly, as the men enjoyed the occasion to gawk at the half-naked unconscious Elins, before Hyarion had remembered to cover the girl. 

Suddenly they heard frantic cries from the court and the sound of galloping hooves. Hyarion, knowing already in his heart what to expect went out to investigate.

“So, the strawhead has stolen his horse, didn’t he?” he asked a soldier with a measure of resignation.

“It is much worse, my Lord”, the soldier replied. “All the horses bolted as if Njamo himself was after them. Broken their stalls and bolted away, they did. Not a single one left. We are stranded”.

______________________________________
LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE BLACK SPEECH SPELL

Power-innameof depthsof burninghot earthof, 
Darkness-bythe eternal -- powerfulall, surroundingall -- 
May death come not drinkerto bloodof this! 
May one who drink blood beabletobe living eternal, 
Strong eternal, and powerful eternal! 
Call-we You, O Melkor, Master-of Powerall!


Chapter 25 - The King's Nephew

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On the road to Carn-Dum, November 8, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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Agannalo negotiated another steep climb among jutted, broken red rocks and stopped his lathered horse. On the left the sun was setting, blood-red amidst the dark clouds. It had been snowing all day long, but now, towards the evening, the cold northern wind blew the heavy clouds away, so right ahead Agannalo was able to see the looming line of the mountains of Angmar outlined against the darkening sky. Straining his eyes, the nazgul followed the mountain chain to its west end and there he discerned a darker shadow, too regular in shape to be part of the mountainside - the fortress of Carn-Dum, his destination. Agannalo looked back surveying the winding road he had traveled all the way from the now distant Angsuul. The town of Angoul he had passed last night now seemed a black dot on the nearest bank of the gleaming frozen river.

The ride through Angoul was the most difficult part of his journey. First Agannalo thought to give the town a wide berth, but he hadn’t reckoned with the realities of the northern winter. The snow in the fields proved to be too deep for the horse, so the beaten road remained the only possible way. He was indeed lucky that Angoul was not a fortress, but just a small merchant town with only a wooden fence around. At night, the gates of Angoul were naturally locked, so he had to knock on the gates first with his fists, then with the hilt of the Morgul dagger to attract the gatekeeper’s attention. When, after much cursing, the sleepy gatekeeper finally emerged from his lodge and opened the gate, he was much surprised to see only a lone saddled buckskin horse facing him. Suddenly the horse neighed, rolled its wild bloodshot eyes, and rushed forward. The gatekeeper landed on his backside near the road, narrowly avoiding the flying hooves. He shook for hours afterwards and no amount of booze could warm his blood.

Another gatekeeper -of the West gate - only had to report that the gate suddenly opened all by itself to let out a riderless pale horse. He was much puzzled and not a little bit frightened, but decided not to investigate the matter. Some mysteries were better left unsolved…

Agannalo smirked at the memory, then laughed outright remembering Hyarion and the girl… Pity he had so little time with her. When washed and perfumed, she proved to be a dainty little thing, an exotic fruit ripe for plucking. And her blood had tasted so good… 

Agannalo sighed and spurred the trembling horse again. By now, the buckskin was quite exhausted and hungry, but the nazgul cared little for the gelding. He urged him on relentlessly, striving to reach Carn-Dum before the nightfall. He doubted he would be able to enter easily into THAT place after the gate was shut.

And indeed, Agannalo was the last person to enter before the drawbridge was raised and the heavy iron gates of Angmar’s capital clanged shut. Agannalo had caught up with a long procession of laden wagons that were bringing supplies to Carn-Dum, so he managed to avoid questions at the city gate. He knew he wouldn’t be so lucky at the fortress, though. 

“I hope I won’t meet another Hyarion eager to put a King’s nephew in chains” he thought.

Bathed in moonlight, the fortress stood on the mountain shoulder, its many battlements looming over the city. The high tower perched on the rock seemed to float in the twilight sky, graceful and weightless. To Agannalo’s eyes it seemed faintly luminous, beckoning to all his senses, like a light of a harbor warms the heart of a returning mariner. Feeling homesick and weary of travels, Agannalo ardently hoped that the King would welcome him, would permit him to stay – at least for some time, a few centuries maybe…

He rode to the Gates and announced to the bewildered guards. “My name is Silmadan. I am come to see my uncle, His Majesty the King of Angmar.”


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Carn-Dum, Angmar, evening of November 8, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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The supper hour had long since passed when Alassar, the King's Steward, made his way from his apartments up the long, winding stairs to the top of a tower which the king had assigned for his use long ago. Arriving at the landing, Galon, his young apprentice, unhooked the latch and opened the door for his master. A sharp, bitter wind struck them in the face, billowing out their cloaks.

A handsome boy, tall and bearing the distinctive look of one of Numenorean ancestry, Galon considered the important work which he would do that night. The boy occupied a coveted place in Carn Dum, and was envied by the other boys of his social class. The son of a prominent lord of Umbar who had come north in the service of the King, the lad had been only eight years old when Lord Alassar had chosen him to be his apprentice. After that, he had dedicated most of his time to his studies and the tasks which Lord Alassar set him. He was determined to learn the secret arts and become an accomplished sorcerer. In the six years that he had been an apprentice, the boy had made impressive progress.

Galon stood back at a respectful distance and held up the lantern. When he was not studying and helping the sorcerer, the boy had another important task - to assist the Master of Ravens in the rookery, which was located in a large building in the main courtyard. Galon took a special pride in this second high position. He was charged with taking the birds from the rookery to the tower when the lord demanded them. The birds had learned to accept him over the years, and sometimes Galon thought he could understand their speech.

Leaning his elbows on the parapet, his long fur-lined sleeves dangling over the sides, Lord Alassar was silent for a long time. Though he concentrated and tried to exercise control over his body, Galon could not help shivering, for nights were cold here in the north. Not so cold as they had been in other years, the boy observed, for the weather in Carn Dum had been surprisingly balmy this winter. Instead of the howling blizzards and raging storms that he had known ever since he had been in the north, snowfall had not been far less than in other years.

The boy looked down over the great fortress which had been cut into the red rocks of the Mountains of Angmar. He had heard that a vast labyrinth lay beneath those mountains, but though he was curious about them, his master had never sent him there. He could only guess what might lie inside those halls and corridors, but when he thought about it, he was not sure if he wanted to find out. There had been stories...

His eyes were drawn to the great, tall tower where glimmered only a few lights. It was said that His Majesty worked his spells of magic there, but this, too, the boy had never seen with his own eyes. His gaze roamed over the great fortress below which was made up a huge complex of auxiliary towers and other pertinent buildings. Then his eyes dropped lower to the village which had grown up below the fortress. The almost full moon striking the snow covering added amazing clarity to everything.

At last Lord Alassar spoke. "Do you see that, boy, off over there beyond the village?" He motioned with his hand to a dark speck in the distance which was approaching ever closer at a rapid pace. 

His words took Galon by surprise and the boy jumped. He had been thinking about a girl whom he had met recently down in the village, a comely lass, a little younger than himself. He should not be thinking of her at all, for she was far below his social station, but she was pretty...

"No, my lord, I am sorry," he stammered. "I did not see anything until you pointed it out to me, but, yes, I can see a rider coming at a furious speed. I wonder who it could be?"

"Whoever he is, he won't be getting inside the walls tonight, for the great gate is barred," Alassar commented dryly.

"My lord," the boy added, "he will have a cold night then."

"Galon, whoever he is, the stranger is of no interest to me." He turned back to look at Galon. "Ready the required items."

"Aye, my lord." The boy's hands trembled as he opened the ebony box with arcane symbols inlaid in silver. He carefully lifted out a dagger of curious workmanship which was encased in an ornate jewel-encrusted sheath. "Here, my lord."The boy placed the weapon in Alassar's outstretched hands. Galon heard the swish of metal as Alassar unsheathed the dagger. His hands still trembling, Galon closed his eyes and held his breath. He knew what his master was about to do, and it always frightened him.

The dagger held upon his open palms, Alassar lifted up his arms in the ancient pose of supplication. In a loud voice, he began intoning, 
"Budg-izg Shakhu-ir gothûrz Bûrzum-ob, Melekô durbûrz shum agh Zigûr brogbuz-Tab, bhûl thrâk-izub agh larg-izish gothûrz!"

Galon's knees shook at the mention of the two great lords, and he bowed his head. There was a long pause as the wizard communed with the powers of darkness before his attention returned to the young man. "Galon, the vessel." Galon held the goblet up and inwardly winced as he watched Alassar slice the dagger across his arm. There was no cry of pain, not so much as a sigh from Alassar as the knife did its work and his red blood dripped into the chalice. Galon wondered if he would ever have the powers of concentration and strength that were required to draw his own blood.

This phase of the ritual now complete, Alassar bound up his wounds and cleaned the ceremonial dagger. With the boy leading the way, the two made their way down the stairs to Alassar's apartments. There Alassar left the boy, took the vessel holding his blood to an antechamber and closed the door behind him.

The wizard had just returned from the chamber when a knock sounded on the door. "Enter!" commanded Alassar as he sat down on a chair and waited for the lad to pour him a goblet of mulled wine.

"My lord Alassar, forgive this disturbance!" exclaimed the red-faced, excited guard who nervously entered the room.

"Approach," came Alassar's disinterested reply. "Approach and state why the tranquility of the night has been disturbed."

The guard walked to the front of his superior's chair and bowed. "There is a strange man outside who claims to be the King's nephew. He was making a great stir at the gatehouse, demanding entry into the city as though he were some sort of royalty. Not knowing what else to do, the guards at the gatehouse arrested him. What would you have us do with him? Throw him in the dungeon or take him to the king?"

"The king is deliberating pressing matters and cannot be disturbed with such nonsense. Clearly the man is mad. Throw him in the dungeon." Alassar waved his hand dismissively. "When morning comes, have him whipped soundly and sent on his way. Flagellation is oft times beneficial in these cases." He hid the smirk on his face as he looked soberly at the guard. He suspected that he knew what "pressing matters" that the king was deliberating. He was probably right now with his current favorite, the lovely Lady Gelireth, or one of his other equally charming companions.

"But, my lord," the guard interjected, "this prisoner does not seem like a common vagrant. His bearing is regal, his speech cultured and dignified... perhaps his claims are true." The guard looked worried.

"Oh, all right," Alassar stifled a yawn, "bring him up and I will talk with him. This might be amusing." He turned to Galon. "My goblet is empty, lad. Refill it."

_________________
TRANSLATIONS

I call on the powerful lords of darkness, Melkor the very strong and Sauron His favored, accept my gift and make me powerful. Call-I Lords-on powerful darkness-of, Melkor strong very and Sauron favored-His, accept gift-my and make-me powerful 

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Carn-Dum, evening of November 8, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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In the guardhouse by the Gate Agannalo waited, outwardly calm, but boiling inside. The wait seemed endless and still no one came to greet him. Agannalo deliberately let some of his power leak out, to keep the guards suitably intimidated and to make his presence more evident to the Captain. Still no one…

Agannalo himself felt the King’s presence strongly – somewhere high in the main tower – and he knew that the Captain’s abilities to feel the presence of beings of his own kind far surpassed his own. “He should know by now that I am here!” thought Agannalo irritably. “What in Ungoliant is he doing at the moment that dulls his senses so much?!”

