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

Title: The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery. (#3589)
Author: NKW
Chapters: 25

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: The last Dunedain King of Rhudaur accepts an upstart Hillmen chieftain as his councilor. The Witch-King in the North plots Rhudaur’s destruction. Will the children of the last King be able to save the day? New chapters: "The Secret Code" and "The Witch-King's Hunt" Part II of the "Shadow over Rhudaur " is now complete!
Published: 18 Sep 2007
Updated: 26 Apr 2008
Warnings: character death, violence
Type: Drama
Characters: Witch-King; nobles of Rhudaur; Hillmen


Chapter 1 - The Female Peregrine and the Red Bear

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Carn Dum, Kingdom of Angmar. TA 1347, October 18. Late afternoon.
Written by Angmar
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"Your Majesty?" a man inquired timidly as he tapped on the door again.

"Enter, Alassar... the door is not locked," a male voice replied from the chamber beyond.

Alassar took a deep breath and opened the door. He was not quite sure why the king always had this effect on him, for His Majesty was seldom angry. There was a certain quality about the man, though, that always kept Alassar's nerves just past the edge of mild apprehension.

He found the king where he expected to find him - sitting in his great ebony chair at the head of his council table. The one window facing north, which was not covered with heavy drapes, let in the late afternoon light. Other than that dim light, the room's only illumination was a candle burning in a silver holder in the center of the table.

When the king had arrived an hour before, Alassar had been in the audience room, listening to the complaints of two barons. A minor disagreement over a boundary line had escalated until the two men were on the verge of a blood feud. Announcing the return of the king, a distant trumpet sounded. With a great feeling of relief, Alassar had politely dismissed the men, advising that they settle the matter peacefully between themselves before the king's intervention was warranted.

The king looked up into the other man's face. As usual, Alassar's gaze was first drawn to the ring that the king wore on his right forefinger. Then he looked into the king's eyes, which seemed to flicker in a pale gray light. The king was smiling kindly at him, and Alassar shook away the feeling of anxiety that had threatened to settle upon his mind.

"Welcome back, Your Majesty," Alassar bowed. "I trust the journey went well with no disruptions?"

The king inclined his head politely. “'Tis amazing, Alassar, that your spies and agents have not brought you word already. Are they sleeping?”

"What do you mean, Your Majesty?" Alassar gulped nervously, hoping the king would not notice the tremble in his voice. Obviously something had happened at Broggha's camp. Alassar cursed his spies for their failure to deliver him the information.

The king's eyes were mesmerizing, and sometimes Alassar imagined that he could see lights, a pale flickering glow, deep within the king's eyes. "A trick of the light," he reasoned with himself.

"Sit down, Alassar," the king said. "While we enjoy a draught, I will inform you of the news which your spies have failed to give you. Mulled wine?"

"Aye, Your Majesty, that would go well to ward against the chill of the afternoon. I know that Broggha's entourage is but a few miles from Cameth Brin, but that is common knowledge. Has some stroke of ill fortune occurred?" Alassar noticed how chill the room had grown, and his shoulders shook inside his fur-trimmed robe. Perhaps some change in the weather was imminent?

One of the king's quiet, polite servants soon brought wine for both of them. It was unusual the way that the servants of His Majesty always seemed to know his wishes before he even asked. Nothing in Carn Dum, though, was quite the way it was in other places.

"Shortly after we left Morva Torch, an assassination attempt was made on Broggha's life. This was kept secret. The man survived."

"Who would dare do such a thing?"

"One of his mistresses."

"That is unthinkable!" Alassar exclaimed. "What was her motive for this crime?"

"Apparently there was none on her part," the king laughed, that hollow mockery of humor that made Alassar uncomfortable.

"Then why did she do it?" Alassar queried.

"The woman was the unwilling accomplice of a witch."

Alassar gripped the table. "Who has such power to use another in the working of magic?" His mind screamed at him, "Besides you, Your Majesty!"

"A dabbler."

"Have you been able to discover his identity?" Alassar knew the king was amused and toying with him.

"The would-be murderer was no man."

"A woman?" Alassar felt faint. How did the king know such things when his own spies had reported nothing to him of the event?

"Aye... a woman. Have you ever noticed, Alassar, my good steward, how the female peregrine is far more powerful and eager than her mate and undertakes the hunt with far more vigor and finesse? It is never wise to underestimate the power of a woman."

"Aye, Your Majesty. Certainly the abilities of the female peregrine are well known. But what has that to do with this situation?"

"This dabbler... this witch... is a predator... I know that... and I sense the males around her are far weaker."

"Then you know her identity?" Alassar asked, amazed.

"Maybe," the king laughed.



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Tanoth Brin, Kingdom of Rhudaur, October 19, 1347. Morning
Written by Angmar
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October nineteen dawned fair and bright as a horn announced the approach of Jarl Broggha's contingent into the outskirts of the town of Tanoth Brin. The standard bearer, mounted on one of the better horses, proudly carried the banner of Broggha. The Jarl was pleased with the banner which he himself had designed - a great red bear on a field of blue. Broggha smiled and waved to the cheering throngs that had poured into the hamlet to see what would probably be the only real source of entertainment until the Yule feast.

Behind the Jarl marched his men and their captains, rough-looking Hillmen, many of them clad in the rough clothing of peasants. Others wore the distinctive garb of the mountaineer - fur caps upon their heads, fur cloaks over leather tunics and breeches, many cross-gartered to the knee. Though their apparel was not rich, their spears and other weaponry were sharp, brightly polished and gleaming.

Kinsmen, supporters, well-wishers, the curious, and those who wished to make an impression on the new power in the north grew hoarse with the constant cheering, while the naysayers and headshakers remained silent, grimly observing. Broggha and his guard were halfway through the village when an unknown man in the crowd raised the cry, "Hail to the Red Bear! Long live King Broggha!" The supporters of King Tarnendur were momentarily too shocked to counter this effrontery. Soon, though, they found their voices and shouted, "Rally behind the rightful King!"

No one was ever sure who struck the first blow, whether it was a hillman or a man loyal to the king, but soon fists landed in faces, heads were cracked, noses bloodied, as a small riot erupted along one section of the parade route and spread into the intersecting village streets. The king's guardsmen tried to contain the chaos away from the main rode through the town. They were successful, for the long line of baggage trains and small herds of cattle and sheep passed peacefully by the center of rioting. Making up the rear of the procession was what passed for Broggha's cavalry - fifty men with spears and lances, mounted on shaggy, winter-coated horses.

During the scuffle, a few of the king's men were injured - minor injuries for the main part, although a few teeth were knocked out, and one guard suffered a leg wound from a long knife. Much damage, however, was done to the pride of the king's guard, when some of the hillmen's women threw rotten fruit and decaying vegetables in their faces. Only a few were arrested, however, on the charges of drunkenness and disorderly conduct.

By the time the tumult was over, the Jarl was nearing the eastern edge of the village. Soon he and his guards were through the hamlet and on the way to Broggha's new estate on the eastern edge of the town. Griss moved his horse up beside Broggha and grinned.

"My lord" - Griss had taken to calling him by that title, for it seemed appropriate - "the commotion was well-timed. The old fool on the throne should have something to worry about now."

"Good work, Captain Griss! Soon he should have even more to worry about than that! I look forward to the feast tonight!" Broggha kicked his spurs into the side of his horse and trotted to see his new holdings.


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Tanoth Brin, Yozaneth's house by the Market Place, midday of October 19, 1347
Written by Gordis
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The Princess Gimilbeth, eldest daughter of the King Tarnendur, rested her still-aching head against the cool glass, and stared into the murky mirror, once belonging to Yozaneth, as she sought to repair the damage caused by her crying bout.

The shock of seeing Broggha alive and well with her own eyes proved too much for her. Of course, she had heard reports of Broggha's march to Cameth Brin, she had seen the letter he had sent to the King but four days ago, but still she hoped against all hope that all this might have been fake, with Broggha dead and some other of his cut-throats striving to take his place.

But this morning she had wrapped herself in an inconspicuous hooded cloak and, flanked by two disguised knights and a page, she rode to Tanoth Brin where she watched the procession. She was hiding in the former Yozaneth's house, whose upper floor had a good view onto the market place. Broggha was there at the head of the procession, beaming in triumph, as large as life, red-haired and brightly clad - unmistakable.

So everything had been in vain, both her spell and her pain! She was wrong in thinking that her spell had succeeded. The Dark Lord, the Lord of All, had cheated her. If she hadn't relied on the magic so much, she would have tried more natural measures - at least she would have sent some well-paid assassins into Broggha's camp. Now it was too late. If Broggha died now, his death would be immediately blamed on the King - with disastrous consequences.

She gazed in the mirror and touched her face with powder, then scowled and wiped it off. No, it was no good. She saw a tired woman clad in a simple, unflattering brown gown, whose eyes were too large for her drawn face. A woman who should have been Queen...

Gathering herself, she pulled the hood over her head, concealing her face, and descended the narrow stairs to the main room, where her faithful Gwindor and Elvegil waited, surrounded by a score of wary and frightened Yozaneth's relatives. Without a word, she threw a gold coin to the head of the house, Yozaneth's youngest son.

Their horses were tethered in a side street, guarded by a raggedly dressed page. The four riders rode slowly back to the King's Road, picking the narrow side-passages and avoiding the crowded squares and main streets. The town seemed wild with ecstasy. Cheers for Broggha resounded painfully in their ears, large barrels of free ale were placed at every corner. Gimilbeth was amazed at how many in the Town below the Hill seemed to hate her father and her family and relish in their defeat.

Gimilbeth's jaw tightened. She would have gladly killed them all with her own hands. Perhaps she could try to send them some plague later on, when Broggha is dealt with. Today the Hillman brigand had the upper hand, but another day would be hers. Until then she would lie low, and watch.

*****

When the Gates of the Fortress of Cameth Brin finally clanged shut behind their backs, the four riders sighed in relief. They were home safely after the dangerous venture into the town below. The page took the horses to the stables, while Gimilbeth dismissed Gwindor and Elvegil and walked alone across the court to the palace, taking care to keep her face in the shadows of her hooded cloak.

The first person she met near the Palace was the Queen Eilinel herself, all flushed and sweaty from supervising the preparations for the evening feast. Smoked hams, white bread, crystallized honey, rashers of meat and various delicacies were being prepared for the delectation of Broggha and his companions, while the table was laid with white cloths and silver cutlery, as befitted an official evening feast.

The queen was of middling years - certainly much older in appearance than her relatively young age allowed; her dark hair was tightly pulled back in an unflattering fashion, with small strands struggling out and plastered to her sweaty forehead. She was dressed sedately in a brown gown. "Motherly" was the only word which could be used to describe her, thought Gimilbeth. "Mother-hen, indeed!"

Gimilbeth curtsied, keeping her head down. The queen nodded and rushed past in the direction of the dining hall, not recognizing her step-daughter in her dark cloak. Looking at her receding form, Gimilbeth noticed gravy spots on the Queen's dress from her previous visit to the kitchen.

Gimilbeth shrugged. She always despised the way the Queen ran the household. All this meddling, running around and shouting at lowly servants led nowhere, making the maids arrogant and irresponsible. Gimilbeth herself never deigned to appear in the kitchens; she believed in cold, efficient housekeepers, seamless service and severe punishments of those who failed in their duty. The queen was so kind-hearted that no servant was really afraid of her, and once her back was turned, the maids lapsed into their lazy chatter as if they had not been reprimanded by Royalty a minute ago.

As Gimilbeth finally reached her rooms in the Palace, she smiled as the scent of crushed mint and lavender drifted towards her. Her maid Nimraen anticipated her needs so well… A hot bath and a herbal mask first, then some rest and then to battle, for that is what this evening reception was all about.


Notes

This story is a direct continuation of “The Shadow over Rhudaur. Part I “Runnings”. 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 plans of places and buildings.

Map of Cameth Brin and Tanoth Brin
http://i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/CamethBrinGen1.jpg
Plan of the Cameth Brin Palace
Ground floor
http://i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/PalaceGFv.jpg
First floor
http://i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/PalaceFFj1.jpg
Second floor
http://i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/PalaceSFj2.jpg

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


Chapter 2 - Those Mysterious Women...