He remembered that when a couple of decades ago he had visited Gothmog the Third in his solitary fortress in southeastern Harad, the nazgul was the first to meet him beyond the gate. He greeted Agannalo and …misbegotten toad! sent him on his way as speedily as it was socially acceptable. The Sublime Al-Khamul the Blessed, Shakh of Khand, did the same… blast the ruttish doghearted scoundrel... Would the Captain prove as churlish?

Minutes passed, long as hours. Finally the guard sent with the report returned and Agannalo was led towards the main tower. They entered the huge doors, went up a few flights of steps and stopped in front of the double doors richly inlaid with silver arcane symbols. The guard opened the door and let Agannalo through with a bow – which he took as a good sign. However, instead of his Captain, he saw a young richly clad Numenorean, from Umbar by the looks of him, who was sitting at a writing table and was looking bored.

“Now…what do we have here?” asked the man, stifling a yawn. “I am the King’s Steward. State your name and business, stranger.”

“I want to see the King, not his Steward, ” replied Agannalo coldly. “I will be much obliged if you go and warn my uncle. Hurry up, my good fellow, I can’t wait here all night.” 

Alassar frowned and narrowed his eyes. Much as the stranger’s attitude infuriated him, he was no fool and noticed several things that the others had missed. The stranger was clearly no “strawhead” as the guards had described him, but a Numenorean, though with unusual coloring. He spoke old-fashioned Westron, close to the ancient Adunaic, much as the King himself did, and had the same distinguished, articulate manner of speaking and the same unusual, chilling accent. Moreover…there was this strange quality in him as well, something that rose goose bumps on Alassar’s flesh and made him shiver as if he were cold…And his eyes… Alassar only looked into their cold blue depths once and had to withdraw his gaze, swallowing hard to hide his fear.

What if this Silmadan was indeed what he claimed to be? The nephew of a heirless King was not someone to be taken lightly. And who knows how high he could rise if the king acknowledged him?

Alassar swallowed again and rose to his feet. “Do you have proof that you are indeed the King’s relative?” he asked at last.

Without a word, Silmadan lifted his right hand …and there on his forefinger was a Ring … a great ring wrought in gold with a clear cold-blue gem. Alassar’s breath caught in his throat. How many times he had admired the King’s Ring, his gaze being drawn to it every time he saw it, his heart pounding like a hammer in his excitement! The stranger’s ring was clearly of the same workmanship. Alassar bowed low to the newcomer.

“My lord”, he stammered, “I am afraid the King is currently occupied with grave matters of State, but certainly tomorrow…”

Alassar felt a slight movement behind and a chill ran down his spine. He sharply turned his head, and there, by the wall, he saw the familiar tall dark figure wrapped in royal mantle. “But how did he get here?” the steward thought in amazement. “Perhaps he has entered by one of the secret passages concealed in the walls, one known only to the Lord of Carn Dum?” Till now, Alassar had no idea that one led to his own rooms.

Agannalo went down on one knee and bowed his head low, in the same fashion as the courtiers in Armenelos had greeted the King of Numenor so very long ago.

“My Lord”, he intoned, “your stray nephew Silmadan is here begging hospitality and shelter”.

Taken by surprise at the king's sudden and unusual appearance, Lord Alassar rose to his feet and bowed low. "Your Majesty, I was not expecting you!" Alassar hoped that the king would not note the look of discomfiture that he was certain must be apparent upon his face. Though he was curious, Alassar thought better than to inquire about the location of the heretofore unknown secret passage. If one were wise, he learned very quickly after coming to the fortress of Carn Dum not to ask too many questions.

"Obviously," the king remarked coolly, a note of amusement in his voice at Alassar's uneasiness. "Ah, I see that my nephew has already introduced himself to you. He often has a way of making himself known when you are not expecting him. It is a habit of his to which every one of his acquaintance must become accustomed. He is also fond of making grand entrances, quite magnificent appearances, actually. People are always impressed by them," he chuckled, a faint twinkling glow in his eyes. Lord Alassar's eyebrows arched questioningly at what he considered criticism by the king of his nephew.

"Your Majesty, the value of grand appearances depends upon the occasion, and I am sure from what you say, your nephew must be the master of it. I will keep that in mind," Lord Alassar chuckled good naturedly, but Agannalo sensed the sarcasm in the man's remark.

Turning to Agannalo, the King surveyed him disinterestedly before speaking. "Rise, nephew. I had been expecting you to arrive for some time, but I note you are late. Perhaps you have had some unfortunate delays on the journey. I trust you came through your adventures well. I am sure you will have much to tell me later."

“Your Majesty," Agannalo replied most humbly (as feigned humility had always been the best course of action, when dealing with the Captain). “Thank you for acknowledging me. My heart is glad to behold you again, dearest Uncle!” Agannalo sniffed and swept away a non-existing tear. The King watched him silently, not impressed.

Having mastered his emotions, Agannalo continued. “It was most difficult to reach Carn Dum and to get to see your Majesty, as your country is guarded well. The Lieutenant of Shedun fortress, this arrogant fool Hyarion, never believed my claims to be your relative. He has treated me in the most outrageous, humiliating fashion, and stole the priceless weapons I carried and the harp, most dear to my heart, a parting present from my late mother…” Agannalo sniffed again, this time more for the Steward’s sake than the King’s. “I beg you to make the thieving knave return my possessions!”

At the mention of “weapons” the King frowned. If Agannalo’s Morgul knife had fallen into mortal hands, it was definitely not good. The King turned to Alassar. “Summon the Lieutenant of Shedun here!” he ordered.

The Steward bowed. “It shall be done right away, your Majesty.”

The King nodded to the Steward. "Lord Alassar, now if you will excuse us, this young rascal and I have many things to discuss and many reminiscences to share."

"Certainly, sire." Lord Alassar moved to open the door for the pair. The thought struck him that perhaps that was not necessary, and the king and his nephew could go back by the way the king made his appearance into the room. Discretion told him otherwise, but he promised himself that when they were gone, he would take soundings of the walls to see where lay the hidden door or doors. This would be purely for his own information. One should know where one might find secret escape routes. In any event, he was sure that the king would never be aware of whatever he discovered.

"Oh, yes, Lord Alassar, see that this young fellow is put up in our best... guest room. See to his comfort. Ah! But I forgot something. The fine young fellow will not have need of company to warm his bed. You see, he is a deeply spiritual man, and he has taken a vow of chastity to... keep his.... soul pure and spotless. He devotes all of his time to purely philosophical and intellectual studies. He is to have free reign of my library, to satiate his deeper needs."

Alassar nodded politely. "Aye, Your Majesty, all will be as you have ordered."


Chapter 26 - The Morgul Wound

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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, morning of November 8, 1347
Written by Angmar.
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Held down by Hyarion, the physician's assistant, the innkeeper's wife and Mudoleth, one of the chambermaids, Elina awoke to screaming agony which was mercifully cut short when the girl fainted. Blanching, the innkeeper's wife closed her eyes and coughed sharply, attempting to calm the uneasiness in her stomach. The chambermaid, pale, her face drawn and pinched, bit her lower lip, only relaxing her grip on the girl when she saw that she had fainted.

"Lieutenant Hyarion, I have done my best," explained the physician, Pizdur Abzu, a grim-faced, dark-bearded man, as he closed off the ends of the severed blood vessels and tied them with silk thread. "She lost a great deal of blood." He turned to his assistant, a gloomy-faced young man in his late twenties. "Infection - we must be on our guard for that, Corporal. Now apply the healing salve and bind the wound."

"Aye, physician," his assistant mumbled as he opened a glass vial and began smearing an unpleasant smelling brown salve on the wound.

The physician rose to his feet, put his hand on the small of his arched back and groaned. "This damned weather is killing my bones," he grumbled.

"Come, Captain, share a glass of wine with me," Hyarion motioned to the small table with its accompanying two benches.

"So she tried to kill herself?" the doctor asked as he inhaled the fragrance of the goblet of Dorwinion wine.

"Aye, unfortunately," Hyarion nodded.

"What can you expect, Lieutenant? A young girl like that taken away from her people and all she had known. She does not half understand Common! I am surprised at you this time for buying this ignorant peasant girl. Do you not have enough women back at the fortress to satisfy your appetites without taking yet another?"

"Only two wives and three concubines," Hyarion shrugged. "You of all people should know that is a modest number in Harad. Why did I buy her? I had an itch for the girl; it is that simple."

"You always have an itch, Lieutenant! You brought at least five slave girls with you when you came from the South. Who knows how many more you have added since then? I suppose they do not count." Abzu swallowed the mouthful of pungent wine. "Now this girl... why did she try to kill herself? Were you that rough on her the first time, eh?" he chortled lewdly. "Perhaps I should have examined her..." He leaned forward across the table, his eyes gleaming.

"You rogue! I know what you really mean! No one touches my women in that way except for my eunuchs and me! What do you think I am, some barbarian swine? I was not the one who hurt her!"

The physician raised an eyebrow. "Then who did?"

"The prisoner who escaped last night!" Hyarion's eyes flashed in anger. "I thought he might have valuable information that he had not yet divulged. Attempting to gain his confidence, I had him brought to my room, ordered him unshackled from his chains, and allowed him to eat the scraps from my supper. I thought the dog would be grateful, but instead in a mad fit of rage, he overpowered me, rendering me unconscious with a blow to the back of my head. Then he rushed into the room with Elina, tied her to the bed, and had his way with her! When I returned to consciousness, I staggered into the room to find that the rogue had escaped. I later learned from the guards that the prisoner next went to the stables, took his mount and freed the rest of the beasts!"

The entire tale was a fabrication, of course, devised by Hyarion in the interval since Silmadan had fled. The girl had never been raped and was still a virgin in fact, but the story provided a plausible reason for Elina's attempted "suicide" and the prisoner's escape. The physician would believe what Hyarion told him, though.

The physician shook his head gravely. "A terrible thing!"

"Aye, indeed it was," Hyarion said sadly. "By the time I had arrived in the room, the girl had taken a dagger and sliced her wrist open. She was bleeding like a butchered ox! When I realized the situation, I sent one of the guards to fetch you, and you know the rest of the story." Hyarion looked searchingly into the doctor's eyes. "Do you think the poor maiden will be all right?" His black eyes filled with sorrow and regret, he drummed his fingertips nervously upon the table.

"My lord, the girl is very weak. She has lost quite a good deal of blood, and she needs rest and care. Then there is always the risk of infection, but if she has not worsened within three days, there is a good chance she will survive. I strongly advise you against moving her, though. She should stay here under the care and supervision of the innkeeper's wife or some other responsible person."

"I cannot do that!" Hyarion bristled. "I must be in Carn-dum as soon as possible! I have an appointment with His Majesty and he will not be kept waiting! Do not fear for the girl, though. She will ride in comfort. I have one of my men out now searching for a team of horses and a sleigh that I can rent. Then as soon as the cavalry horses are found, the cavalcade will be moving out!"

"Even with a sleigh, you still might kill her," Pizdur Abzu's voice was stern with warning.

"Then I must take that chance!"

The physician regarded him coldly for a few moments. "My lord lieutenant, just remember that allowing her to go on this journey is against my advice. Now if you no longer need my services, I must be going, but I shall return tonight. If the girl develops a fever, send for me immediately. Good day." Downing the remainder of his wine, the physician stood up. With a sign to his assistant, the two men bowed to the lieutenant and backed their way to the door and departed.

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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn, Kingdom of Angmar, morning of November 8, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Awakening from her faint, Elina looked up into the kind plump face of the innkeeper's wife. Her head ached; the light streaming in through the window burnt her eyes like sun reflecting off snow. She closed her eyes tightly to ward away the blinding light. The taste of stale wine made her troubled stomach churn even more, and she wondered why she could no longer feel her right arm.

"You poor dear," the motherly-looking woman murmured as she sponged dried blood off the girl's body with a warm cloth. The soothing warmth of the towel was blotted over her chest, down her stomach, and then to her thighs. Though her vision was blurred as though a mist lay between her and the innkeeper's wife, Elina could see that the woman's face was strained with worry as she cleansed her gently as a mother would a tiny baby.

"Oh, you poor dear, how terrifying it must have been for you when that cruel brute attacked you," the innkeeper's wife murmured sympathetically.

Elina did not recall anything like that happening, and wondered what the woman was talking about. What she could remember was a dinner of overcooked, tasteless beef accompanied by malodorous onions, fiery turnips and sulfuric cabbage, and then a desert of oat cakes and apples. Whilst they ate, the handsome officer plied her with many sweet words, promising her marriage. Then after the dinner, he turned his honeyed lips to kissing her own... his tongue lathed down her neck, stopping at the hollow of her throat as his hands explored her body. She had felt strange, as though she were floating on the clouds, and the floor was no longer made of wood, but somewhere between a liquid and a solid.

Vaguely she remembered Hyarion sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her into his bedroom. He had slowly taken off her blue dress, kissing her face, her lips, her cheeks, her throat, awakening feelings in her which she had never known before. His breath had tasted so pleasant, tinged with refreshing mint, sweeter than that which grew wild. Soon she was left in only the snowy white chemise. She wondered why she did not feel at all uncomfortable at the lack of clothing, but somehow it did not seem to matter.

Her vision darkening, she fell forward, down into balmy clouds of euphoric desire and opiated rapture. He caught her as she started to slump to the floor. She felt so very warm and cozy and blissfully happy, and sleepy, yes, very sleepy... When the hazy mists of languid somnolence had parted, she found herself looking up into the canopy of a large bed, each of her limbs tied to one of the posts with silken cords... scarlet, she remembered idly.

"My dear," he had whispered as he leaned over her, "you must understand that the wedding customs are different in my land. The... er... priest... will be here soon to perform the ceremony, and then you will be my... wife."

Though she did not know it at the time, that was a falsehood, for she would be nothing more than another of his slave maids. Perhaps if she managed to satisfy him, someday he would free her and make her another one of his concubines. Since she was a poor orphan from a far land and had seen little of the world, in her innocence, she wanted to trust him.

The innkeeper's wife pushed a lock of raven black hair from Elina's forehead and peered down into her face. "Now we need to get a gown on you and change this stained bedding." Turning to the chambermaid, she told her, "Mudoleth, help me with this, please... and be careful of her wrist."

The two women soon had Elina dressed in a clean white nightgown, an old one of the innkeeper's wife and at least two sizes too big for her. The sheets were changed and fresh ones smelling of lavender were spread over the bed.

The door opened and Hyarion strode into the room, and taking in the scene, a smile spread over his full lips.

"Does she not look lovely, my lord?" the innkeeper's wife beamed as she fluffed up the pillow behind Elina's back.

"Like a blushing bride," he winked at her. "Now you women may leave us, and thank you for all your help."

"My lord, we were glad we could be of use. If you should need anything, just ring the bell. We hope you have a pleasant afternoon and best wishes for your life together." The two women blushed, curtsied and then left.

When Elina saw the gleam in Hyarion's eyes as he approached the bed, a goblet of wine in his hand, she felt a sudden pang of intuitive dread. "My wrist... Please... do not..." she whimpered as she put her good hand out to push him away.

"Drink this, my dear, and everything will be fine," he murmured huskily.

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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms,evening of November 8, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Some time later, Elina awoke to find herself nestled in the arms of the Southron. The lazy lassitude caused by the drugged draught had passed for the time, leaving in its wake a crystal-clear sense of clarity. She ached in places she had never ached before, but the full intensity of the pain was still dulled. Remminiscing upon memories so newly made, she tried to destract herself from the pain of chastity's sudden death with memories of bliss.

Shifting her body so that she lay upon her back - carefully, as not to wake Hyarion - she turned her head and surveyed her new husband in the dim light of the room. His eyes, shaded by thick, dark brows which almost met in the middle, were closed, deep in slumber, and now and then the corners of his lips would twitch into a smile. His long black hair was unkempt, tousled from the rigors of the afternoon and lay softly curling about his neck. The coverlet rested about his waist, and Elina felt at peace as she saw his bare chest rise and fall with his steady breathing. She reached a finger out and furtively touched the dark mat of hair on his broad chest. He stirred in his sleep, and her breath caught in her throat, but he did not wake.

Elina looked to the window, which was partially draped. She judged by the errant light which creeped into the room that it was now evening. They had spent the afternoon lost in heated passion, and this hot-blooded man from the South had taken her soaring to the stars. Though he had been ardent, demanding at times, he had taken care not to bring any pain to her injured wrist.

She was still confused about the manner of her injury. She had a vague recollection... something about a wedding ceremony, and a priest. Apparently, the priest had gone beserk and tried to kill her, but her brave, heroic new husband had saved her from this dire fate. She still did not know why the man had wished her dead, but suddenly plunged into this strange new culture, she was too timid to ask Hyarion why. Perhaps her darling Hyarion would answer all of her questions soon. They just needed a chance to talk, but being so recently wed, her husband was more interested in celebrating their union.

How strange it was for Elina, one of the Lossoth, to find herself in the arms of this man from Harad, a land which she had not even known existed until the day before. From his description of it, it sounded the opposite of Forodwaith - instead of snow, there was sand; instead of tundra there were deserts; the summers were blisteringly hot and the winters were cool and rainy. The buildings were made of mudbrick instead of sod or ice, and people travelled long distances on strange animals with giant humps on their backs.

How strange fate was to thrust her into the arms of this passionate man. Did she truly love him, she wondered, or was she just overwhelmed by the spendor of these new and wonderful experiences? Perhaps after she regained her bearings, understanding would come to her. But in the meantime, she had other worries... Though she could not explain it, she felt that a horrible sickness was coursing through her body, some dread plague which was caused by evil spirits... and this dire malady was somehow connected to the grevious cut on her wrist.

She shivered, for a chill had come over her, creeping up her arm from her wrist like the cold winter wind. She moved closer to Hyarion, pressing her back against his torso, seeking the warmth of his body. Yet it brought her little relief, and her delicate form was soon shivering as though she had fallen through an ice-covered pond into frigid water.

Her trembling awoke Hyarion, and he nuzzled the side of her neck. "Are you cold, my little northern flower?" he murmured as his palm slid its seductive way over the length of her arm. "Perhaps I can warm you up..."

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The road to Carn Dum, morning of November 9, 1347
Written by Angmar
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When the cavalcade had set out from the inn that morning, Lord Hyarion had been in a bitter, black humor. Now nearing the town of Angoul, his mood had not improved. There was really little about which to be happy.

Yesterday, after deceiving the Lieutenant of Shedun Fortress and making him appear the fool, the prisoner Silmadan had escaped, but not before setting all the horses in the inn's stables free. His men had spent needless hours searching for the runaway horses, and though they had located most of the mounts, still two of the pack animals had not been found. The loads on the other horses had to be repacked and added to the saddles of the remaining beasts. While the varlet had taken the magic dagger with him, at least he had not been able to ferret out his other confiscated possessions. The priceless emerald sheathed dagger was safe, hidden in its pack, guarded by one of his own men from Harad. Hyarion considered the prisoner's harp as useless, and if it had not been confiscated property for which he was responsible, he would have had his men toss it over some convenient bank. As it was, the men were afraid of it, muttering dark imprecations whenever its name was mentioned, and making the sign against evil behind their backs.

Aye, there were many things to make Lord Hyarion disgruntled that morning. Continuing to mull over the miserable prisoner in his mind would only make him angrier, however, and so he determined to channel his thoughts over to more pleasant matters. He frowned. Even here, there were unpleasantries with which he must deal. His new toy, Elína the Lossoth girl, had proved to be a pleasant surprise. Lovely, young, docile, obedient, and after her introduction to the pleasures of connubial bed, she had been eager for his caresses. He had planned to take the girl back to Shedun Fortress and add her to his harem of two wives, three concubines, and five slave girls. In this damn cold place, a man had little enough to console him through the long, dark nights, and no one could blame him for bringing some of the comforts of home with him.

Nothing had gone quite the way that Hyarion had planned it, however. After the ceremony of the night of the 7th in which he had allowed the prisoner to perform certain rituals using the strange glowing blade, the girl had not seemed the same. Throughout the course of the day yesterday, she had been beset by a bout of chills. While last night she had seemed to rally and be much her old self, the morning found her looking wan with dark circles around her eyes. Even her rosy cheeks and red lips looped pallid. Although they had experienced a night of the warmest love-making, she had awakened in the middle of the night, complaining of terrible dreams. He had managed to soothe the girl, though, and she had fallen off into a peaceful sleep in his arms.

He turned around in the saddle and looked back to the sleigh where Elína rode beside the driver. Since he did not plan to be gone long in Carn Dum, Hyarion had rented a sleigh and team from a local man and would return them after they rode back that way in a few days. Though Elína was wearing a warm woolen dress and a fur-lined cloak and was bundled in furs and blankets, the girl was shivering as she sat in the sleigh. Hyarion smiled encouragingly at her and she managed a weak little smile. He looked beyond her at the pack horse, where the emerald dagger and Silmadan's other possessions were hidden in a pack saddle. He thought to himself how impressed the king of Angmar would be when he presented it to him as a gift. Perhaps that would do much towards mollifying the king when the Lieutenant reported that the prisoner - who was suspected of being an assassin - had escaped. If Elína had not been ailing, he had even considered giving her as a trinket to His Majesty. There was no possible way he could do that now.