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Broggha's Keep, October 19, 1347. Afternoon
Written by Angmar and Elfhild
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Except for the scuffle between the more rowdy elements of Jarl Broggha's contingent and the king's guardsmen, the trip to Jarl Broggha's keep and land grant was uneventful. As the Jarl's procession wound its way around an outcropping of rock, they could see lying before them, resting on a small knoll, a rather ignoble looking country house. Griss could tell by the way the Jarl set his lips into a stern line and clenched his jaw that the Jarl was not pleased by the sight before him.

In fact, the only thing that did seem to please the Jarl was that there was a good amount of land about the manor that would provide suitable places for his men to camp and construct a small village. Griss and the other captains were soon directing the placement of supply wagons, wains, tents, and the small herds of cattle and sheep that comprised the property of Broggha's followers.

Beyond the house was a sizable forest of worthy timber. Broggha viewed this woodlot with favor, for wood from its acres would provide an ample supply of timber for building, and for the vital firewood that was needed to provide the manor's fireplaces and huts for his men.

As they drew up to the stairway leading up to the manor house, they were greeted by a small group of servants headed by the chamberlain, Rachion, and the chief housekeeper, Mistress Aradien. After the hillmen's mounts were led away by the stable boys, the pair proceeded to show Broggha and his party around the hall. Malaneth and Aewen followed silently behind the Jarl. Both Rachion and Mistress Aradien exchanged questioning glances between themselves, especially when they noted the bruises on Aewen's face and the splint on her arm, but said nothing.

Broggha looked slightly disappointed that the structure was far too small to appeal to his developing tastes for the rich and lavish. As he walked through the rooms, he made notes to himself about which wall partitions could be torn out to increase the size of his hall and other rooms.

"And this is the Lord of the Manor's bed chamber," Rachion explained as he led them into a large room. "The room has been thoroughly aired in preparation for your arrival, and I am sure you will find all to your satisfaction. The lady of the manor's bed chamber is to the right and connects to your room by a hall and a door. The room also has a most charming sitting room. However, since you are unmarried, we did not see the necessity of opening the room at this time. The young ladies Aewen and Malaneth - your wards, I believe you said - will have rooms down the hall. Perhaps they would like to go to their rooms so that they may refresh themselves."

Broggha turned to the dignified, slightly graying man. "This is not satisfactory. My wards will share the lady's bed chamber until I make other arrangements. Have that room and the sitting room aired immediately. Until then, we will use the chambers you have designated."

"My lord, as you wish," Rachion said in clipped, terse affirmation.

"This is most extraordinary," Mistress Aradien's eyebrows raised in disapproval at the notion that the chamber of two unmarried women and an unmarried man would be separated by only a hall and a door.

A fierce gaze on Broggha's face, he turned to the woman. "Perhaps extraordinary to the Dunedain, but I am a hillman and our ways are somewhat different! Keep your long, thin nose out of my business, old woman, or you might find that it suffers some unfortunate accident!"

Aradien bowed to him. "My lord, accept my pardon. All will be done as you have wished." How scandalous! she thought. Why, why, this is most inappropriate and is just not done! The very idea of his wards' bedrooms connecting to his! Who knows what might go on! The thought was enough to make her heart palpitate!

Whatever might go on between the interconnecting doors would be a subject of gossip among the chambermaids and lackeys for weeks to come

"Chamberlain Rachion and Mistress Aradien, I go now to my hall. When my captains have returned, send them in to me. In the meantime, bring out the best Dorwinion wine that is held in the wine cellars. I have a thirst."

***

As Aewen followed Mistress Aradien to her new room, she looked around the corridor where they walked. On the walls, she could see marks where portraits once hung and places where the plaster had cracked. The waist-high geometric border of blue and green which edged the bottom half of the walls was somewhat faded. Obviously, the place was in need of a few repairs and was vacated in quite a hurry. It was so different from the hall of her father, the Count of Pennmorva.

Mistress Aradien's voice broke Aewen's concentration. "Here is your sitting room," the old woman informed her, taking a key from her belt and unlocking the wooden door.

Stepping inside, Aewen saw that the chamber was a spacious one with ample room for entertaining guests. Mistress Aradien ushered her through another door, showing her the bed chamber.

"...And over there is the door which leads to the... lord's chamber," the housekeeper said, obvious disapproval in her voice.

Aewen inwardly winced. She, once the daughter of a petty noble, did not wish to be reminded of her shame by this servant woman. She already knew everyone would be talking about the advent of the Hillman, his entourage, and the scandal of the two women who lived with him. The gossip-mongers would have even more fuel to stoke their fires if she was indeed with Broggha's child. She bit her lower lip, contemplating on how she would inform him of these tidings, and worrying about how he would take them.

"Thank you," she said blandly, her thoughts remaining secret as she dismissed the housekeeper. "That will be all."

Left alone to her thoughts, Aewen wondered what would become of her, and the baby. Perhaps the Jarl would treat her kindly, for he was the father of the child. Or would he lose interest in her and treat her worse than he did already? That is, if the baby even lived to see childhood... so many died in childhood, along with their mothers. Would the Jarl love his child, or would he hurt the little boy or girl just as he did the mother?

Some time had passed when the door flew open, and Broggha stormed inside.

"Do you not have a kiss for your lord?"

Dutifully, Aewen kissed the man, neither love nor lust, or even affection in the kiss.

"Not much enthusiasm?" he asked sarcastically. "Harder!"

Shaking her head, she looked to him fearfully. "I have news to tell you, my lord, that you might not find welcome."

"What is it?" he asked as he stroked her hair.

"I... I think that I am with child..."

"Whose is it?" Broggha exclaimed angrily.

"Yours, lord!" Aewen cried, attempting to rid him of all doubt. "Whose else would it be?"

"Anyone's," he laughed grimly. "How far along is it?"

"Going on two months, I think."

"You little fool, why did you not tell me sooner? At least you are not showing, so no one will be able to tell."

"A - a woman cannot always be sure... Did you not notice that lately I am often sick in the mornings?"

"You are always ill with something, Aewen! I thought the vomiting was but a reflection of your frail constitution! And sometimes in the mornings, Malaneth occupies my attention! This is all your fault!"

Aewen stared at him in disbelief. "What did I do?"

He ignored her question. "Remember that both you and Malaneth are thought to be my wards and under my protection since her family had been slain by orcs and your father's untimely demise! To acknowledge this child would subject me to censure and ridicule! I cannot have it known in court that I have sired a bastard! You must get rid of it!"

"Oh, please, no!" she gasped in dismay.

Ignoring her again, Broggha went on. "I have heard that there is a woman in camp who can take care of things such as this. I will find out - you can be sure of that - and when I do, this minor problem will trouble me no more!"

"You cannot make me kill the child - your child! How could you be so heartless? You are the father!"

"I can make you do anything, Aewen." His hand went to her splinted arm. "Anything!"

Falling to her knees, she began weeping. "Please, no, not this!"

"Your talk is useless because the matter is settled! It is time for you to prepare for the feast tonight... and do something about your face. You look like an old hag!"

Wailing, Aewen clung to the edge of Broggha's tunic. "Please do not make me kill the baby! I can say that I was raped by one of your men... or one of my father's men... or that I betrayed you..."

Broggha laughed coldly. "Can I trust your lips to silence?"

"Yes!" she sobbed.

"Then you must swear to all that an unfortunate affair of the heart with one of your father's guardsmen brought this shame upon you."

Her shoulders quivering, Aewen wailed out the words, "I swear!"

Broggha pulled her to her feet and his blue eyes held a look of triumph. "I will never acknowledge this child as mine. Be grateful to me, Aewen, for I am providing succor to my old friend's wanton daughter and her bastard child."

Closing her eyes, Aewen nodded. Hot teardrops slid from beneath her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. Her honor was already tarnished beyond repair, so whatever lies Broggha commanded her to tell mattered little. At least the baby would be safe.

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Carn Dum, October 19, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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"My lord, the page brought me a message that you wished to see me." Alassar closed the door quietly behind him and felt that inevitable shudder go up his spine as he faced his master.

The King was silent, the only sound in the room being the scraping of the ebony chair as he pushed it across the stone floor as he stood to his feet. Alassar raised his head slightly, awed as ever by the man's massive height of over seven feet.

"I should not feel apprehensive," Alassar thought, "but I cannot help myself in His Majesty's presence." In spite of the chill in the room, Alassar felt the perspiration dampening his robes.

The King walked to the tall, narrow window and peered out. The drapes were always open at night, but seldom in the day. The King preferred it that way.

"Aye, I summoned you," the King replied, not turning from his position at the window.

"You have only to say, Your Majesty, and it will be done."

The King laughed, that chilling, echoing melancholic sound that was mirthless - more a mockery of a laugh than true laughter.

"Would that it were that simple! For there are many things that I would do that will never come to realization!"

"As much as possible, my lord." The perspiration was drenching Alassar's robes now, and he felt very, very cold. He always felt a failure, for no matter what his efforts, he was only mortal! He had his doubts about the King.

The King turned around so quickly that Alassar was startled. "I only pray that he is not angry with me. I cannot sustain it when his eyes take on that reddish tint!"

"You have attained some small degree in magic over the years, Alassar."

"Aye, my lord, I would like to think that I have." Did that sound too boastful? He dreaded to hear any more of the King's laughter, for it was almost as terrible as his eyes when they were angry.

"And what have you read in the entrails of sheep this night? How have the drops of blood fallen into the ashes? What secrets have you seen written there?"

Alassar gulped and felt miserable for it. How craven a coward was he in truth? He had faced men in fighting far better in skill than he, and though sometimes he had been afraid, he had fought on in spite of his fear. At times he had been employed as an assassin by the King, and he had long ago lost his fear of slitting jugular veins and strangling his victims. That was all part of his work for the King, and he took it in his stride. But the man himself? There was nothing that he feared more upon Arda than the anger of the King.

"My lord," he replied quietly, trying to gain control of his old fear, "the king grows deeper in his dotage by the day." He looked towards the King, hoping for some sign of approval, but there was nothing but mystery in those strange eyes. "I see a tumult in Cameth Brin, a smell of smoke, a clashing of steel."

The King threw back his head and laughed. "There is always a tumult in Rhudaur! You have told me nothing of note! Is that all that you could see in the severed intestines of sheep and the dripping of blood upon the ashes?"

"There is only so much that mortals can delve in the skill of haruspicy. I have done my best, Your Majesty. Though you slay me, there is no more that my magick can show me."

"I have no desire to slay you, Alassar, for you often prove valuable to me in my efforts. You know that I reward my successful servants quite well."

With a shudder, Alassar remembered those who had failed the King. Strong men, powerful and mighty... he did not want to think about the stench of the burning flesh that still filled his nostrils with only a thought of it.

"My agents reported to me some time ago that there would be a great feast this night to honor my servant Broggha. Your divinations were correct in some regards, but you see only a part. But that is unimportant." The King waved his hand dismissively, as though he were brushing away an insignificant gnat. The King's forefinger on his left hand touched his ring. "There are other methods for reaching what we want to know. If you have fully achieved a level in the workings of magic, you could sense far deeper things."

"I take it, Your Majesty, that once again you have obtained far more information than I ever could by my means."

"Aye, Alassar, far more. Now I know the identity of the one who tried to kill Broggha. Before I could see her only darkly. Now I can see her in full clarity as though I were looking at her portrait before me."

"Obviously the wench is far too dangerous to allow her to live, Your Majesty."

"A wench?" the King asked curiously. "Not a wench, a common peasant, but far higher - a princess, the King's eldest daughter, Gimilbeth. She thinks she is quite wise and clever. Her wings must be clipped soon enough, but not now. Let her deceive herself for a while longer, but she is not the only meddler close to the king. There is magic awork this night! Can you not feel it as I can? They turn now our own weapons against us. Ahhh," the King lifted up his head and gave a deep sigh that seemed to come from his inner being, "how the Nъmenуreans sink deeper into corruption by the day! They will destroy themselves! They are close, they are close! I feel them at the tips of my fingers, so close, so close!"