Though there were deep layers of snow in high banks along the sides of the road, the roadbed itself was clear. That was one thing for which he had always been grateful in this miserable cold northern country - after a storm, the road crews were out as soon as possible, clearing the trail. Things were run efficiently in the kingdom.

Riding beside the sleigh, Lord Hyarion opened one of the wine flasks which he carried on a hook on the cantle of his saddle. "Drink, my little northern flower," he encouraged her in his deep, richly accented Southern voice. "This will put some color back into your cheeks."

Smiling at him from under long, dark eyelashes, the girl took the flask and brought it daintily up to her lips and drank. "Thank you, my lord. Feel much better."

He studied her eyes and knew that she was lying. If anything, she looked even worse, but at least she was not shivering.

"My dear, look how clear are the skies today. No storms are expected, and if we continue the pace that I have set, we should be in the capital of Angmar, Carn Dum, by nightfall."

She extended the wineskin back to him with a "Thank you" and a little nod of her head.

"No, dear," he smiled as he stoppered the vessel and handed it back to her, "you may keep it to warm you as needed." He winked at her. "There are plenty more packed in the pack saddles."

"My lord, this place we go..." her brows knitted together as she tried to think of the unfamiliar Common Speech words, "what it look like? Big?"

"Little Elína," a smile came over his face, "'big' is not the word. Immense would be a more accurate way to describe it. There is a mighty fortress with a great wall and a high tower... garrisons, storehouses, blacksmiths' shops, armories, stables... and the town that has grown up around it... the fortress will be like nothing you have ever seen!"

"My lord," she frowned and stammered as she attempted to form the difficult words, "is there a.... what you call it? Chieftain?"

"No, my dear," Hyarion chuckled, "in Angmar there rules a great king, a mighty king, whose like has never been known in Middle-earth. My soothsayer back at Shedun Fortress predicts that he will be like a spectacular star which blazes across the heavens, that he will a great conqueror and destroyer of kingdoms, and that his fame will endure until the end of the world!" The girl looked puzzled, and he was not certain how much she understood.

"Oh, I see!" A look of comprehension came over her face. "A big chieftain with many furs, sleds and dogs!"

"I suppose you could say that," Hyarion grinned. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. As he was straightening back in the saddle, Hyarion detected a flicker of movement far ahead. Squinting, he made out the shape of a horsemen far in the distance and heading their way at a rapid pace. The column halted until the massager drew up, and after saluting the lieutenant, the young man, resplendent in the red and black Angmarian livery, handed him a sealed scroll. Opening the missive, the lieutenant read,

"Lord Hyarion, Lieutenant of Shedun Fortress, you are hereby ordered to report immediately to Carn Dum and present yourself before Lord Alassar, Steward to His Majesty. You are to bring all the possessions and property which you wrongfully confiscated from Lord Silmadan, His Majesty's nephew."

Blinking, Hyarion looked up from the message. "Silmadan!" he thought. "So that impudent young pup was the King's nephew? So it was true after all!" A sharp pang struck his abdomen, and he felt a brief wave of nausea rush over him. He was not yet prepared to consider the full possibilities of what this startling revelation might mean for his career... or even his life.

"Sir," the massager asked in a clipped voice, "do you have a message for me to take back in return?"

"Aye," Hyarion replied, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice. It would never do to let this Carn Dum man think that he had any hesitancy whatsoever.

"Sir, do you wish to write it?"

"No, you can take this oral message... tell the steward that all the requested objects are in my possession, and that my escort and I should be arriving in Carn Dum by nightfall."

As Hyarion watched the massager ride away, he felt himself breaking out in a sweat even though the day was cold. The day had started out most unpleasantly and he had little hope now that it would improve.


Chapter 27 - The Mystery of Mirkwood

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Carn-Dum, late evening of November 8, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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As the King of Angmar strode regally from the room with Agannalo following behind, his mind closed like the lid on a steel box. "This scoundrel will not have access to my women! I will summon a host of the Silent Ones to guard them. Even though he is utterly debauched, he will not dare challenge my special guard. And should he be that foolish, I will handle him myself!"

When the two had arrived at the king's chambers, the King of Angmar rounded on the lesser nazgul. "What do you want here?" he demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes glowing threateningly. "State your business, "nephew"! What is your excuse for coming here? I will not put up with any of your nonsense!"

Agannalo was genuinely distressed and his voice shook from suppressed emotion when he replied. “So here is your welcome, my Captain? I hoped against all odds that you might be pleased to see me again after all those years… For, good or bad, I am still your closest kinsman left in Middle Earth… But no… I must have been mistaken to come here. Nobody likes Agannalo – I have long known that. But, my Lord, it is not my fault that I am the way I am! Yes, I need human blood – what of it? You can’t change it anymore than you can make Khamul enjoy swimming in the Anduin!”

“I have told you many times, Agannalo, discipline your mind. You won’t die without blood – and you know it full well,” the King replied, softening somewhat.

“You don’t want me here – then I shall go…” the other continued dejectedly. “You grudge a mortal female for a kinsman and an old companion – well, I understand… Agannalo shall return to his wanderings… I shall pick up my old horse at Shedun and go as far as the old nag bears me. When it dies, I shall walk – away from here. I have nothing to lose, you see, as I have already lost everything I possessed. And I have nearly lost my life there in Greenwood when trying to get here. It was a close call, you know…”

The King frowned. Agannalo’s pleading was slowly getting on his nerves, but the last piece of information and the mention of Greenwood sent cold shivers along his spine. He raised his hand. “Stop this whining, 'nephew.' Sit down and pour yourself some wine from this flagon. It will soothe your nerves and clear your murky brain. Now tell me what has happened to you in Greenwood.”

Agannalo stole a glance at the Captain. It seemed that his Lord’s anger had abated – he only looked preoccupied. Agannalo had a very good guess why. Glad of the Captain’s invitation, Agannalo walked towards the table and let his tired body sink into the ample cushions of a big armchair. He poured two goblets of wine, noticing that it was not some weak brew of mortals, but the old wine of the Nazgul, green with cold vapors rising from the surface. He downed his goblet and almost purred in satisfaction feeling the liquid fire spread through his body. “Ah, I really needed it!” he smiled. 

The King sat facing him, eyes glinting and his back ramrod straight, as if he was sitting on a throne in his Hall and not in a soft armchair. He picked up his goblet but made not a single sip. “Speak up!” he urged.

“Well… I don’t know where to begin…” Agannalo started uncertainly. “I don’t think you are now much interested in my life in the South. I will tell you the story sometime later, when you are in the mood to enjoy a funny tale. Anyway, thirty years ago my peaceful and pleasant life ended in a major catastrophe. I decided to go North, first visiting Khamul, than Gothmog, then coming up to your new dwelling in Angmar.

“Was it Khamul who told you that I was to be found here?” asked the King.

“Khamul?” Agannalo exclaimed bitterly. “Nay, the blasted scoundrel never deigned to give me an audience. Al-Khamul, the Sublime Lord of Khand, the Pillar of Firmament, the Defender of the People et cetera et cetera was always so busy with matters of State (or, more likely, with his harem) that he had no time to spare for vagabonds like me. He kindly sent me a new horse (a good one, I must grant him that) and a small coffer of gifts and kicked my butt out of his realm. Nay, it was Gothmog who told me where to find you – mostly because he didn’t wish to put me up himself.”

“I see…” the King commented, unsurprised. ”At least you should be grateful that Khamul has not seized the opportunity to wring your neck once you came unprotected into his realm. Time must have made ol’ Khamul soft – or forgetful.” 

“I have always been a good comrade to him” countered Agannalo. “I tried to better him, civilize him, enlighten him - but he wouldn’t listen. Coarse barbarian!”

The King chuckled. This discussion reminded him of good old times. To say that Agannalo had been unpopular among his comrades was an understatement. Khamul, in particular, hated his very guts – because Agannalo never bothered to hide his deep conviction that only Numenoreans were worthy to be called Men, while all the others, Khandians included, were hardly better than animals. 

“Now, enough of this nonsense!” prompted the King. “What road did you take to get here? Were you traveling along the east bank of the Anduin?” 

“I have wandered a bit here and there, searching for the others… Rhun… Rhovanion… Then I went West skirting the Southern edges of Greenwood – do you know that people turned to calling it “Mirkwood” now?” 

At the nod from the King, Agannalo continued “There is a good reason for it. The forest seems weird. And what horrible tales are told in the villages nearby! Spiders… wargs… orcs…and some darker creatures with no name. Of course, being what I am, I had hardly listened, secure in my power. And I was wrong! I, Agannalo, have been overconfident – and paid for it!” 

He paused for emphasis. The King shifted impatiently: the pompous brat Agannalo could never tell a tale without embellishments and lots of dramatic effects! But the King wisely chose not to interrupt his underling to avoid more diversions.

“Well, my Lord,” Agannalo continued, “as I said, I rode skirting the southern edge of the forest following a well trodden path – almost a road. It went in and out of the trees and the Sun was on my left. Then the path turned deeper into the forest. I thought nothing about it at first, but deeper and deeper into the forest it went, until the overlapping branches hid the sun. The path became less and less perceptible until I had to pick my way among the trees as best as I could. After a while I realized I had no idea anymore where the West was. I had gotten lost – the first time in my life - can you but imagine that?” 

The King snorted sarcastically. “As far as I remember, you did get lost quite a few times,” he commented.

Agannalo choked on his wine in indignation. “But this last time in Harad I was all but stoned by hashish! And that other time in Rhun, it was Khamul who lost the path: blind as a bat in daylight he was, but still he insisted on leading the way!”

The King waved these explanations aside. “Oh, leave that alone and go back to your tale, “nephew”! I have not got all the night to listen to you.”

Agannalo felt frustrated, wondering what other duties were so pressing as to leave little time for the talk with an old companion. He continued somewhat morosely. “Soon I decided to turn back, but the trees that I have just passed seemed to form a solid wall behind my back – the way that I had just taken became shut! I thought of those Huorns, you know, and grew very uneasy. We have little power at best over the walking trees. So on I rode or often walked leading my horse, led deeper and deeper into the forest. The ground was steadily rising. The path became better – as if in response to my going in the desired direction. My Gray even managed a canter, when suddenly something struck me across the chest and I fell down. My horse bolted. At the same moment a rain of boulders fell from above on my unprotected head. I had ridden into an ambush!

“Were I an ordinary man, I would have been killed on the spot. As it was, I was stunned for some time, before realizing that I had hit a wire stretched across the path and had upset another rope - thus upturning a platform piled with stones that was cunningly placed between the branches above me. By the time I understood what had hit me, my assailants were upon me. Trolls! Bigger and uglier that I have ever seen, and walking in daylight!”

Agannalo looked at the King – his face was grim, but he didn’t seem to doubt Agannalo’s words this time.