The sweat was running down Alassar's forehead, and he felt deeply embarrassed that the King could see his fear so openly. He knew he could smell the increasing apprehension in his sweat.

"Peace, Alassar. You have nothing to fear from me. I am pleased. You have done well, but I have done better."

While the King could cause great fear, through his magic, he could bring about a great calm, an almost addling of the senses. Alassar was grateful to His Majesty for this soothing feeling that he felt coming over him. The King always expected his servants to do their best for him, and when he encouraged them, it was an overwhelming boon.

"The Princess... when do you wish her to be slain?"

The King chuckled. "Did I say that I wanted the woman killed? Nay, Alassar, you think too small."

"Then what would you wish, Your Majesty?"

"I want her kidnapped and brought to Carn Dum! I understand that she is quite fair, and remarkably intelligent for a woman."

"When, Your Majesty, when do you wish her brought to you?" Alassar could barely contain the surprise in his voice.

"Soon, soon, before the winter snows begin to fall."

Alassar could almost feel sorry for the poor woman. He often wondered how the King's mistresses could abide him, but somehow, they always seemed to be more than fond of him. Ah, women. Who could understand them?


Chapter 3 - Welcome Feast for the Barbarian

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Cameth Brin Tower, evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis, Elfhild, Serenoli and Angmar
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Algeirr felt happy as he made his way up the winding road to the castle. He eyed his new respectable clothes and the plump redhead woman trotting merrily alongside him. All his dreams seemed to have come true.

Algeirr had been sent to Tanoth Brin two days before Broggha’s party and succeeded in appearing to be a lone wanderer, returning to his land after many years abroad. No one knew he was the chief of Broggha’s spies, and he did his job well: sitting in various taverns and inns he managed to spread a score of favourable rumours about the Jarl and the new, better life awaiting all the Hillmen when Broggha came to power.

Wandering from tavern to tavern, Algeirr had a stroke of good fortune: he got acquainted with a comely, plump widow who ran the best inn in the town - "The Sword of Elendil"- by the market place. Her name was Gudhrun; she was in her late thirties, but still fresh and rosy-cheeked.

Gudhrun was widowed for a year, since her husband the innkeeper was killed in a drunken brawl between Cardolani mercenaries and the King’s guards. She had two unmarried daughters, tasty morsels both of them, but Algeirr was wise and understood where his fortune lay, so he started courting the widow, who proved to be readily amenable to his advances. Now he had the best inn in Tanoth Brin, as well as the widow and all her late husband’s clothes at his disposal.

To his own surprise, Algeirr found himself quite fond of Gudhrun. The two nights they spent together were most pleasurable. Sure, the woman never closed her mouth, but she did the talking for both sides, and was not in the least hindered by Algeirr’s non-committal grunts.

"Perhaps I should marry her," thought Algeirr, " that is, if I don’t find anything better. Perhaps I am destined to marry a noble Tark lady - who knows?"

A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to seize the grand opportunity to become a rich, respectable innkeeper, but now, with the Jarl’s quick rise, everything seemed possible.

Algeirr turned his head to look at Gudhrun’s freckled, rosy cheeks and her funny upturned nose sandwiched between them. She was out of breath while they climbed to the city gates, but once recovered, she resumed her chat about the Royal family, the King and the Queen, the ladies Gimilbeth and Tarniel and the third one with impossibly long name whom the townspeople nicknamed "Lady Oddie." Gudhrun was looking forward to the entertainment after the feast, which the townspeople were allowed to watch. There were rumours of a trained bear that danced and wore clothes!

Nodding and bowing to numerous acquaintances whom they met along the way, Algeirr and Gudhrun joined the crowd at the doors of the tower.

***

After an hour or two of peaceful slumber, Gimilbeth stepped into the delicate dress held out for her, admiring it even as it was fastened. Silver bodice, and the skirts of silver foam over purple silk. She slipped on silver shoes and a necklace of diamonds and rubies, a parting present from her grandmother. Her hair was up, but she wore no crown or circlet. Scattered through her hair were a number of gems like stars in the night sky.

Gimilbeth made her way to the tower, two pages following her with torches. She was a bit late, but she knew the advantage of dramatic appearances. She straightened her back, and with small, slow steps walked up the hall to the dais, oblivious to the gasps she provoked amongst the assemblage, the envy in the eyes of the women, and the raw lust in those of the men.

The feast was prepared in a large hall occupying all the first floor of the Old Tower. Myriad candles burned in silver sconces on the long table in the lower hall, and on the three tables on the dais. King Tarnendur sat in the middle of the main table, his Queen on his right, and Gimilbeth's chair on his left. On the right of the Queen sat Daurendil the Heir with his sister Tarniel on his other side. Next to Gimilbeth sat Amantir, the youngest son of the King, with Odaragariel of Mitheithel at his left elbow.

At the lower table on the King's right sat the most prominent nobles of Cameth Brin with their ladies, while the table opposite them was reserved for Broggha and his captains. Broggha was there, his giant figure clad in rich but too-bright-to-be-fashionable clothes. There were two ladies at his side, noticed Gimilbeth with surprise, both looking like Dunedain. The pale one with delicate features on Broggha's left, the one clad in a high-necked gown, even seemed slightly familiar. Gimilbeth wondered about her while she took her place on the King's left. Only when she was seated and took a good look at the woman did realization dawn on her: the daughter of the Count of Pennmorva, Aewen, a distant relation of the King himself!

Some of her shock must have been evident in Gimilbeth's eyes, as the woman flushed and lowered her eyes as if in fright and shame. Was she Broggha's wife now, Gimilbeth wondered, or just a mistress? And what about another one? This one seemed unfamiliar, though.

Gimilbeth noticed that Broggha's eyes were on her, his blue gaze fierce and intense. Gimilbeh looked back steadily, a mocking smile touching her ruby lips. The brigand could not intimidate her. A woman she may be, but her will was of adamant; no one had ever been able to bear her gaze unflinching. Neither would this lowly brigand. He should know his place, and it was time to show it to him.


***

Aewen sat down at the great feasting table. The sounds of talking and laughing created a lively hum about her, but she was tense, every nerve on edge. She had been to the tower before, but as the daughter of a count, not the mistress of a Hillman.

As she looked nervously about herself, her eyes landed upon the Lady Gimilbeth. Though she had seen the woman before at court events, a jolt of recognition ripped through her very being, as though she had been struck by lightning. A sudden palpitation made her heart lurch, and her vision slid from side to side. Greatly abashed, she dropped her gaze down to the table.

Oh, truly Broggha was cruel, by forcing her to accompany him to this feast! She longed to run away and hide from the probing eyes and curious minds of everyone around her. Instead, she swallowed hard, forcing the urge to pass, and sat as still and calm as a marble statue of a sitting lady.

***

The feast would have been a grand event, Tarniel thought, had not the hillmen been in attendance. Their presence rubbed salt in the wounds of Rhudaur's pride. Somehow, it would have seemed more honorable had they conquered the country in war, but this peaceful defeat seemed unreal, otherworldly. A triumphal entry without a siege, the king's capitulation. Tarniel found herself plunged into the midst of history being made, and it swirled around her at a dizzying rate. No, there could be little enjoyment while the hillmen were around, only superficial happiness, distractions from the troubled times.

So she tried to pretend for a time that the hillmen were not even there. To be sad and woeful would only make them feel they were victorious. Instead, Tarniel thought about those who were dear to her, the delicious food, the lavish clothing of the guests. She felt pretty in her deep blue dress, with its low, oval shaped neckline which skimmed over her shoulders. A band of delicate white embroidery and pearls decorated the neckline of the gown and its hem, as well as the borders of her sleeves, which were wide and hung down, revealing the pale white sleeves of her underdress. Pearls were woven through the braids of her long, dark hair.

She looked about the table, smiling to her family and those among the families of the nobles with whom she was friends. Looking past her brother, Daurendil, her gaze fell upon her mother, the queen, who was dressed in a dark brown and rust colored gown, and she smiled tenderly. She knew how hard her mother had worked to prepare a wonderful feast. She wondered if the hillmen even had wit enough to appreciate the fine foods and splendidly decorated table.

Glancing over to them, Tarniel thought they looked an unsavory lot indeed. Many were clad in furs, not the ermine of nobles, but common buckskin, the dress of hunters and trappers. Their table manners were not too good, either, and they gobbled up their food in a slovenly fashion. Their leader, Broggha, was a giant of a man, with flaming red hair and cold blue eyes. Not one to be reckoned with, definitely. Tarniel subconsciously inched closer to her brother and glanced at the armed guards posted around the hall, taking comfort in their presence. She wondered at the identities of the two women at Broggha's side. One looked like Aewen, the daughter of the Count of Pennmorva... the fate of his family had indeed been tragic, and if that were indeed Aewen, then Tarniel's heart went out to her.


***

Her yellow hair was pinned up with innumerable jewelled pins... though Odare could not suppress the thought that if only her hair had been darker, they would actually have been visible... Her dress, a large, fluffy green affair, full of lace and trimmings, made her look slightly moldy, and the fact that she kept tripping over the hem now and then hardly helped. But she was reasonably pleased; especially as Tarniel had let her borrow a truly beautiful emerald piece, which she now wore on her neck.

She went to the feasting hall, and found herself beside Amantir, and Tarniel on the very other end of the table. Bugger! she thought silently. Amantir was only a year younger than her, and they should have found plenty to talk about; but Odare silently subscribed to the opinion that Amantir was insipid and weak. She had barely seated herself when she saw Gimilbeth enter; a surge of sudden envy passed through her at the sight of Gimilbeth's perfect dark hair, the sea of star-like jewels embedded in it. With a sigh, she turned to talk with Amantir. Out of a corner of her eye, she watched everyone... Tarniel, silent and sweet in the corner; Broggha, the infamous hillman, who kept shooting glances at both Gimilbeth and Tarniel... and the two wards of Broggha. One of them looked so sad, so piteously embarrassed that she couldn't help but pity her.


***

Broggha had been looking forward to this night for some years. Now everything was as his mentor had promised him. By one means or another, Broggha had amassed power and supporters. His kinship with many of the lesser hillmen chieftains had been greatly to his advantage, for his kinsmen were eager to have a powerful man of their own blood who could lead them against the Dunedain.

Now King Tarnendur had given into his demands and appointed him to the Council of Rhudaur. "Look at the old man now," Broggha mused with satisfaction. "His manner lacks confidence and his eyes show fear! His hand is shaking so much that he looks as though he might drop his goblet of wine. His sons look like weaklings, the last of a line of insipid fops. The king is in his dotage, while I am at the height of my power and virility," Broggha thought with malicious glee.

Aewen and Malaneth sat to either side of the Jarl. "Little Aewen seems tense tonight, while Malaneth hides her true feelings from all, including me." He had had them introduced as his wards whom he had taken into his household when unfortunate circumstances had befallen their families. Now he had pledged to protect and care for the both of them as if they were his own blood. Of course, he laughed to himself, Aewen's bastard was of his blood.

He looked towards Griss, who, in his new finery, was cutting quite a dashing figure and was eying several lords' daughters across the way. Perhaps Broggha would see about arranging a marriage between his up-and-coming young lieutenant and one of the lord's daughters. This could not help but improve the Rhudaurian lord's stature in the hillmen's eyes. Then should the noble suffer 'an unfortunate accident' in the future, Broggha would offer his protection and assistance to his young lieutenant and his new family. The Jarl had received nibbles from nervous lords who inquired about the possibility of marital alliances between their daughters and his other promising young men. There were some who were blessed with the perception to see when both tide and history were turning, and wise men knew that history was now running in favor of the hillmen.

Broggha owed much to the secret alliance with the Northern King, who had backed him with both promises of power and good advice. Truly Broggha was grateful, though perhaps, he thought dryly, gratitude was not quite the word. He thought back to that day years ago when he had first agreed to meet the Angmarian king. That was when Broggha's power was first growing in Rhudaur, and he actually had thought that the king would be impressed with his rapidly growing prestige and influence among the tribesmen.

On the contrary, Broggha had been far more impressed with the king than the king had ever been with him. The man actually inspired Broggha, for he had sensed that the king possessed something far greater than finite power, something he wished to obtain. While Broggha was not quite sure what this strange quality about the man was, Broggha had felt it to his very core. Then when Broggha had proudly sealed his fealty in a pledge made in his own blood, he had felt that the King and he had been tied together spiritually, far beyond anything that could be seen visually, and Broggha was his man from that time on.

Malaneth tapped his arm to direct his attention to her, and when he looked in her direction, he noticed her eyes were shining. She was much more pleasant tonight, he noted with satisfaction. "Perhaps she finally realizes that her future lies with me and not with these accursed Dunedain who are her kinsmen." She whispered a promise to him for later that night, and a knowing expression came into his eyes. "Perhaps I have not been paying her as much attention as I should have been. That will change."

He looked away from her face into the cold eyes of Princess Gimilbeth, who was regarding him with what he took to be a disdainful condemnation. He raised his goblet high into the air in her direction and gave her a mocking toast. He was satisfied when he caught the look of consternation on her face. He must put his mind to thinking of ways to get rid of this woman. His plans for his future were grandiose, and they did not include this cold princess. He looked over to Tarniel and smiled.


***

"Blasted Hillman!" Gimilbeth blushed slightly and bit her lip when Broggha, not in the least intimidated by her piercing stare, lifted his goblet to her in mock salute.

The Hillman had more willpower than she had supposed. Gimilbeth frowned, searching for the right word to describe him. "Formidable." That was it, as strange as it sounded when referring to a Hillman.

Gimilbeth studied the brigand, her former disdain forgotten. It would be a bad mistake to underestimate her enemy. The man had big, bright, piercing blue eyes that she could have liked, were they set in a nobler face; a beaky nose and revolting, sensuous lips half-hidden by the red mustache.

Gimilbeth narrowed her eyes. "I will have this head on a golden platter when I strike my deal with the Northern King. It will be my reward for Rhudaur's allegiance."

Back in Umbar, she used to admire human heads stuffed and dried and painted in Haradian fashion, with bright jewels replacing the eyes and elaborate gold jewelry decorating the ears and nostrils. The Men from the East Harad prepared the heads of their enemies in such a way and kept them on display as heirlooms of their houses to be shown proudly to generations to come. Some rare samples found their way to Umbar.

She would ask for Broggha's head to be prepared this way: she was ready to pay an expert embalmer from Harad to do the job skillfully. "Yes, sapphires will do fine to render the color of his eyes." Gimilbeth smiled at the thought.

Heartened, she turned her attention back to the young woman on the Jarl's side, Aewen of Pennmorva. Why was she looking so unsettled and trembling whenever Gimilbeth looked at her? Gimilbeth concentrated and willed the woman to look up. Aewen shuddered and glanced up fearfully, eyes full of anguish, the anguish which felt somehow so familiar...

Gimilbeth felt a cold wave of fear running along her spine. An echo of the pain she had felt after the failed attempt to kill Broggha returned. The flesh between her breasts was burning again. Aewen seemed to be similarly affected, as she gasped and pressed her hand to her breast. Gimilbeth's eyes widened, she noticed that Aewen was the only lady at the party who wore a high-necked gown.

"It was she..." thought Gimilbeth with certainty. "It was she who had attempted to kill Broggha at my urging and suffered for it. So my spell didn't go wrong as I have thought; only the brigand had somehow survived!"


Chapter 4 - The Bear’s Dance

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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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The feasting and revelry had been in progress for quite some time. The ale had been flowing in great, copious quantities, and after imbibing freely, Captain Griss felt the urge of nature demanding his presence elsewhere. Uncertain of where the latrines were located, he asked directions from a young page clad in the livery of the king of Rhudaur.

"Sir, you will find them right on the other side of the kitchens."

"Thank you, lad. With your directions, I think I can make my way there."

The boy bowed and then looked uncertainly at the man, who was staggering somewhat as he went down the hall. After taking the door to the outside, Griss walked across the small open area. Passing by the kitchens, he observed Heggr leaning up against the side of the building and grinning like a fool.

"How are you enjoying rubbing elbows with the nobility?" Heggr gibed.

"A new experience entirely, and I must say I could learn to adapt. And what have you been doing while I have been hobnobbing with the elite? Looking at the serving maids, eh?"

"Not at all, not at all! I have had more important things to do than flirt with the wenches tonight."

"What, pilfering?"

"You guessed it!"

"And what did you manage to snatch?"

"You will not believe it, Griss! You just will not believe it!"

"Suppose you tell me." Griss lounged against the side of the building.

"Perhaps it would be better if I showed you," the scruffy-looking man grinned as he motioned Griss to follow him up an alleyway lit by a lantern hanging off the side of the building and then pulled something out from an inner pocket and held it up to his companion's gaze.

"You mean you stole that?" Griss whispered eagerly.

"Aye, right out of Princess Gimilbeth's bedroom!"

"You rogue!" Griss exclaimed appreciatively. "How did you get inside the room without anyone seeing you?"

"The lady or her maid made the mistake of leaving a bedroom window open. I was able to slip in and out without anyone's being the wiser."

"Did you manage to steal anything else?"

"Only one other thing. I did manage to take this." Heggr reached inside his fur cloak and pulled out a delicate, fluffy undergarment.

"I cannot believe you took THAT! Man, what possessed you to steal it?"

"Down in the village, there is a little tavern maid who just needs a little more encouragement..."

"And you thought a suitable gift might influence her favorably!" Griss pounded his arm across his friend's back as peals of laughter escaped his lips.

"Aye," Heggr smiled proudly, exposing his rotting teeth.

"Good luck to you, but you must be very careful. If anyone ever suspects who burglarized the princess' boudoir, it could cost you a hand... or worse."

"No one has ever caught us yet," Heggr said confidentally.

"Now, my friend, I must pay a visit to the privy, and then get back to the feast. Talk has it that we are to be treated to an exhibition of a trained bear by a Dunedain. Should be interesting. If they open the hall to the soldiery, I am sure you can get a good view of the entertainment."

"Perhaps I will, but the feast and the bear trainer provide such splendid distractions that I am reluctant not to take further advantage of the opportunity," Heggr drawled. "There are other chambers with windows facing the back of the palace. Who knows what more treasure I might discover in some of the other rooms?"

"Just be careful, will you? If you get caught, I don't know if even Lord Broggha can save you from being charged with the crime of felony!"

"I'm always careful, Griss."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, at the doors of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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"Berethil! Master Berethil!"

A tall, middle-aged Dunedain guard at the door of the Tower started when a strident feminine voice called his name. His sharp eyes scanned the dense crowd of townspeople and villagers all striving to get into the Hall to see the trained bear. When a small portion of the crowd was allowed to enter the Tower, the guards barred the doors, as there was clearly not enough space inside to accommodate all the curious.

Soon Berethil noticed a plump, rosy woman with freckled face waving to him frantically. Berethil smiled at her, as Widow Gudhrun, the keeper of the best inn in Tanoth Brin, was a popular person in both the upper and the lower towns. Many a guard spent their nights off-duty in her establishment, the "Sword of Elendil," and Berethil was no exception. He motioned to other guards to make way for Gudhrun.

"Thank you, Captain. Next time the drinks are on the house for you and your fellows!" she said in a breathless voice when she finally reached the door. A decently clad man with a weather-worn, grim face followed her.

"Who may that be, Gudhrun?" another guard asked playfully. "Is he your new man?"

Gudhrun’s freckles went on fire and she replied timidly "Aye, that he is. His name is Algeirr. We are about to marry soon."

Algeirr cringed inwardly. Much as he liked Gudhrun’s inn, the prospect of burdening himself with a family for the rest of his life was far from pleasant. The guard looked at him disdainfully, clearly thinking that Gudhrun might have done better.

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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Earniel
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When the dinner was nearing the end, servants came forward and extinguished some of the torches, casting most of the tables in a dimmed half-light. Some of the townsfolk were let into the hall and were given space to stand behind the lower tables, but still a good distance from the royal table.

Now only the open square in the middle of the Main Hall was still brightly lit. The entrance to the hall, where no one stood near, was dark as night. A distant flute could be heard in the corridor, not far from the hall. A hush, filled with anticipation, fell over the great hall.

A man with a game leg, dressed in brightly coloured clothes, hobbled into the light circle. He was not a full-blooded Dъnedan; his blood must have been as mixed as a ten-grain bread. Just at the edge of the light, before the tables, he halted. The little bells sewn on his cap jingled forlornly in the silent hall. In his one hand he held a long wooden stick, while in the other he held a piece of chain which disappeared into the darkness behind him.

He slowly surveyed the hall, his gaze going from left to right. Here and there a nervous giggle broke out. Some bear, this was! But before more laughter could erupt, the game man spoke. His voice was clear and loud, showing experience in speaking before crowds.

“Lords and ladies, gentlefolk, oh most worthy nobles of Rhudaur!” He bowed deeply. “I trust you have been well entertained this evening, but as they say: the best is yet to come. Tonight we have one more act for your pleasure, and what an act it is! You shall see a thing unparalleled in any court in Arnor, nay in the whole of Arda. For only in Rhudaur, at the court of our mighty king Tarnendur, can such splendour be found!”

The man cast a quick look at his master, to see whether the noble was pleased with his performance so far. The noble who employed him was beaming with pride at having the opportunity to entertain the king himself with his dancing bear. This could only go well for the advancement of his political carreer. He gave the game man a short nod to continue.

“I bring before you,” the game man went on, “the most formidable of predators, the king of forests, the fear of countrymen and shepherds. Only the truest of hunters can hope to survive an encounter with this beast, this fur-clad warrior! Ladies, if ye be of faint heart, I beseech you, withdraw from this hall. For the sight of this monster is not suitable for children. Stay and see this wonder at your own peril. For I bring you….the bear!"

The game man hobbled forward, and a large part of the darkness obediently followed him into the light circle. The large brown bear walked on all fours, seemingly ignoring all the cries of amazement and the few shrieks of fear that erupted from the hall. The bear wore a broad leather collar around its neck. Its nose was pierced by an iron ring on which a metal chain was attached. The other end of the chain was held firmly in the hand of the game bear handler. The chain seemed ridiculously feeble for such a formidable beast.

Gasps of amazement and surprise were heard. A hum of enthusiastic conversation started. All looks were riveted on the large animal, except those who were already too drunk to notice what was going on.

Two of the hill men (who had indeed already drunk more than was good for them) were more amused by the admiration the crowd showed for the bear than the bear itself. One of them suggested something to the other, which caused the other to grin madly and nod his head enthusiastically. The first got up drunkenly, pushed through the crowd, and staggered to the door as fast as his unsteady legs allowed.

After allowing his public a few minutes to gape and stare, the game man motioned for silence.

“Fear not, lords and ladies of Rhudaur, have no fear, for by art the beast is bound to my will, but do not approach it lest you seek a terrible death. See and be amazed!”

The handler turned to the bear and ticked firmly with his staff on the bear’s shoulder. He dramatically raised the staff high. “Bruin, arise!”

The bear raised itself on its hind legs, now standing taller than most men in the hall, and evidently possessing a lot more muscle. A woman sitting nearby on the lower tables screamed shortly and fainted against the guest sitting next to her, making him spill much of the wine he intended to drink.

At command of the handler the bear roared, a deep-throated sound that raised the hair on the back of the neck. In a long yawn, it showed the crowd a frighteningly large maw, but in the commotion of the roar no one paid any attention to the old scars in the gum where the deadly canines were conveniently lacking. Their imagination was well capable of filling in the blanks unnoticed.

More women screamed and some of the men grew visibly pale, too. But the game handler laughed and raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Fear not, fear not. Bruin has shown you he is a dangerous animal, yes? But for you, honoured spectators of the noble court of Rhudaur, he will dance!”

At the signal of the game man, the flutist started a new tune, festive and glad. A tune that encouraged the public to clap their hands. The handler ticked with his staff against the legs of the bear. “Dance, Bruin!” he commanded.

The bear, responding to the old memory of red-hot plates under his feet, obediently raised his left leg. The large form of the bear swayed for a moment before the foot came down on the stone floor. It repeated the gesture with the other foot. The bear danced.