“Some trolls were armed with heavy clubs and the others were bearing torches. I had a nasty feeling they knew exactly what sort of being they were hunting. I rolled away to avoid the leading Troll’s swing and commanded my Ring to turn me invisible. They seemed not in the least surprised when I had disappeared into thin air. Shouting to each other, they formed a circle around the place where they thought I was and started battering the ground with their clubs. Before they closed on me, I picked the place where the trolls were most widely spaced and ran one through its stomach with my sword. It roared in pain but didn’t fall. Desperate, I whipped out the Elven dagger I had with me at this time and plunged it into the brute’s crotch. The troll screamed and fell, and I screamed with it - from pain in my hand caused by the enchanted weapon. My scream had little effect on them, though. I decided it was time to run – and run I did, as swiftly as I were able. 

“For some time I heard their heavy feet behind me, but after a while I turned sharply left and managed to dupe them. They thundered past. Still invisible, I stopped to get my bearings – and felt IT.” Aganallo shivered and gulped down another goblet.

“Describe it!” the King prompted sternly. 

Agannalo shook his head. “It was just a feeling… of something … somebody… that was trying to reach me, to draw me to It. It called to me, maybe wordlessly, maybe singing softly and seductively, promising me riches, power, rivers of blood, if only I heeded Its call, came to It. I felt Its hunger and Its longing…” 

Agannalo’s troubled blue eyes looked directly into the King’s silver ones. “It wanted my Ring, Captain”.

The King’s eyes blazed, suddenly turning bright red. For some time they sat in silence. Then Agannalo nodded in reply to an unspoken question. 

“Aye, It felt familiar,” he said brokenly. "Very familiar – but much weaker. Oh, Captain, what shall we do?”

"You ask me what we are going to do?" The King sighed. "We are going to do nothing, for there is nothing that we can do." 

Agannalo stared at the King in surprise. "My lord," Agannalo's voice was tense, "you mean that you think that the Dark Master has taken up His abode in the forest of Greenwood?"

"Let us not deceive ourselves, Agannalo. There is only one who can exert the kind of power which you felt in Greenwood, and we know who He is. That you escaped your misadventure virtually unscathed proves that He is there somewhere, but too weak to have total power over you now. He desired your Ring to aid Him in regaining His control! You must never go back there! To do so would be the height of folly!"

"But can we be sure?" Agannalo shuddered slightly, his throat contracting in a gulp. "Perhaps you are mistaken?" He certainly hoped that the King was wrong, but he had the feeling that he was not.

"Who else can it be? You say that you saw trolls walking in daylight, far bigger and uglier than any you had ever seen before. Such things as that are unknown. You know they could not bring themselves into being. And the ambush. Who could be the mastermind behind that? There is only one, and we know His name." 

While the king had spoken, Agannalo's expression had grown more worried. His hand shook as he bolted down the rest of his drink and then took the liberty of pouring himself yet another drink from the flagon. He waited for the brew to take effect and felt a comforting glow spread through his body as the liquid coursed through his veins. He would be safe here. He had made the right decision to come here. Besides, who else would have him?

"Perhaps you are right, my Captain, and you can be sure I have no plans to go back there." He settled back in his chair, now able to relax somewhat as he sipped his wine. Then the disquieting thought hit him and he felt the tension and worry coming back: since He was able to detect me in Greenwood, how do I know that He cannot find me here?"

"You are certain that you were successful in eluding the trolls? None followed you?" The King looked at him sharply. Agannalo was certain that he had read his mind.

"Aye, my Lord. They ran right past me. You know they are stupid brutes, all power and brawn and possessing nothing of intellect."

"True enough, 'nephew,' but just to make certain they did not, I will double the scouts on the marches. Should He have the slightest suspicions of who we are, He could destroy everything that I have worked to build here." The King's eyes glowed red like flaming brands and seemed to bore into Agannalo's soul. "And then the blame can be laid squarely at your door!"

Agannalo hung his head, and when he looked up, his eyes were filled with remorse and shame. "Then, my Captain, since I have brought such calamity upon you, I will leave now." He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "No one wants Agannalo and perhaps they are right in feeling that way! But, Captain," his voice choked, "I never meant to bring trouble to you!"

"But it seems wherever you go, you bring it with you or else create it!" The King added quickly before Agannalo could offer another excuse, "Now sit down and stop your accursed whining! I will tell you what you will do now! You will not leave the walls of this fortress for any reason until I feel it is safe for you to do so."

"My Lord, you mean I can stay?" Agannalo asked eagerly, his eyes lighting up like those of a small child who has been told that he may go to the village fair.

"Aye, I will allow you to stay," the King grumbled, "but only under my terms. You will learn to control yourself and not give into your bloodlust. Your lack of self-discipline has brought you to much woe over the years. You will learn to curb those tendencies of impulse and hot temper. And above everything else, while you are here, you will keep out of trouble and obey my orders implicitly! Do you understand?"

"Aye, Captain, aye!" he exclaimed. "I understand perfectly." Agannalo had guessed what had been the dark force which had called him in the Greenwood, and now the King had verified his fears. That knowledge had terrified him, but perhaps he could be safe here.

"Now, 'nephew,' another thing. I should not have to mention this, but I will. You are to stay away from my women. One indiscretion on your part, and I will drive you into the cold!"

"Aye, my Lord. Your women are safe from me. I will be as impassive as eunuch."

"Impassive?" the King chuckled dryly. "We both know that there has been more than one ‘impassive’ eunuch who has been beheaded for cuckolding his lord."

***

As Agannalo finally made his way out of the King’s rooms, the question that had bothered him during the long interview was unexpectedly answered. For there, in the antechamber, a gorgeous woman clad only in a magnificent ermine coat over a diaphanous pinkish nightdress was impatiently pacing, glaring at the doors to the King’s study. Alassar was following her like a faithful dog and trying to reason with her to have patience. “No wonder the Captain was so eager to end our meeting and be off to bed,” Agannalo thought with a stab of envy.

“Lady, Gelireth, have a little patience, I beg you,” the Steward pleaded, “It won’t do to interrupt the King while he is in conference with his newfound kinsman. Really, you should return to your chambers, lest you catch cold – it is so chilly in here! I am sure the King will join you when he is done …” 

Heedless of the advice, the dainty little lady stubbornly tossed her head and abruptly turned away from the chagrined Steward, sending her ermine mantle flying in her wake. She almost collided with Agannalo, who had to abandon his initial intention to slip quietly by. She stopped looking on him with evident curiosity while he pressed his right hand to his breast and bowed to the Lady. Doing so, he couldn’t fail to observe how her thin nightdress enticingly revealed the soft curves of her young body: firm breasts, tiny waist and full hips. He lowered his long lashes, trying to conceal the hungry gleam in his eyes.

Surprisingly for Agannalo, the lady didn’t make the slightest attempt to wrap herself up in her heavy furs. Instead she held her ground scrutinizing him in her turn. It was no good to stare at one of the Captain’s women – unsafe to put it mildly - so, cursing inwardly, he lowered his gaze even further down. Unfortunately, this brought in focus the lady’s delicate feet shod in silver slippers - the small bare feet that were already turning blue from cold – the dainty feet that nearly cried to be warmed. Agannalo felt a new surge of lust and muttered under his breath an ancient Adunaic obscenity, which the lady mistook for a shy greeting.

“Welcome to Carn Dum, Lord Silmadan,” she chimed in her clear silver voice. “Or should I call you Prince?” she laughed softly – Agannalo’s head was still bowed. “I am Lady Gelireth. I hope your journey went well?” 

“Yes, my Lady,” Agannalo replied shakily. “It was rather …uneventful. Thank you for your kindness. However, I must ask your leave to retire now, as I am tired after the long journey.”

“You have my leave,” the little lady conceded generously. “But I hope I will see you on the morrow so you could regale me with tales of your adventures…”

Wordlessly Agannalo bowed again and quietly turned to leave – only to be stopped by the Steward. 

“Here is your dagger, Lord Silmadan. I have retrieved it from the Guardhouse. Please forgive the guards their mistake,” Alassar said somewhat nervously, gingerly offering Agannalo the Morgul knife swathed in several layers of cloth. The nazgul noticed that the Steward also wrapped his hand in his long trailing sleeve to pick up the weapon. It was clear that Alassar knew or at least had a very good guess about the weapon’s dangers. 

With a nod to the Steward, Agannalo took the blade and stalked away from the antechamber, feeling Gelireth’s eyes on his back. Impatient to leave before the King saw him talking with his mistress, Agannalo was almost running, but due to his acute hearing he couldn’t help but overhear the rest of the conversation between Alassar and the lady.

“What a charming young man,” Gelireth drawled. “Don’t you think, Alassar, that, for one so handsome, he is most endearingly shy?”

“Yes, my Lady,” the Steward replied, “The King described him as a scholar totally devoted to his spiritual studies. It seems he shuns women and has made a vow to remain chaste.”

“How very unusual… I hope I will get the opportunity to get to know him better…”

“Blast the stupid woman!” Groaning, Agannalo made his way to the sumptuous guestroom reserved for him. A quiet, obedient servant showed him around: there were heavy drapes on the windows, dark oaken furniture and many stuffed heads of deer, elks, and bears nailed to the walls. It felt homely – Agannalo only wished it were human heads displayed there instead, as was the custom in Far Harad. 

Dismissing the servant, Agannalo pulled out of his pocket the small box with hashish he had obtained from Hyarion by not-so-honest means. There he found about a dozen small greenish balls of the viscous substance – a single one capable to send a man on the paths of unearthly dreams for a whole night. Agannalo swallowed all of them at once and stretched contentedly on the bed awaiting the oh-so-rare peace and rest.


Chapter 28 - The Hands of the King…

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Fortress of Carn-Dum, evening of November 9, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Lord Hyarion, lieutenant of Shedun Fortress, followed the guard down a long empty corridor. The sound of their footsteps echoing on the stone floor was disconcerting to Lord Hyarion, but the guards seemed oblivious to the noise. Behind them followed two more guards carrying the possessions of Silmadan, nephew of the king. Though the hall was deserted, save for the four of them, Hyarion sensed unseen eyes watching them. That was nothing unusual about that in itself, for every time Hyarion had been to the fortress of Carn Dum, he had sensed that he was being watched. This time, however, he detected there was a greater level of animosity than was common. Whether they were eyes of the living or eyes of another kind, he had never been able to determine, but such matters were not any business of the commander of a remote outpost.

"This way, sir," the brisk young guard told him as he opened the door to a chamber. "Here Lord Alassar will receive you."

Nervously, Hyarion walked through the door and bowed formally to His Majesty's steward, Lord Alassar. The grim-faced man acknowledged him with a brief nod and pointed him to a seat across the table from where he sat.

"Lord Alassar," Hyarion began, "all of Lord," he hesitated, "at least I believe I am correct in referring to him as a lord - Silmadan's possessions are intact and contained in those two packs that I brought up with me from Shedun."

"Aye, Lieutenant, I am certain they are. It is not even necessary that I see the packs opened before me." He turned to the three guards. "Men, deliver the packs to his room, and then return to your stations."