Cheers of encouragement and merriment went up in the hall. People laughed and clapped their hands. Mugs and chalices with drinks were raised and toasted to the odd dancing couple. The game handler took the cap with bells from his head and expertly tossed it on the bear’s head, where it continued to jingle to the tune.

But the dance was about to end rather abruptly.

In the entrance of the hall, the hill man that had left the hall a little before suddenly appeared again. And he was not alone. Two large hunting hounds stood at his side, their leashes in his hand. The hounds were nervous; the lights, the noises, the smell of many people close together mixed with a smell of a bear confused them.

The flutist, who was just beginning a new tune, fumbled the first few notes at the sight of the hounds and stopped all together, uncertain of what to do.

The bear handler’s smile faded as soon as he caught sight of the dogs. “Get them out, you fool, get them out!” He staggered between the bear and the dogs, his staff held defensively before him. The drunken hill man just smiled stupidly and dropped the leashes.

“Go laddies, get the bear!” he shouted before losing his balance and ending up on the floor.

The hounds, trained to obey commands to a fault, charged forward. The handler dropped the bear’s chain and but was too late to swing the staff in an attempt to divert the first dog that barrelled into him. Both man and dog rolled screaming over the ground in a bundle of fur and cloth. The flutist and the handler’s assistant jumped in the fray to get man and animal separated.

The second dog leapt towards the bear, landing on the floor dangerously close to the other animal. It barked angrily, attempting to get the bear to flee. It pranced around the larger animal, coming closer, trying to nip it, and then jumping back again.

The bear, freed of the compelling music and chain movement, turned and roared back in challenge. The cap with bells fell off, and it was as if the bear was suddenly transformed from a tame to a wild animal. And it was not inclined to lose ground to the dog. The blood-chilling roar startled everybody out of their stupor.

People stood up in confusion as the bear act clearly had gotten out of hand. Somebody shouted for guards, another for more wine. A few thought it was a good time to leave the hall, and with a large detour around the fighting animals, went straight for the exit. But mostly, the guests cheered on the fight. The sight of a fighting bear was almost as exciting as a dancing bear. Bets were made on who would win, or which of the animals would draw first blood.

The entertainment had obviously changed, but was by no means already over.

The roaring of the bear and the hound’s angry barking were loud and drowned out most of the other noise. The dog darted out the way as the bear struck at him. The bear’s large forepaw, even with the claws removed, could still pack quite a punch and the hound wasn’t keen on finding it out by experience. It jumped back and forth, avoiding the bear’s paws and looking for a vulnerable spot. It darted away again.

But the bear was a split second faster. It dropped back on four legs, bringing him suddenly a lot closer to his adversary, and simply swiped the hound off its feet with its massive paw. The swipe had enough power to splinter bone. With a sickening sound, the hound smacked against a table, bringing the entire thing down by momentum. Blood dampened its fur where the bear had torn the skin. The hound yelped pitifully and then lay still amid the scattered food and remains of the dinner, its spine broken.

Now chairs and benches were thrown backward as almost everyone stood up from their seats in fear. A few with much self-control (and that had bet on the dog) cursed, and some money changed hands. Other people shouted more urgently for guards. Still others just screamed, as it seemed the right thing to do.

The more sensible guests who wanted to flee the hall now found the dog and bear blocking the main exit, so they turned back and collided with the people behind them. Some of the dishes were shoved off of the tables, adding the rattling of metal to the din.

The other dog had broken free from the bear handler, foaming at the mouth and barking like mad, and turned on the bear. It was a little more cautious than its companion, keeping a farther distance.


Chapter 5 - The Fight at the Fire

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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Serenoli, Gordis and Angmar
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Odare twisted her head for a better look at the bear, who was dancing to applause.

"Did you know there was going to be a bear?" she whispered to Amantir, who was watching, quite hypnotised, the movements of the beast. He nodded, "No..."

Then, quite suddenly, chaos broke loose. A drunken hill-man arrived, with two hounds in tow; next moment, there was a fight in progress. She had hardly started to scream her bets on who would win, when she felt Amantir drag her behind him, blocking her view. "Hey!" she protested, but he was pulling her backwards, and she suddenly realised that Amantir had decided to act the hero and protect her from viewing atrocities.

"Amantir, you fool, stop pulling me away!"

"The bear is out of control! You should get out of here!"

"Where's Tarniel?" He didn't seem to hear her, tugging her again. Behind him, two burly men were approaching, pushing aside the panicky crowd, and she recognised them as the two guards assigned to her protection. She quickly wriggled free from Amantir, and ducking under the people before her (for once blessing her short height) she pulled out her dagger and forced herself towards the other end of the hall to where Tarniel was.

***

King Tarnendur watched the bear performance absently, a benevolent smile plastered upon his face. He felt bone-tired and only wished for the dinner to be over and for his humiliation to end. The Hillmen, however, seemed happy with the novelty, so the Queen Eilinel had chosen wisely, preferring this simple barbaric entertainment to the refined songs of southern minstrels so favored by Gimilbeth. The king stole a glance to his left and almost chuckled, seeing Gimilbeth's disgusted frown. Further away, Amantir and Odaragariel seemed fascinated by the spectacle and were whispering to each other excitedly.

Tarnendur turned to the Queen, took her white hand weighted down by priceless rings in his, and squeezed it gently in gratitude. Eilinel was the pillar of strength and endurance in this chaotic life he was plunged into. She was the one who had prepared this feast, while the others only muttered and shook their heads in disapproval.

"Thank you for everything, my beloved!" he whispered fondly.

Eilinel's warm grey eyes met his, and some ice from his heart melted away. They looked at each other, oblivious to the sudden silence in the hall.

A sound of barking covered the Queen's reply. The King watched in disbelief as two large hunting hounds attacked the bear. Soon all hell broke loose: the injured dog and screaming men were rolling over on the floor, the angered bear roaring back in challenge. Some guests cheered, others recoiled in fright, shoving some of the dishes and cutlery off the tables.

In his prime, Tarnendur had been a resolute man and a seasoned soldier, a veteran of Rhovanion wars. But now he was growing old. He sat there in a stupor watching the fight, unsure what to do. He felt the queen's hand tugging at his sleeve, but it was Gimilbeth's voice that finally rose in command.

"Guards, stop it! Take the dogs out! Daurendil, Amantir, go fetch the rest of the guards. Now!" Gimilbeth stomped her foot impatiently and waved towards the doors.

The young heir's face turned red. The witch had no call to order him around like that! He spat back, "Go fetch them yourself, if you need them!"

Daurendil fixed his half-sister with a venomous stare, obstinately refusing to move. Amantir paid Gimilbeth no heed; he was chasing after Odaragariel, shouting something.

Gimilbeth shot them a withering glance and disappeared in the crowd.

Daurendil smirked, pleased to have the upper hand in the confrontation. He was to become King soon, so he had to make people obey him, not the other way round. And he would not follow in his father's steps. Far from it! The day Rhudaur gets a new young king would be a bad day for Hillmen. They would be hunted down and killed mercilessly, like orcs. They deserved no better. Only Dunedain, the chosen of Eru, had the divine right to rule Middle-earth; the rest should bow to them or die. Daurendil was not alone in feeling that way. Many hot-headed youngsters followed the popular young Heir, waiting impatiently for the rule of the old, timid king to end and a new dawn to come to Rhudaur.

While the fight progressed, Daurendil found himself surrounded by half a dozen of his friends. They didn't bring their swords to the feast, but now they drew their daggers openly, hoping to stab a hillman in the growing confusion.

The lithe, wiry Nauremir, the Heir’s kinsman and closest friend, showed Daurendil a notched old knife of crude workmanship, the blade covered with some greasy dark substance.
"Do you know what it is?"

"Looks like an orc knife ... but where have you come by it and what do you want to do with it?"

"It is poisoned, don't you see? All orc blades are poisoned as a rule. I've found that the tower cellar is full of enemy weapons. Even a scratch from this knife must be deadly... I will try to edge nearer to Broggha."

Daurendil looked at his friend in open admiration. "Just use as much stealth as possible," he advised. "Probably the brigand will not even notice the scratch... "


***

All evening, Jarl Broggha had been enjoying the uncomfortable looks on Gimilbeth's face as he repeatedly raised his tankard to her. Her father, King Tarnendur, had a look of benign, aged stupor upon his face. "Well-lapsed into his dotage," Broggha thought smugly. Broggha had been bored the whole evening, but it would be over soon, and so he entertained himself with thoughts of Malaneth. Aewen, the little mouse that she was, sat beside him in resigned silence. The only thing that promised any interest that night was that a trainer and his dancing bear would entertain them later.

Broggha roared in laughter when the bear "danced" and he raised his tankard, cheering, "Here! Here!" when the bear stepped particularly high.

"My lord, the bear is indeed marvelous," said Malaneth. "Whoever has such skill that they can train a bear to dance?"

"Put red hot plates under your pretty little feet and you would dance high, too," Broggha guffawed.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and let it go at that.

"Ah, look there at the entrance to the hall! Two of our fine Northern hunting hounds! This should be interesting!" Broggha exclaimed. "If I did not know better, I would swear old Heggr or Griss had something to do with this! Good lads, both of them! They know how to stir up some lively entertainment!"

Broggha suddenly rose to his feet, knocking the chair in which he had been sitting backwards with a great crash. Aewen screamed and Malaneth's face went white.

"My lord," Aewen reached up, tugging at his sleeve, "the bear is loose and the brutes are fighting! I am afraid! The child! I think I should leave!"

Not taking his gleaming eyes from the fray, Broggha ordered two of his bodyguards who were close by, "Take the women out of the hall! Make sure no harm comes to my wards!"

As the guards escorted the two terrified women from the hall, pandemonium broke out. The bear rose to its feet and roared a challenge to the hounds. Aewen screamed again at the blood-curdling sound. The pregnant woman was close to fainting, but one of the guards and Malaneth gripped her by the arms to steady her.

Some of the men were betting on the bear, others on the dogs. Broggha finally spotted Griss. "Captain, place my bets on the bear!"

Struck by the bear's paw, one of the dogs crashed into a table and fell to the floor, its spine broken. Broggha lustily cheered the bear and waved his tankard in another toast to the brute.

Griss returned to the table, grinning broadly. "My lord, the fight is getting better and better!" The second hound, teeth bared, foam dripping from its mouth, was facing the bear. The bear's bloodshot eyes gleamed in rage as it prepared to deal with the last of its tormentors.

Out of the corner of his eye, Broggha caught some sort of disturbance between Gimilbeth and her brother. Broggha laughed to see her stamping her foot wildly, and then in a fit of pique, disappearing into the crowd.

"That curly-headed fop over there is the crown prince, isn't he, Griss?"

"Aye, my lord, that is Crown Prince Daurendil. Sneaky-looking little weasel, isn't he?"

"Aye, and it looks like he has gathered some of his friends about him."

"My lord, perhaps this would be a good time to leave," Griss whispered nervously, his thoughts going to the two daggers he had hidden on his person.

"Why?" the big man laughed. "We might get some true sport now!" The giant looked around the room until he saw what he was looking for - a large, double-bladed broad sword displayed as part of the room's decoration. With Griss at his side, Broggha strode over until the sword was just behind him.

***
Broggha's bodyguard had rushed to him at the first sign of a threat from Prince Daurendil and his friends. The great Rhudaurian broadsword felt good in Broggha's hands; the weight perfectly balanced.

"Too much to drink, Prince Daurendil? It must have taken a great quantity to give courage to a coward such as you!" Broggha taunted him.

"Prince Daurendil," one of his companions, who was having second thoughts, whispered, "this man is a giant! He will show you no mercy!"

"And I will show him no mercy!" the prince cried as he grabbed a chair from the floor and threw it at Broggha. The determined prince then rushed in low with his dagger, thrusting, trying for his enemy's stomach. At the same time, Nauremir, the orcish blade held in his hand, came at Broggha from his other side.

Griss and the other bodyguards were having their hands full with Daurendil's other friends. Even the reluctant courtier had plunged into the fray.

"Broggha, beware!" Griss screamed as he saw the knife in Nauremir's hand. The smoke from the burning tablecloth was becoming intense to the point where Griss was having trouble seeing much of anything at a distance. They had to protect the Jarl! Griss heard the chair crash into Broggha's head and then fall to the floor. The Jarl had been a little slow and seemed stunned from the blow.

Nauremir's back now was turned to Griss. Griss was fond of taking every advantage he could, and a vulnerable back was fair game. With a mighty lunge, he flung himself on Nauremir, plunging the blade into his back, causing him to drop the knife. With a bewildered look on his face, Nauremir fell stumbling towards the table.

Prince Daurendil was skillful with his dagger, quick on his feet, and kept low to avoid the swing of the great broadsword. But his range was no match for the great weapon. Shaking his head to clear the confusion of the chair's blow, the Jarl roared in fury. As their eyes burnt with the smoke, temptation to rub them was great. Dodging a sweeping swing from the broadsword, the smaller man moved in quickly, his dagger drawing blood from Broggha's side. Totally enraged, the Jarl saw red. He lifted the great sword, made a feint with it to Daurendil's left, and then brought it crashing down on the man's skull. Dazed, Daurendil relinquished his knife.

The Jarl cursed as he picked up Daurendil in his great arms. "You little dog! You will die soon enough, but not tonight!" Throwing the man back into his companions, the Jarl lifted the table and picked it up on its end. With a great shout, he flung it into his attackers, knocking some of them sprawling to the floor, struggling to free themselves of the burning cloth.

"Men, we have to find a way from this hall before we choke on the smoke!"

"I think I know a way out," Griss exclaimed. "But, my lord, you are injured!"

"No worse than I have suffered before," the large man laughed.

"This way, Jarl!" Griss quickly led them to a side door in the hall. He found it locked. "Men, we are going to have to knock it down!"

With willing shoulders against the barrier, they soon had the door crashing from its hinges. They quickly fled down the hall.

"Griss! Are my wards out of the hall?" The Jarl was now holding his bleeding side.

"I think so. I could not see anything after a while through the smoke."

Far behind them, they heard the bear bellow out a scream of rage and then they heard the sound of a great crash.
Wounded worse than he had thought previously, Broggha leaned on Griss for support as they made their way to the stables. "That impudent little fop! He tried to murder me!"

"Aye, my lord," Griss exclaimed, out of breath from helping to support the heavy man's weight. "My feeling is that it was a plot by King Tarnendur all along to entice you to come here so he could have you murdered!"

"The king will not get away with this. He will pay dearly!" Broggha muttered as he slumped against the side of a stall.

"Bring more light!" Griss shouted, and soon one of the other bodyguards had fetched a lamp from its sconce. "Hold it up!" Griss implored him as he helped Broggha take off his fur robe, bloody tunic and shirt. Once again, Griss saw the strange amulet that Broggha wore about his neck on a silver chain. Griss' face went grimly white as he looked at the wound. "My lord, this will have to be bound up. You are leaking too much blood!" Although the light was not the best, Griss could see that Daurendil had ripped a jagged, bloody wound in Broggha's side.

"Where is Malaneth?" Broggha bellowed as he clutched the amulet and felt it giving him strength. "Bring Malaneth!"

"She will be coming directly, Jarl," Griss assured him. "I have been informed that one of the men has located her and is bringing her to you now."

Broggha grunted his satisfaction, and sagged down, leaning against the back of the stall.

"My lord!" A confused and worried Malaneth looked about the stable, and when she saw him, she rushed to him. "You are hurt!"

"Aye," he grumbled. "What took you so long to get here?"

"Aewen and I became separated, my lord, and in the panic that ensued, my guards tangled with some of the other men in the hall. I - I have no idea where she is!"

"We will not leave without her!" Broggha growled. "Now bind my wound, woman!"

With an embarrassed look towards Broggha's guard, Malaneth lifted up her skirts, and after taking off her petticoat, she began tearing it into strips. Placing a wad of cloth into a grimacing Broggha's wound, she wound the strips of material around his chest and tied it.

"That should staunch the flow of blood!"

"Griss, bring me your flask," Broggha demanded. "I need a staunch draught of ale!" Griss pulled the flask from his cloak and, unstopping it, handed it to Broggha, who took it and greedily swallowed. "Now, Griss, take some men and find Aewen!"


Chapter 6 - Hell breaks Loose

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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Elfhild, Serenoli, Gordis,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tarniel watched the trick bear in fascination, clapping her hands as he danced, though she was glad Daurendil was sitting beside her. But then her excitement turned to horror, as suddenly two hounds charged forward and attacked the bear.

Screaming, Tarniel looked wildly about the scene of chaos. Gimilbeth was shouting out orders, which Daurendil refused to obey. Angered, she stormed off into the crowd. At the other end of the table, Amantir was dragging a protesting Odaragariel away. A riot of confusion all about them, the King and Queen watched in dismay all that was transpiring.

Before Tarniel realized what had happened, Daurendil left his seat and disappeared somewhere in the crowd. "Where did he go?" she asked her father.

"I do not know..." The king shook his head, feeling old and helpless.

But Tarniel was already upon her feet, dashing off into the crowd. The sounds of people screaming, the roaring of the bear and the barking of the dog filled her ears, and she dodged out of the way of panicked men and women who were trying to flee from the chamber. She wished that her brother had not abandoned her. Her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Daurendil, but she saw instead Odaragariel approaching.

"Odare!" she gasped. "What are you doing here? I thought Amantir was taking you to someplace safe!"

Odaragariel shrugged, "Well, he tried. I knew Daurendil mightn't be so kind, so," she dodged as a burly man came hurtling their way, "I thought I'd get you. Come on!"

She grabbed Tarniel, and turned towards the entrance to the hall. but at that moment, a wave of people, repulsed by the sealed doors, pushed them back. A fire started somewhere in the hall, there was more screaming, a stampede in progress, and all Odare could do was hold on to Tarniel and steer her as best as she could to a corner.

The crowd seemed to pass; for a few moments, they ran unimpeded, but Tarniel was suddenly rooted to the spot, her wide eyes riveted to where Broggha and Daurendil fought. She screamed as the hillman bodily picked her brother up, and threw him away, but it was lost in the chaos of the hall. Odare, her fine robe now torn in places, and her jewels hanging lopsided in her hair, pulled her again, now frantic to be gone, when a roar issued from behind them. The bear was almost upon them.

At this point, Odare did something stupid.

Instead of running away as fast as she could, she lost her head altogether, and attacked the bear with her puny little decorative curved dagger. Her desperation gave her some strength, and the dagger penetrated the bear's hide, but no more; it gave yet another roar, this time echoing through the hall. It pulled at the dagger, and in the process managed to knock down several tables with an almighty crash; and then it turned to the two frightened, and by now, completely paralysed princesses. It lifted a paw, and slashed out, but already the second hound was upon it; true to its training of protecting humans, it sank its teeth into the bear's left leg just in time and the bear only grazed Odare's left arm.

The next moment, Amantir and the bodyguards all seemed to catch up to them at once, and Odare, with a sigh of relief, let herself be carried out of the hall, bleeding profusely and whimpering in pain, and her only regret was that she had managed to lose Tarniel's emerald necklace in all the rush.

***

Meanwhile, Hurgon had put on his best robes; i.e. the only ones without paint on them. He had brushed his hair, but paintbrushes tend to mess up hair, so he left it at that. Carrying a bottle of red wine under his arm, and with a huge smile hitched on place, he was ready for the feast.

He was a bit late, but no matter. He knew the back door to the hall, the one so conveniently hidden behind a curtain. He would just slip in, find a seat, and no one would be the wiser.

He jauntily made his way, pulled the curtain free, and strode in. Someone collided with him; he was pushed back onto the wall and his bottle crashed, the wine drenching him. "Hey!" he protested, "that's my only clean robe!" but the man had discovered the hidden door.

"Come this way, there's a door!" he shouted, and before Hurgon knew what was happening, he was crushed into the wall by the hundreds of eager, desperate people trying to escape. He recognised the two Princesses, one of them being supported between others, and bleeding. He bowed to them in the crowd, and a harassed-looking guard escorting them saw the wine-stains on his yellow robes.

"I suppose you have been attacking bears as well! Better get you fixed up." And with that, he hauled Hurgon bodily back through the very door he had just entered through, ignoring completely the meek protests of the bewildered painter, for they sounded too much like painful groans to him.

***

Her eyes fixed upon the movements of the two fighters, Tarniel watched in horror as Broggha strove with her brother and his comrades. And then danger was behind her, the bear's earth-shaking roar bellowing out like a blast from a massive horn. Before she could comprehend clearly all that was happening, Odaragariel flew by her in a rush, attacking the bear like a madwoman. Tarniel's screams joined the hound's vicious growling as the wounded bear struck out at Odaragariel's arm.

And then the danger passed as Amantir and the guards rushed forward and pulled Odaragariel out of harm's way. Picking up her skirts, Tarniel dashed behind the men as they carried a bleeding Odaragariel away. Oh, she was bleeding! How badly was she hurt? Tarniel was filled with fear for the other girl.

As the men hurried towards the door, a flood of people pouring in behind them, Tarniel caught sight of Hurgon Fernik, pressed up against the wall. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw that his chest and stomach were covered with a gruesome-looking splash of red. One of the guards seized the dazed man and pulled him along. Tarniel thought she could hear the painter groaning as if in pain, and she flinched in fear. How had Hurgon gotten wounded? Maybe one of the hillmen stabbed him in the stomach; if so, alas! he was doomed for sure.

Almost out of her wits with fear and worry, Tarniel wished that the men would hurry up and expedite Odaragariel and Hurgon to the healers. She felt her heart palpitate when her thoughts returned to Daurendil back in the hall fighting with that giant of a man. She could not rush back to find out what was going on; if she did, surely she would be crushed beneath the feet of the crowd. Saying a silent prayer for Daurendil's safety, she then turned her attention back to Odaragariel and the bewildered painter, whom she thought was grievously wounded, but in truth, was not really hurt at all.

***

Once inside the Tower, Algeirr and Gudhrun found a nice place on the pedestal of a statue and watched first the bear tricks, then the fight. When the fire started, Gudhrun was one of the first to panic and bolted for the doors, leaving Algeirr behind.

Algeirr hardly turned his head. He remained where he was, his eyes alight at the possibility of looting the hall where so many nobles wore priceless jewellery. Soon he left his perch and, mixing with the crowd, he was able to cut away a brooch and a rich string of pearls, not counting a golden earring which he tore off a fainted woman lying on the floor.

But Tulkar was smiling at him this evening. Algeirr almost reached a small door leading out of the hall, when a tall obese Tark noble knocked him down. When Algeirr tried to get back on his feet, his fingers closed on something lying on the floor. It felt like a necklace, so the mercenary lost no time slipping it into his pocket.

Soon, concealed in a quiet corner behind the tower, Algeirr watched in awe and rapture as the moonlight glistened and reflected in the thousand facets of emeralds of Odaragaiel’s necklace.

***

Fuming after the confrontation with her silly brother, Gimilbeth struggled through the crowd trying to pick her way to the outer doors. As she found out shortly afterwards, the exit from the hall had been solidly blocked. Some of the guests were striving to get out, while the crowd gathered just beyond the open doors to watch the performance was now streaming in, attracted by the shouts, roars of the bear and general confusion.

Someone had knocked down one of the tall candle-holders in the middle of the Hall and it fell on the noble’s feasting table. The table cloth ignited and the flames ran along the table. Women screamed and rushed to the doors. Now Gimilbeth couldn’t return back; she was jammed in the panicky crowd in the semidarkness illuminated by the ominous glow of the spreading fire.

She was taller than most and this advantage allowed her to breathe and to see what was happening. The others were less fortunate and started to suffocate. Someone was crawling underfoot screaming pitifully. Men were using their elbows to get through; some women fainted and fell to the floor to be trampled.

Gimilbeth saw Gwindor making his way to her and sighed in relief. Her faithful knight was almost at her side, when a burly Hillman stinking of sweat pushed him aside. Infuriated, Gwindor punched him in the face. Cursing obscenely, the man and his comrade, who happened to be nearby, both obviously Broggha’s cut-throats, drew their knives.