The young guard looked at him questioningly. "Should we wait for verification that all is as it is said to be?"

"Nay," Alassar's expression was unreadable, "he is still resting after the journey, but I am sure if something is not in order, we will be hearing from Lord Silmadan soon enough."

"Aye, sir," the guards bowed and were quickly away out the door.

"Wine?" Alassar looked at Lieutenant Hyarion as he reached for the decanter and filled two goblets.

"Aye, a draught would be appreciated," Hyarion nodded as he accepted the goblet.

"Aye, the aroma is exceptional," Alassar moved the glass under his nostrils and then drank. "And how was your journey up here?"

"My lord, uneventful, I am glad to say." Hyarion wished that the man would just get on with whatever it was that he wanted to say. He felt that the Steward was playing some kind of game with him, a game he did not understand, and he was feeling uncomfortable with it.

"Lieutenant, I understand you brought a girl with you, one of the Lossoth. This is the first time you have ever brought one of your women to the fortress. I am curious as to why." Though his manner was friendly, Hyarion thought he sensed a trace of something unpleasant in his eyes.

"Aye, my lord, I must apologize for that, but I came into possession of her while on the trail. There was no opportunity to have her transported back to the fortress." Hyarion hoped that his explanation would be sufficient.

Alassar's expression never changed, and Hyarion wondered if the man had even been listening to him. "Reports which have come to me state that the woman is ill. Surely you must have taken into consideration that she might have been infected with the plague and could contaminate every last person in this fortress?" Lord Alassar regarded him with a sharply questioning look in his eyes.

"No, nothing like that, my lord." Hyarion was becoming more agitated. I do not think the cause of her malady is physical, but rather of the spirit. You see, the poor girl had a fright - you know how weak females are - and she has not been the same since."

"A fright, you say?" Alassar took another sip from his goblet and then leaned forward, studying Hyarion's face. "What sort of fright?"

"Nothing really, the result of an accident," Hyarion hedged. Although the room was quite cool, Hyarion found himself sweating and took another stout drink of wine to steady his nerves. How much did the steward know about the bizarre ceremony in which Hyarion had participated? He had been a fool to believe Silmadan, who had promised to reveal the secrets of the gleaming blade if Hyarion would but agree to allow him to use Elína in his bizarre ceremony.

"What sort of accident?" Alassar's eyes on him had grown intense.

"The girl was accidentally wounded by Lord Silmadan's dagger." Hyarion looked away and studied the tapestry on the wall. The work was really quite magnificent. The threads had been worked to depict the image of a warrior mounted upon a huge black warhorse. He held a great mace in his hands and had just struck down one of his enemies.

"Wounded by Lord Silmadan's dagger!" Alassar exclaimed, firmly grabbing the edge of the table in his hands and pushing back in his chair. "What kind of dagger?"

"A dagger, just like any other," Hyarion shrugged his shoulders, hoping to minimize the situation so that Lord Alassar would not probe any further.

"Hyarion, you are a soldier and both you and I know that there is no dagger 'just like any other.' All are different, and each possesses its own power. Describe it, man, and do not try to trick me!"

As much as he wanted to devise some cunning lie that would put Alassar off, he knew that he could not deceive him. Perhaps there was some drug which had been added to the wine that made his tongue more eager to speak. By the time the audience was over, he had told him everything. At the conclusion of the meeting, Lord Alassar had no comments, but dispatched guards to take him back to the rooms he shared with Elína. Lieutenant Hyarion knew that they, too, would be added to the many that must now be watching him.


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Fortress of Carn-Dum, night of November 9, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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"Lord Alassar, be seated." The King motioned to the seat across the table from him.

"Thank you, sire." As he sat down at the table, Alassar attempted a polite smile but could manage only a spasmodic upturning of his lips. While he could conceal almost all traces of any emotion from other men, there was no way he could deceive the dark presence who sat before him.

His hand trembled as he brought the goblet of mulled wine to his lips and took a small sip. He wished he could control the tremor that insistently plagued his hand. Such mannerisms reflected weakness. If it had been another - a man like himself - who sat across from him at the small table, Lord Alassar would have given every appearance of a man perfectly in control of himself - calm, cool and detached. However, His Majesty was formidable enough during a normal audience, but under the present circumstances, it was as though Alassar faced some grim spectre who could see through to his very soul.

"Lord Alassar, what business is so urgent that it should take me away from my warm bed?" While the King's voice sounded offended, Alassar thought that he could catch another quality, almost - his mind stumbled to find the precise word that would describe it. The best that he could do was "concern," or was it "pity?" Whatever it was, it did not ease Alassar's distress. On the contrary, it made him feel more alarmed. There was nothing to do but press on and simply tell His Majesty exactly what was bothering him.

"Sire, as you know, Lieutenant Hyarion and his new mistress arrived here this afternoon." Alassar took another drink of the wine - which was quite good, he thought. "I fear that the girl is most unwell." Alassar directed his gaze at the king in the attempt to gauge his reaction to his words, but he could read nothing.

"Lord Alassar, what seems to be the malady which plagues the girl?" The king lifted up his own wine and took a shallow sip.

Alassar rubbed his fingers over his palm and was disconcerted to discover that his hand was just as sweaty as he feared. "I do not have a name for this illness, for it exhibits symptoms that I have never quite seen before. It does not seem to be any plague or disease of which I am familiar, and you know that I am well-versed in medicine."

"My lord steward, describe these symptoms to me." The king's voice now seemed sympathetic.

"Majesty, the girl - whose name is Elína - complains of chills and aches, and a feeling of cold which she says has penetrated deep into her very bone marrow. At night, she is vexed by terrible dreams of dark places and phantoms. Lieutenant Hyarion told me that she fears that she will fall asleep and never awaken. It seems that she thinks that death is waiting for her just beyond the portals of her room." Lord Alassar looked down at the cuff of his sleeve, which was embroidered with vines twining about runes. "Normally, I would attribute her condition merely to a state of nervous agitation and hysteria at being in new circumstances and surroundings. This I would do if were not for the fact that she seems so unnaturally cold, and her pulse is erratic. But the name of this disease?" Alassar shook his head. "I could find it in none of the medical books."

Here, Alassar was lying. He knew the name of the illness, but he was too terrified to tell his master how he knew it. Alassar thought back to that day several years ago when he had been summoned to His Majesty's chambers high in the tower. Just when he had arrived, the king had been called away suddenly. After assuring him that he would be back soon, the king told him that while waiting his return that he should feel free to use the library. Alassar had been overjoyed at this privilege, for he had long hoped for an opportunity to see the extensive collection. While exploring the library, Alassar's attention had been drawn to a door which he had not noticed before.

"Unusual that this escaped my attention," he had thought at the time as he walked over to the door. Noticing that the door was slightly ajar, he felt it would do no harm for him to take a quick look inside. There was a treasure of learning contained in all the many scrolls arranged in their neat holders and he was hungry for the opportunity to examine even one. As he looked over them, he was uncertain which one to view. Finally, a title in neat script caught his eye and he took it to the nearby table

Unrolling the parchment, he held his candle high above the document. There, before him, he saw that the scroll was written in a dialect of Black Speech which was so pure and perfect in form and syntax that at first he could only make a few words. Then he saw the order in the runes, and drawing upon his previous knowledge of the language, he was able to translate a small portion of text. "The high tongue!" he realized, shocked at his discovery.

He had pursued a section of the text when a sense of great danger came upon him, warning him to leave the room quickly. Putting the scroll back in its place, he had fled quickly and returned to the library. He had been relieved to find that His Majesty had not yet come back. Forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply, he calmed his hammering heart and settled his nerves. He appeared quote nonchalant a few minutes later as he looked over the scrolls and found an innocuous one titled "Fishing Off the Coast of Orrostar."

Yes, he knew the name of the malady which inflicted the girl. Even more importantly, he knew the manner in which she had been stricken. Just thinking of the fate which lay in store for the innocent girl caused a heavy sense of despondency to bear down upon him. "Doomed," he thought. "This lovely child is doomed with no hope of escape." However, Alassar dare not tell His Majesty how he had obtained this information.

"Nay, I have no name for the ailment." Alassar found himself repeating what he said previously. "Strange," he thought. Such a thing was unthinkable to his well ordered mind. He was becoming agitated. He must direct his well-trained mind to make his body relax.

"Lord Alassar, are you sure that is quite true?" His Majesty sounded amused.

His nervousness returned and intensified. Alassar forced himself to look up into the face of his master. "Sire, what do you mean?"

"Alassar, you know full well what I mean. Do not attempt to conceal the truth from me, for I have many ways of knowing things. Always be truthful to me. I value candor in a man."

The king could see through him! It was useless to try to hide anything from His Majesty, and so Alassar confessed that he knew of the existence of the hidden room. He did not feel purged of his guilt until he had revealed everything which he had learned in that scroll. At that moment, realization came to him. He was one of the few living men who had obtained the secret of the most dread of the Nazgul weapons - and what it did. Even more ominous and forbidding than that, though, was the terrifying knowledge of just what His Majesty - and perhaps his nephew really were - undead immortals.

"Now that that matter is out of the way," His Majesty was almost laughing, that cold, sarcastic sound that was part laugh and part hiss, but devoid of all mirth, "perhaps you will tell me how you propose to remedy the situation."

Suddenly feeling extremely weak, Alassar leaned forward and clutched the table with both hands. "Sire, neither of them can leave Carn Dum - ever! When the girl dies or..." Alassar's voice broke in fear, "is... 'transformed,' Hyarion will be very bitter, and bitter men have a tendency to talk too much. He will tell all his colleagues about your nephew, and then, if they do not guess what he is, they will strongly suspect it." Alassar's words sped from his mouth as though he had no control over his tongue.

"Your Majesty, as you are very aware, people will always gossip and spread rumors, and the more extravagant or spectacular the tale, the quicker and farther the stories will travel. Should the kings of the northern and southern kingdoms have any inkling of this - and I do not like to think about the elves in Rivendell - everything you have worked to build here will be in dire jeopardy."

The king was silent, turning the stem of his wine goblet slowly around and around in his fingers. Alassar had the sensation that the king was laughing at him, mocking him. Feeling His Majesty's eyes upon him, as though they were burning a hole through his mind and soul, the steward quaked in horror. Would the dread king slay him for reading the forbidden scroll and then lying about it, or even worse - a shudder of icy cold fear went down Alassar's spine - would he turn one of those Silent Ones after him? Or most horrifyingly of all, use one of those terrible blades upon him?

"Your Majesty, please..." Sweat trickled down Alassar's forehead and his heart throbbed in his chest like the beating of a hillman's drum. The king's form began to shimmer, glowing a silver pale white, and a wave of dizziness swept over the steward. Trembling, unable to see anything except a cloudy image, he rose to his feet and groped along the table to where the king's seat was set. His dry throat began to constrict as though a great hand were tightening around it, and the proud steward began to weep, sobbing like a little boy who had been hurt. Falling to his knees, he gripped the king's robe. "Your Majesty, mercy! Mercy I beg you!"

The king's reply was harsh and cold. "Rise to your feet and return to your seat, Steward! Such fawning and groveling is not worthy of a man!"

Taking his breath in great gasps, Alassar stumbled back and almost collapsed in his seat.

"'Tis true that you have committed a serious breach of trust, but surely you must know that I knew about it all along. Perhaps you feel that the obtaining of such knowledge was not worth the price, and perhaps you are correct. Now that you have it, though, you can never turn back." Alassar was certain that somewhere in the rear of the room, he could hear hollow voices laughing and mocking and sense unseen fingers pointing at him in ridicule. He looked around but saw nothing.

He drew a deep breath and asked the question that was tormenting his mind. "Sire, then you are not--"

The King interrupted him. "No, your existence is safe enough, Lord Alassar. You will not die today." The king was silent for a while after that and then spoke again. "The answer to your other question... the Lieutenant of Shedun fortress and his pretty little slave will remain here forever. Tell him that I have appointed him to a much better position than he had before."

"And the woman?"

The King's voice took on a new tone, one that Alassar recognized as something common to all men. Lust. "Have her brought to my chambers when dawn covers the mountains. There is a... cure... to her sickness... but do not concern yourself with what it might be. You are free to go, my lord Steward."

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The Witch-king's Opulent Bedchamber, Carn Dum. Early morning of November 10, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Elína awoke to the sound of voices and the sensation of sinking into a delightfully sumptuous cloud. She opened her eyes – it took a great effort to do so, for it seemed that the weight of her eyelashes had increased tenfold – and saw through the mists that clouded her vision dark shapes receding through an arched entryway. Their heads bowed, long liripipes dangling from their hoods like serpents, the sable-clad servants exited as silently as shadows moving upon a wall. Candles were set about the room, misty amber halos surrounding them like orbs of muted light, like the faint beam of a lantern held by a traveler who was unlucky enough to find himself wandering in the deepest fog.

A movement in the room, a stirring, like a breeze through the cotton grass which grew in the tundra. A man looked down at her from eyes of quicksilver set in a handsome, regal face, a luminous being whose pale skin shown with silvery phosphorescence. Mists wrapped around his form like the misty vapor expelled from one's lips whilst breathing in the frigid air of the north. His raven black hair and beard almost had a silvery sheen from the reflection of the soft light which surrounded him. He was dressed in kingly robes, rich blues and cool whites embroidered with thread-of-silver. Power and might seemed to emanate from him, pulsating like the steady beat of a heart.

Elína gasped weakly when the man reached down and picked up her hand, turning it over so that the wrist was exposed. Even though her arm from her wrist to her shoulder was completely numb, somehow she felt his touch, the coolness of his hand, the tiny ridges and whorls which spiraled around his fingers. He brought his other hand up and stroked his fingers across the wound which cut across her wrist like a grim bracelet. Upon his forefinger, there was a golden ring set with a stone which glittered like a shard of ice, the gleam of its faucets reflecting the light of the candles and sparking in shades of amber, yellow, pink and white. The coruscating jewel held the weak, dying girl mesmerized, the glittery sparkles somehow bringing a sense of serenity to her.

Murmuring a few words, the man slowly drew his fingers around in circle above the wound. Elína whimpered as sudden warmth flooded through her frozen arm, making her muscles contract in painful spasms. "Shhh," he whispered, his voice deep and seductive, "the pain lasts for only a little while." He caressed her aching arm slowly, his skillful fingers applying light pressure, the gold of his ring warming her frozen skin with gentle heat.

Gradually warmth and feeling came back to her arm, and Elína looked up at the man in amazement. An enigmatic smile upon his face, he lifted her wrist up to his lips. Elína gasped in surprise as she felt his warm tongue laving her skin. Her wrist began to tingle as he bathed it with his tongue. She whimpered, for it felt as though her skin were being pulled, stretching, uncomfortably, but a murmur from his lips and a series of long, lingering kisses upon her wrist stilled her protests.

When at last the man drew away from her, Elína gasped loudly when she once again saw her wrist in the candlelight. The cut was gone! Her eyes wide and fearful, she looked to the man. Gone was the ethereal light which seemed to radiate from the core of his being; gone were the mists which floated around his form. He was a man like any other, of solid form, of flesh and blood. Somehow the transformation was more terrifying than the initial apparition.

Trembling, Elína licked her lips. "Elína say... t-thank you," she whispered.


Chapter 29 - The End of the Journey

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In Gimilbeth's entourage, on the road to Amon Sul, November 8, 1347.
Written by Rian
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Alagos, walking next to Callon on the driver's seat of the wagon, was watching him with a concerned expression on his face. Callon's wound had been treated and bandaged well, but it was deep, and it clearly bothered the young man.

"Sure you don't want me to drive, Callon?" The handsome face of the elf, which usually wore such a light-hearted expression, showed the concern he felt.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," answered Callon. "Horses make me feel better, anyway."

Tyaron, sitting on the wagon bench on Callon's other side, smiled briefly, then went back to fine-whetting his dagger, examining it carefully for any remaining damage from the battle.

"What you could do, though, is speak some more in your language. I always liked studying languages, and having the chance to hear the language of Gondolin from a native speaker ..." Callon shook his head in amazement, still not quite used to the idea that these men were as old as all that.

"Certainly! It is always a pleasure to speak in our mother tongue, and a pleasure to come across someone who appreciates it!" Alagos cleared his throat in an exaggerated gesture, and then began to speak slowly, grandly, in a solemn but melodic tone, and with graceful hand gestures.

Callon listened for awhile, enjoying the sounds of the language and listening for similarities and differences to the languages he knew, then asked respectfully, "What is that you're saying? Is it some song of a long-ago love, or the re-telling of a famous battle?"

"No - he's questioning my manhood in the most explicit terms possible," said Tyaron with a grin for Callon and a glare for Alagos.

Callon broke out laughing. "I can see you two are old friends indeed!" he said, as Alagos said something else in Gondolic to Tyaron and ran off merrily to see if the dwarves had anything amusing going on.

"We are indeed," answered Tyaron, smiling. "We have to be, or we would have killed each other long ago!"

Callon smiled, enjoying himself despite the pain. It was so wonderful to be in the company of men, and warriors at that. He didn't have to see his sister's face and be reminded of his failure to protect her. Caelen ...

Tyaron, quick-sighted, saw the change in Callon's expression.

"What saddens you, Callon elf-friend? he asked quietly.

"My sister ... "

Tyaron waited patiently, and eventually Callon sighed and spoke again.

"Do you ... or did you ever have a sister?" he asked Tyaron.

"No," answered Tyaron. "But Alagos did ... "

The two men were silent for a while.

"Do you blame yourself for what happened?" asked Tyaron quietly after a while.

Callon didn't answer.

"You tried to get her to flee, but it was her choice to ride back to you. And after that, six against one - and you injured - are odds that no man - at least in this age - could prevail against," said Tyaron firmly. "And from what I understand, staying home was definitely dangerous. I think you made the right choice among difficult options."

Tyaron sighed, then added solemnly, "To live is to risk danger ... and there are worse things that could have happened ... "

"You must have seen many grievous things over the years," said Callon quietly.

"Yes - many, many tragic things ... and many beautiful things. And the beautiful things are the greater truths." Tyaron paused, and then chanted quietly:

"Though all to ruin fell the world and were dissolved and backward hurled unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this - the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea - that Luthien for a time should be."

Callon nodded. "I see what you're saying."

"And your sister still has you," said Tyaron. "I wish you were not away for so long ... but perhaps it is for the best ... perhaps another might come alongside her now that she is alone ..."

Callon looked quickly over at Tyaron, and then back to the road.

There was silence again for awhile.

"What happened to Alagos' sister?" asked Callon.

"We don't know," answered Tyaron quietly. "We ... we assumed she had died in the city at first, but no one knew for sure. There was so much confusion and grief, and so much need among the refugees - illness and death, and bitter cold - we couldn't leave to try to find out more for many years - our help was needed so desperately. And then one day, a refugee came, speaking of someone who sounded like her, and so we left ..."

Tyaron looked off into the distance and sighed. "It was like chasing a phantom, though. But whenever we would give up, we would always hear something that would eventually make us start searching again. And then more wars, and more rebuilding ..."

He looked at Callon and smiled. "And so I guess we just got into the habit of wandering. Wandering, and discovering the beauty in the world, and fighting against the evil that would destroy it."

"And you're still looking." It wasn't a question.

And Tyaron didn't need to answer.

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On the road to Amon Sul, – eight leagues west of the Last Bridge. November 8, 1347, sunset.
Written by Valandil
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“We camp here for the night!” called Barund, in as authoritative a voice as he could muster. He glanced discretely toward Princess Gimilbeth, trying to gauge whether or not she approved – but he could not tell. He had consulted her on his earlier commands to the caravan, – which had met with a bemused stare. Perhaps he tried too hard to please her, or defer to her, he thought – maybe she would respect him for simply giving the orders as he saw fit. He had never escorted a member of the royal family before and, while he had practically begged Merendil for the duty, he now felt a little uncertain of what was required. He was given to understand that Gwindor and Elvegil had been particular favorites of the Princess. But who knows? Maybe some day he could enjoy that favor himself? Maybe even after this winter at Amon Sul!

He watched as the column advanced forward to the designated spot. There were forty men of Rhudaur – his own twenty from Brochenridge plus ten men from Merendil’s company, the six unscathed men of Gimilbeth’s former escort, and four men from Iant Barad. This last had been difficult to pull off, for the place was only garrisoned with twelve men, all of whom had families there in the village at Iant Methed. But after the attack, both Merendil and Barund wanted a few men along who knew the area well – so Merendil had commanded it. Barund had been west of the Bridge before, but only a couple times, and several years before – never quite as far as Amon Sul.

The rest of the party, besides Barund and the Princess herself, consisted of her maid and remaining page, the painter, the wagon-driver and two Elves who had attached themselves to the latter. They only had one wagon. All that could be spared from Iant Barad were employed in carting the unburied slain back to Brochenridge or beyond. The surviving Dwarves were trailing behind, and should catch up with them to pitch their own camp before the dark overtook them. Shaken up somewhat by the Orc attack, they had settled on continuing to follow Gimilbeth’s escort all the way to Amon Sul, then taking the interior road straight south to Tharbad, rather than taking the trail along the Mitheithel.

The site of their camp was an old abandoned watchtower from the days of Arnor. It had been ruined in the centuries of fighting between Rhudaur and Cardolan, and had no roof or floors, and half the stonework had fallen. For all the day’s journey, since leaving Iant Barad early that morning, they had traveled the border between the two lands, for Rhudaur claimed the land on their right, north of the road, and Cardolan that on their left, to the south. But the fighting had worn down both lands, and neither now had much fight left in them. And the land itself was desolate and empty – for after those years of war, none now lived within many miles of this stretch of road on either side.