Gwindor had a dagger as well, a long, gleaming Numenorean blade. The crowd, frightened even more by the impending fight, somehow made way for them, pushing Gimilbeth away from her rescuer toward the wall. Gimilbeth collided with someone with a force that drove all the air from her lungs. She hissed like an angry cat and turned to face the offender, only to see a half-fainted young woman who slumped against the wall breathing in painful gasps.

The girl’s face was so ashen that Gimilbeth recognised her only when she met her grey, pain-filled eyes. It was Aewen, Broggha’s "ward", in her high-necked gown, now torn at the seam of the right sleeve.

Gimilbeth’s heart raced. She would have given anything for a private talk with this girl…

Standing on tiptoe, Gimilbeth scanned the hall. Broggha had a broadsword in his hands now, his brigands were assembled around him. Someone was lying on the floor at his feet. The two men who were escorting Aewen to the doors were busy slashing at Gwindor with their knives and parrying his expert thrusts.

Nobody looked at the girl. Without a by-your-leave, Gimilbeth dragged Aewen to her feet and propelled her a short way along the wall into a recess, where a small door led to a stair. The girl muttered something, pleading or protesting, but Gimilbeth paid it no heed and dragged the girl up the winding stair to Daurendil’s rooms.

***

"Bjarki! The Tark is not worth fighting! Let us get out of here!" the smaller man cried.

"This pig struck me and then insulted my honor!" The big hillman's right eye was beginning to swell from the blow that Gwindor had struck him in the eye. Squinting slightly, he moved in, trying to land a blow to Gwindor's chest, but the other man was quicker.

Bjarki yelped in pain as Gwindor's dagger sliced through his tunic and into his forearm. Taking advantage of Gwindor's slight turn to the left, Forni rushed in, but Gwindor quickly parried his blow. Forni's courage failed him, but not his cunning. Bringing his knee up, he thrust it savagely into Gwindor's groin.

"I have settled the score! Let's get out of here now!" Forni shouted as he watched Gwindor double up in pain.

"Stay out of my business, Forni! You have settled nothing!" the bigger man raged. Wincing at using his wounded arm, Bjarki pulled Gwindor up by his tunic and plummeted blow after blow in his face. Laughing, he then let the battered man sink to the floor. "Now we leave!"

***

Smiling placidly, King Tarnendur had seemed almost dazed throughout the chaos that had reigned in the hall. "Why is Queen Eilinel screaming?" he wondered idly.

"My lord," he heard the alarmed tone in her voice as she tugged gently at his sleeve, "are you quite well?"

"Certainly! Why would you think that I was not?" he replied churlishly.

"The dogs have attacked the bear and driven him mad in his fury! Are you not aware of this, my lord?" she asked timorously. The king had not seemed himself early in the evening, and as the night had progressed, he had become... what could she say in all kindness?... Strange, as though some spell had been placed upon him.

"Of course, I was aware of it, but I thought the bear's handler could bring the beast under control. Since it is obvious that he cannot, where are the guards?"

"I am not quite sure," she replied almost absentmindedly, for her attention was riveted on Prince Daurendil, Nauremir, and some of the prince's friends. "My lord!" she exclaimed, gasping as she placed her hand over her mouth in alarm. "They are fighting, and that beast Broggha has taken up your family's ancestral sword!"

Pushing his chair back, the King rose to his feet and moved towards the scene of the fighting. He was too late! Daurendil was down with a wound to his head and that giant had overturned the table and hurled it upon the men, knocking them down. The room was filling with smoke, and the king could hear Queen Eilinel coughing.

His son was trapped under the table! Summoning all his strength, he lifted the table, tumbling it over and burning his hands in the process. He found his son unconscious. Nauremir lay by his side, coughing and choking. Bending down, King Tarnendur picked his son up and slung him over his shoulder. The exertion made his head swim dizzily. One of the other young men who had been trapped under the table was rising on shaky legs.

"Get the queen out of here!" the king shouted as he stumbled to the door that the guards had at last cleared.

***

The fortress guard had worked frantically to aid the injured who had blocked the main exit. First the captain had to issue orders to forbid any from entering the hall except for the soldiers. It took a few cracked heads to persuade the idle curiosity-seekers that the hall was no place for them.

Now the corridor was completely cleared of the injured, and the guard advanced into the hall itself. Partway down the corridor, they met King Tarnendur, an injured Nauremir, and one other young buck.

"Your Majesty!" the captain exclaimed "Your son..." He turned to another guard. "Assist the king!"

"No, attend to Nauremir," the King commanded. "I will get my son to his room. Find the queen and tell her what has transpired!"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the captain bowed. He was relieved that he could attend to the disaster in the hall. When he and the other guards rushed into the hall, they found that the room was filled with smoke. The men had brought leather pails of water with them and quickly doused the fire, leaving nothing more than a pungent odor and a vaporous trail of smoke from the sputtering remains of the tablecloth.

The bear was standing up on his hind paws, roaring in fury.

"Spear him!" the captain shouted. "Kill the brute!"


Chapter 7 - Magick Awork

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Cameth Brin, Daurendil’s rooms in the Tower, Night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Elfhild and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once in the upper room, Aewen quickly spun around to face the one who had dragged her away from the chaos in the feasting hall. She gasped when she saw Gimilbeth, then quickly lowered her eyes and curtsied. "My lady Gimilbeth..." she begun.

"You are Aewen, daughter of the Count of Pennmorva, are you not?"

"Uh, yes—"

"Come, let me pour you a goblet of wine... you do not look at all well... you must be distraught after witnessing all the chaos in the hall."

In a state of bewilderment, Aewen watched as Gimilbeth glided over to a wine cabinet in the corner and poured a goblet of wine. They were in a man's room, perhaps belonging to one of the two princes. Aewen gasped slightly as the goblet was placed in her hand, for she was still quite a bit shaken by the madness downstairs.

"Let us sit down and talk." Gimilbeth led Aewen over to a covered bench alongside the wall. When both women were seated, Gimilbeth continued, "Now I have some questions which I want to ask you, and I want you to answer them truthfully..."

Aewen wondered what she meant, but soon enough she found out. She swallowed hard and took a draught from the goblet, trying to calm herself.

"Tell me, child, are you Broggha's mistress? Do not seek to deceive me."

Gimilbeth fixed Aewen with a cold, penetrating stare, and Aewen's heart seemed to freeze within her chest. Then the blood rushed to her cheeks and she dipped her head down, averting her eyes. Her fingers clutched tightly about the goblet stem. "My lady, I am his ward," she said quickly, and then proceeded to tell her story before Gimilbeth could challenge her. "After Pennmorva was attacked by orcs and its people taken as captives, Broggha demanded that that the elders swear their fealty to him and pay tribute. My father, the count, tried to defy him, but the Hillman bested him and left him nigh unto death. When my father died the next day, Broggha turned the manor over to one of his chieftains, and then took me as his ward, for there were no men left to protect me. It is not wise for a woman to live alone, especially in these dark times..." her voice trailed off.

That was not exactly the truth, of course, but Aewen was too ashamed to tell what had actually happened, even though Gimilbeth already guessed at it. She was one of the Hillman's mistresses, but shame stayed her tongue and she could not bear to admit the horrible truth.

Gimilbeth listened to Aewen's pathetic explanations, trying not to let her anger show. At one point, not sure if she was able to maintain the placid smile on her face, she stood and wandered over to a large mirror in a gilded wooden frame hanging on the wall by the dressing table. Daurendil was a vain little fool, very proud of his good looks and fond of expensive clothes. His room was full of trinkets, weapons, heraldic devices and other silly things appealing to a boy of twenty summers.

Her reflection in the mirror left Gimilbeth appalled to a point where she almost forgot about Aewen. Her fine silver cobweb bodice and skirts were torn and hung in shreds around her waist. The red under-dress of heavy silk was hopefully whole, except for a gash in the lower hem. Gimilbeth took a small dagger hanging on the wall and proceeded to cut away all the remnants of the ruined upper garment.

The girl, having finished her lame story, was silent now. Gimilbeth took her time to finish the re-adjustments to her toilet, while thinking about the next question. She decided to come to the most important issue at once, while the girl was totally confused, ashamed and close to tears.

Gimilbeth turned back from the mirror and looked directly into Aewen's tearful eyes.

"Tell me, what happened right before midnight on the seventh of Narbeleth?"

Aewen paled, struck by terror. She opened her mouth, but no words came out of her parched lips. Gimilbeth noticed that the girl's left hand was pressed tightly to her breasts, as if covering a recent wound. The right hand lay lifeless in her lap.

Gimilbeth stood towering over the sitting girl, the dagger still in her hand, and continued in a deliberately ominous voice that echoed faintly in the vaulted roof.

"I will tell you the tale myself, Aewen of Pennmorva, for I know far more than you can imagine. On this night, you tried to slay the Jarl with a knife. You were punished for it, the flesh between your breasts burned by hot iron. Do you want me to rip your high-necked gown to show you the evidence?"

Aewen gulped, closed her eyes and made a weak attempt to crawl away from Gimilbeth along the bench where she was sitting, but the Witch of Cameth Brin gripped her shoulder, long nails biting deeply into the girl's flesh. She shook Aewen back into awareness.

"Why did the Jarl survive? Tell only this!" she hissed.

"The Jarl ... rolled away from the knife as if he sensed it ... somehow..." Aewen muttered in a small, broken voice. She was looking, fascinated, at the gleaming dagger in the witch's hand.

Gimilbeth was puzzled. What had gone wrong with her spell? Was it a mistake on her part, or some other intervention? Did Broggha have a charm against evil magick on his person? She had to know the answers and was ready to use all possible means to learn the truth.

Her grandmother Serinde had possessed mystic knowledge and an intimacy with bodiless spirits of Middle earth. Back in Umbar, Gimilbeth had seen her practice her arts with success. At Serinde's bidding, Gimilbeth used to peer in a magic black mirror and tell her grandmother what passed in array before her eyes.

Gimilbeth's eyes narrowed with determination. Disregarding Aewen's whimpering and pleading, Gimilbeth took her right hand and held it in her own. With the tip of the dagger Gimilbeth scraped a rune upon the palm of the other's quivering hand. The girl was too weak and frightened to resist. The blood oozing from the scratches pooled in the palm of Aewen's hand. Then Gimilbeth cut her own forefinger and added a few drops of her own blood to the red liquid, while she chanted softly in a strange tongue. Suddenly the liquid turned black as ink, forming a small mirror the size of a silver penny.

"All is ready," said Gimilbeth; "now, Aewen, what see you in the mirror?"

"My own face," whimpered the girl.

"Think of Broggha and of that night... when you stabbed him."

For some time nothing happened. Gimilbeth was chanting. Suddenly, as if cut in the middle by a sharp knife, the veil parted.

Aewen saw again the interior of the hated longhouse, back in Morva Torch. She was standing naked, rusty knife in her hand, over the Jarl's sleeping form. She saw herself approach and drive the knife down, aiming at Broggha's unprotected chest.

Gimilbeth's cheek was pressed to Aewen's now, both women looking in the enchanted mirror side by side, their minds linked again by a powerful spell.

Suddenly the vision changed. They saw silent trees over the narrow forest path. An owl hooted. A horseman clad in black was holding a naked blade... He was chanting something... and there was some object shining brightly on his right hand... A ring? Gimilbeth strained her eyes and steeled her will trying to see the face of the black horseman. But the figure was vague, eluding her eyes and concentration, seen as through a thick mist.

Gimilbeth started another spell to clear her vision, but had to stop abruptly. Suddenly she felt an icy hand squeeze her heart. Her blood froze in her veins as pure terror took hold of her mind. With a strident cry of dismay she let go of Aewen's wrist and fell to the bench writhing in pain. Aewen fared not much better. The girl slipped to the floor and moaned pitifully, her bloodied hand pressed to her aching heart.


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Carn Dum, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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"My lord?" In spite of the black ermine-lined robe which she had thrown over her silver nightgown, the tall, dark-haired woman shivered. The king seemed deaf to her words as he looked down into a globe. The murky crystals were dark and filled with strange images which swirled like ink poured into water.

"Come and gaze inside and tell me what you see." His deep voice held a trace of mocking amusement as the woman walked over and looked into the crystal whose visions had now shifted again.