With the short days, Barund was glad they had reached the watchtower before dark. In Arnor’s early years, these places had been established every eight leagues along Arnor’s major roads, as way-stations for her soldiers and to provide succor to travelers. If they kept making eight leagues each day, they would be within a day’s journey to Amon Sul when they camped on the 11th. Four steady days march, then one a little shorter at the end, if the maps were right, and they would arrive on November 12th. And they needed a marcher’s pace, for many horses had been lost in the fighting, and many of the rest were needed for the wagons. Only 15 of his men were mounted.

“A way-station, Your Highness,” offered Barund to Gimilbeth as he drew his horse up beside her. “Would you like your own tent set up inside its walls?”

“Of course it’s a way-station!” Gimilbeth began sharply, but continued rather formally, “thank you Sir Barund, I would be pleased to make use of it.”

Barund was off, barking orders at the wagon driver, until he remembered that this was the one wounded man in the company. After all, they were suddenly short on wagon drivers, and this man knew his horses. So, Barund called out to four men nearby, one of whom was unfortunate enough to look up at him at just the wrong time, and ordered them to make ready the Princess’ lodgings for the evening. He then returned to her side, in order that she might not want for companionship.

“It will not be as comfortable as our stay at Iant Barad, my Lady, but it must suffice as we travel in these parts.”

Barund was disappointed to see that she made no response and gave no reaction, but only stared straight ahead while her canvases were brought into their proper order. Barund had hoped that his mention of the place would remind her of the last few days – his rescue of her late in the night of November 5th, their short trip on to Iant Methed – the Last Bridge, and the warm reception they all shared at Iant Barad. Then yesterday, their lone full day of rest, he had been toasted at an impromptu celebration as the hero of her re-capture – and today, they had become traveling companions.

Thoughts of her, and attentions to her when he could make them, occupied him all the rest of the evening, until he settled into bed under his own tent, right near to hers, in case she needed anything, and that he might most suitably protect her. His mind kept going back to his first sight of her, in the moonlight among the trees, heedless of her ruined attire. She was older than he – but clearly not TOO old, and her form had retained a youthful shape. He wondered incessantly… if a royal woman like herself, probably too old to marry now, might draw a younger man like himself into her service. He smiled at the thought. He would be happy to do whatever duties she might demand of him.

He dreamed that night of what the coming Yule might hold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the road to Amon Sul, – eight leagues west of the Last Bridge. November 8, 1347, sunset.
Written by Rian
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Tyaron finished re-wrapping Callon's arm and then sat back with a satisfied expression.

"You'll have an interesting-looking scar to tell stories about, and you'll be stiff for a bit, but you'll be fine. Alagos probably didn't need to have cut so deeply, but for these types of wounds, it's better to be safe than sorry - he definitely saved your life."

A serious expression lighted briefly on the face of the normally-smiling Alagos. "I've seen too many die from those wounds - and it's not a pleasant death. If I had come to you a few minutes later, I would have probably used my dagger on you quite differently ..."

Callon drew a shaky breath as he realized what the Elf was saying. He stood up and bowed. "I thank you again for saving my life. I can't imagine ... my sister ... " He shook his head, overcome with emotion as he pictured his sister receiving news of his death.

"Well, she'll get most of you back!" replied Alagos merrily, the momentary serious expression now replaced with his usual smile. "I wish we could have saved all of you, but at least we saved most of you - 99 parts of 100 isn't too bad, considering the alternative!"

Tyaron grinned and made a remark in Sindarin. Callon looked at Alagos with an inquiring expression on his face, waiting for the translation; the elves had started speaking in the various Elvish tongues around him and then translating, knowing how he enjoyed hearing and learning about languages.

Alagos feigned a shocked expression. "I'm sorry, I must decline to translate," he said to Callon in a serious voice, although he was unable to keep a little grin from starting. "My friend has said something shockingly rude - something that I would NEVER consider saying!" He shook his finger at Tyaron in the universal admonishing gesture.

"He's just mad that he didn't think of it first!" replied Tyaron, laughing, as he put away the herbs he had used on Callon's arm and then stood up to join the other two. Callon smiled; even with his limited Sindarin, he had a good guess at what Tyaron had said.

Callon suddenly remembered what he had been setting out to do before Tyaron had stopped him to check his arm. "I need to check the horses - would you like to come with me?" he asked the elves, still a bit tentative around them despite their joking with him. The thought of how old they were, and what they had lived through and seen, still boggled his mind, and he didn't understand why they seemed to like to be around him instead of the other, more experienced soldiers. But whatever reason they had, he was thoroughly enjoying their company.

"Surely - Anka and I have to finish a very interesting conversation we started earlier today, anyway," said Alagos, and started walking towards the horses. Callon, unsure of whether or not he was joking, followed, with Tyaron at his side.

"Anka?" queried Callon, hoping to get the translation this time.

"Teeth!" replied Tyaron with a grin, and Callon chuckled. Both of them had observed the fiery gelding taking bites out of any man unfortunate enough to come within his range.

"Let me do any heavy work," continued Tyaron. "I don't want you straining your arm and re-opening the wound."

"All right, I will - thanks," replied Callon.

Normally Callon would have warned someone approaching the black gelding to be careful, but he had no worries as he watched Alagos come right up to the horse, put his hands on either side of his face and start talking to him nose-to-nose, while the the 18-hand giant nuzzled the tall elf like they had been best friends from birth. The First-Born definitely had a way with animals, there was no denying that!

"I'll keep his teeth busy - you might want to check his off-hind hoof; he seemed to be favoring it just a bit - but I'm sure you noticed that, anyway," said Alagos to Callon as he walked up.

"Oh yes, you must stop thinking that men are made of delicious oats and honey, you great big oaf, you - they don't appreciate being bitten," murmured the elf to the horse, who blew back at him softly through his nostrils. Alagos reached up and scratched the horse's forelock, and then fixed him with a stern look. "And if I hear of you biting again, I'll have to come back and speak to you sternly, and you won't like that!" he added, and the towering animal reached out and gently lipped Alagos's ear, tickling him with his whiskers.

Tyaron ran his hand down the gelding's right rear leg and picked up the hoof, holding it towards the light for Callon to examine.

Callon pulled out a hoof pick from his equipment pouch and started gently clearning the massive hoof, noting at what spot the gelding seemed to pull back a bit. When he had cleared the mud and debris, he pocketed the pick and ran his finger along the inner spongy area of the hoof and found the problem - a small stone lodged deep into the cleft near the center of the hoof. He gently worked it out while Alagos kept the gelding occupied, thankful to have such helpers with such a horse - it would have been a much harder job to manage alone, especially with his injured arm. Pulling a small jar from the pouch, he rubbed a little of the salve it contained into the sore area.

"Is it warm at all?" inquired Tyaron, holding the hoof firmly while Callon worked on the sore area.

All of a sudden, the comfortable noise of men relaxing by fires after a long journey, telling tales rendered more interesting by drink and camraderie, was rent by a loud voice.

"Barund! Will you PLEASE tell your men to quiet down!" came the angry and haughty voice of Gimilbeth through her tent material.

"You could always have the Ice Princess come by and cool it down," came Alagos's voice from the head of the horse.

Callon grinned and shook his head, then retrieved the hoof pick and cleaned the other three hooves. As the three men left to check over the other horse, the black gelding whickered softly and shook his mane at the backs of the retreating elves.

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On the road to Amon Sul. November 12, 1347, sunset.
Written by Gordis
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The last days of the journey to Amon Sul proved to be dull and uneventful. Gimilbeth was fed up with adventures for the rest of her life, so she was glad of this soothing monotony of riding at an easy pace for eight leagues a day, then stopping for a night at a way-station or camping in the open. The landscape presented no diversion, as the land was flat as a table-top and almost barren. The icy northern wind whistled in pale dry grasses. On the south side of the road there were tangled bushes and small groves of birch-trees, now leafless and forlorn, but northwards nothing sheltered the party from the biting wind.

Away in the distance westward they could see a line of hills, the highest of them on the left of the line and a little separated from the others - Weathertop. On its conical summit there stood a tall white tower, looking unbelievably high and eerie from a distance. Everyone in the party knew that high atop the tower there was a seeing stone, sleeplessly watching over the wild barren plain - the Palantir of Amon Sul.

"You should be comforted, my Lady, as we are now in full view of Amon Sul," ventured Barund, who rode alongside Gimilbeth at the head of the Party. "I am confident that no surprise attack - like the one that has almost proved our undoing - is now possible!"

Gimilbeth nodded, trying to hide her irritation. She hated the way Barund always tried to turn every conversation back to the orc attack. Sure, he had saved the day and rescued the princess from a fate that would be far worse than death, but then again he had gotten his reward, universal praise and profuse thanks. How could he fail to understand that Gimilbeth didn't wish to recall the awful fight, deaths of her nearest companions, and, to top it all, her own humiliating captivity?

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched how Barund shifted uneasily in the saddle and bit his moustache, obviously at a loss for further topics of conversation. The Brochenridge scout was an honorable man and experienced fighter, but he sadly lacked both Gwindor's refinement and Elvegil's heady joviality. Gimilbeth was surprised with herself - cold and practical as she was, she still missed her faithful knights terribly. As compared to the two late Gondorians, Barund was nothing but a rustic...

Gimilbeth turned to smile at Edelbar, who rode just behind her, his face grave and composed. The page had grown a lot in the course of the short journey, not in stature, but in personality - he looked no lad anymore, but a man. Pity Lammir didn't make it as well...

At least they still had the wagon, Gimilbeth thought, looking further back. Despite the fight and fire, very few of Gimilbeth's possessions had been damaged or stolen. Barring Elessya, of course - what a pity she had kept it on her person! Fortunately, Serinde's spell-book was safe in its secret locker of the big trunk with dresses.

The two Elves walked alongside the wagon, their long legs eating mile after mile tirelessly. Feeling Gimilbeth's barely concealed hostility, they stayed away from her and she was glad of their discretion. She noticed Hurgon perched alongside Callon on the driver's seat of the wagon. The painter looked tired and sleepy - or perhaps he was drunk as usual... But Gimilbeth didn't mind. The previous day she went to check on Tarniel's portrait and found the painting all but finished - not a masterpiece this one, but decent enough work all the same. Hurgon could easily put the finishing touches to the portrait when they reached Amon Sul.

At this moment, Barund's voice interrupted her musings. "Your highness, there is a company of horsemen approaching from the west. They bear the standard of Arthedain." Barund barked a command to their own standard-bearers to move to the head of the procession. Edelbar proudly unfurled the royal pennant of the House of Dauremir - an elk's head on the field of maroon, crowned with seven golden stars.

Soon the horsemen came into full view - about 40 of them, tall men clad in blue and black. And sure enough, the blue-and-silver standard of Arthedain was streaming out in the wind, plain to see. Seeing the men of Amon Sul, Gimilbeth's battered company cheered - their perilous journey was nearly over!
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