"I see nothing through the portal," she replied nervously as she looked into his face. He picked up the glass and put it into her hands. She winced as she felt a cold harsher than ice on her palms and fingers.

"Press the ball between your breasts and hold it there for a while. Perhaps you will see something soon."

Her eyes darted from the crystal to his face, a look of questioning surprise upon her face. "But it is so cold!"

"Not long... be patient."

Pressing the globe to her chest for a short time, she then extended her arms and held the object at a distance. "No longer is it cold, but seems warm! The mists inside are clearing!" she exclaimed, marveling.

"What do you see?"

"A form... a lovely girl with dark hair and sad face... her brow is wrinkled with worry... No, it is fear!"

"And why does she seem to be frightened?"

"My lord, I do not know. I cannot read the mysteries of the unknown as can you."

"Perhaps someday, my flower, you will be able... but there is more there for you to see. Look again!"

"The girl... I feel that she has experienced great pain... she has been hurt... Oh, how ghastly!" The girl's hands trembled as she held the mystic object. "She has been burnt grievously - there is a horrible scar, the shape of a dagger betwixt her bosom." She looked away from the crystal, which now was filled with creeping mist that danced beneath the surface. Transfixed, she looked again. "I see another woman... older... very beautiful.. her dress is damaged... I sense she is angry about something... the dress perhaps?" Uncertainly, she looked to the king. "I can see no more."

"That is enough. Return it to me, my flower."

"Certainly, my lord," she demurred, her eyelashes lowering as she extended the orb to him.

"I will allow you to see what you will never be able to see." He held the globe in the palm of his right hand, and when the device touched the ring on his hand, blue sparks flamed up around the outer circle of the crystal. In the center fell a single drop of blood which grew until the interior was filled with it. The woman gasped and took several steps back.

"Never have you shown me anything like this before!" she exclaimed, fear and amazement filling her face.

He laughed in cold amusement, then bent his head, placing his other hand on top the arcane object and began a low, melodious chant in that strange language which he sometimes used. "Gaze now and you will see clearly," he commanded as he took his hand away from the top of the globe.

"So strange... the two women look into the first woman's hand.... What are they doing?" she mused. "A pool of reflection has formed in the woman's hand... and I see... I see... a man..." Her gray eyes filled with terror. "And I sense it is you!"

The King laughed and began to chant again... this time the chanting was wild and untamed. In her mind, she could see dark forests and ancient, bizarre, distorted plants that crawled up the sides of the trees. A chill raced up her back, and then somewhere, far, far away, she could hear screams. Blood began to fill the interior of the globe once again as blue sparks raced through it. There was another high, piercing, wailing scream, and then there was darkness.

The woman's mind felt as dark as the globe. Brushing her hand across eyes to clear her vision, she grasped the arm of the king's dark ebony chair to steady herself. She felt weak, her legs trembling. Unable to support her, her legs collapsed and her body began to pitch forward on the table. Before she could fall, she felt a strong arm catch her and lift her up in his arms.

"What do the visions mean?"

"Princess Gimilbeth has become a dabbler in the old arts. She has worked a trifling spell, and by doing this, she has involved a reluctant victim. But what she does not know is that once someone has used the power, it is llike a stone cast into a pool, and the circles are neverending. What has once been done can never be undone. Remember that, Gelireth. You should have remained in bed and resisted the impulse to curiosity. You are only a mortal and not strong enough to bear such sights."

"My lord," she clutched both arms around his neck and looked longingly up into his face, "allow me to remain with you! Teach me these secrets. I want to learn!"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Some secrets you could never learn, no matter how long you study the old texts. Some of the mysteries can be revealed if you study. Some knowledge can come only from me, and then only by the expenditure of blood."

"I will do anything, anything!" she murmured. "But please, never send me away! I love you!"

"Mortals give their love too easily," he chuckled.


Chapter 8 - Black Shadow

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Cameth Brin, Daurendil’s rooms in the Tower, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Elfhild
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The doors to Daurendil’s room were violently pushed open and King Tarnendur entered, carrying his wounded eldest son in his arms. The crying Queen and a small crowd of attendants followed.

"What is this devilry here?" roared the King in anger and bewilderment. The sight of a bloodstained Gimilbeth lying pale and lifeless on a bench made Tarnendur stop dead in his tracks.

The Queen, her face wet with tears, tugged at his sleeve urgently. "My Lord, I beg you, think about our son! Daurendil is dying!" she cried. "Put him on the bed there. Where is the healer?"

The King obeyed. The surge of energy he had suddenly felt when Daurendil had been wounded was passing, leaving in its wake weariness and frustration. Tarnendur approached the bed, covered with rich furs, and gently placed his son onto it. Eilinel rushed to Daurendil’s side and started wiping her son’s face with a wet towel.

"My Lord, the healer will be here shortly. He only stopped to get his herbs," announced a servant.

Tarnendur nodded and wandered over to his daughter. He touched her cold, clammy cheek, then pried the bloodstained dagger out of her hand and took her hands in his.

"Gimilbeth…" he called. There was no reaction. The King frowned and called his daughter again by the Sindarin name she was given at birth. "Menelien, come back!"

Still there was no reply. Gimilbeth floated in a swirling gray mist, a nameless shadow among other shadows. She knew not who she was and what was this strange and frightening place, full of stifled moans and hushed whisperings. The only thing that seemed real was bitter cold and pain that radiated from her head and filled all her being to the tips of her fingers and toes.

Tarnendur looked from his grievously wounded son to his unconscious daughter and cursed aloud. Then his eyes riveted to the third figure – a moaning girl on the floor. He gasped in recognition and his hands balled into fists.

"What is your business here, you Broggha’s trollop? What have you done to my daughter?"

Through a murky haze of darkness and pain, Aewen heard the booming condemnation of the king. A distant voice in her mind, the tongue of her own conscience, told her that this was quite an incriminating situation and that she should be attempting to defend herself, but at the moment all she could do was weather the storms of agony which clutched her body. Clenching her pounding head with the hand that had not been cut, she writhed on the floor, moaning, as spasm after spasm of supernatural pain reverberated through her being.

She heard the king speak again, but could not clearly make out what he had said. With a sense of detachment, she vaguely fretted what would become of her if the king should become wroth at her. But yet the power which was currently punishing her was far greater than mortal rulers who are feared by the common folk, even those in whose veins flowed the blood of Dunedain.

The pain began to subside, like a deluge which eventually diminishes into a pattering shower, and Aewen's tongue found speech. "I... have done nothing... to... the lady," she gasped. She was aware, through blurred vision speckled with rainbow dots, of a young man lying on the bed, an older woman fretting over him... her vision cleared somewhat, and she realized that the woman was none other than Queen Eilinel, and the wounded man one of the royal princes.

The king was stooped over Gimilbeth, attempting to rouse her back into the world of the waking. "Then why does she lie here, unspeaking and unhearing?" The king's eyes were drawn to the dagger which Gimilbeth had been holding, and then to Aewen, whose dress was smeared with blood. "Did you try to harm her?" he demanded, accusation in his voice, his fists clenching threateningly.

"No, no!" Aewen cried in desperation, shrinking away from the ruler.

At that moment, the door creaked open and Sarador the Royal Healer entered the room. He was very tall, bony old man, somewhat stooped with age, with beaky nose, long scrawny neck and a completely bald, gleaming head. No wonder everybody called him "the Vulture" behind his back. But, unfortunately, he owed this unsavory nickname not so much to his physical appearance, but to his way of treating patients.

It was widely known that Sarador, once a field surgeon in King Romendacil's army, preferred amputation to all other methods of healing. And he was good at it, brilliant even. Indeed, most of his amputees recovered, which was a feat in itself. The problem was that he often used his saw on those who could have fared better without this radical intervention. The soldiers at the barracks feared Sarador worse than the Enemy and praised Eru to have their own, not so skilled, but at least more compassionate physician, the one occupied with Odare at the moment.

King Tarnendur, however, held Sarador in high esteem, ever since years ago the young surgeon saved the young Rhudaurian prince from certain death, after a spear wielded by a savage golden-haired Northman pierced his chest, leaving the barbed head inside.

Now called to attend to the King's Heir, Sarador proudly carried his gleaming saw under one arm, a bag of other frightening instruments in his right hand and a satchel of herbs in his left.

"Oh, Sarador! Here you are at last!" exclaimed the king with obvious relief. "Daurendil is hurt. Why have you tarried for so long?"

Unperturbed, Sarador stalked to the bed and started probing Daurendil's scalp with his white spidery fingers. He replied in an old, strident voice, unpleasant to ears.

"I was tending to this cockerel... don't remember his name, one of the Prince's friends. He was knifed in the back and bleeding to death. I had to staunch the blood first. I think he might survive."

"That must be that fool Nauremir!" snapped the King angrily. "Accursed hothead! It was he who started the fight in the first place. He only got what he deserved. Ever he tries to lead Daurendil astray toward the path of peril!"

Eilinel turned her tear-stained face to the King and pleaded, "Pray, think about our son, my Lord. Nauremir's crime could be judged later!"

The Kind approached the bed and asked softly, "Tell me the truth, Sarador. How badly is he hurt? Will my son live?"

The King and Queen watched in apprehension as the Vulture pinched his long beak.
The surgeon cleared his throat and announced gravely, "I am afraid I can do nothing." The healer sighed, his eyes wandering longingly to his unnecessary saw. "There is a concussion, and a cut in the scalp, but the skull is intact. Wash the wound with athelas and put a bandage over it. Then call him back. Master Daurendil will have to stay in bed for a week, but that is all."

The Queen was caught in another bout of crying out of sheer relief, but the King tugged at Sarador's sleeve urgently. "Now take a look at my daughter. She is wounded."

Sarador stooped over the prone form on the bench. Squinting, he examined Gimilbeth's dress, then shook his head.

"I don't see the wound. Though with this red gown it is hard to see the blood...Perhaps she was hit on the head...Do you know what happened?"

"I heard Gimilbeth's anguished cries while I was coming up the stairs. Broggha's wench here stabbed her, most likely! There was no one else in the room!" The King turned to point an accusing finger at Aewen, but she was gone.


***

Aewen ran down the stairs, her racing feet thudding down hard upon each one. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath came painfully fast. Her mind reeled with all that had happened and all that she had seen that night. She had been forced to become the unwilling participant in some dark ritual and accused of attempted murder. Oh, why was all this happening to her?

She would have time later to dwell upon these matters, but right now she had to concentrate upon escaping unhindered. Exiting the stairwell, she ran through the hall, which was now considerably less crowded, for most of the people had fled from the tower. Finding a door, she dashed out into the cold night, the cool air giving her welcome relief from the stifling chambers inside the tower.

There were groups of people clustered together on the grounds, talking anxiously about the calamity which the feast had become. Aewen darted in a meandering path among them, trying to avoid colliding with anyone. However, the night was dark, and she gave a shrill cry when someone seized her and pulled her to him.

"Aewen! Where have you been?" Griss demanded harshly. "You have kept us waiting for over a half an hour!"

Oh, where had she been? Should she dare tell the truth? Would anyone believe her if she told it?

"I – I... got separated in the chaos and became lost in the crowd," she mumbled weakly, too dazed really to even speak.

Griss muttered a curse and shook his head in disgust. "The others wait at the stables. Hurry up – try not to make them wait any longer!"

Soon they were standing before the long, rectangular building which housed the royal horses. Broggha was there, leaning against the side of the structure, surrounded by his men. As Aewen neared, she saw that his chest was bare and a wide bandage was wrapped around it. Malaneth was beside him, fastening his fur cloak about his bare shoulders.

Broggha glowered at Aewen and she cringed, lowering her gaze. The look in his eyes assured a confrontation later, and she almost quaked in dread. She wondered what lie she would tell to rescue herself – if she told the truth, she risked incurring the wrath of the royal family. Already, the king might issue a warrant for her arrest, for he thought that she had tried to murder Gimilbeth. What would Gimilbeth tell him when – if? - she awoke? Would it be the truth, or perhaps a lie? Everyone said that she was a witch, and now Aewen knew the rumors were indeed true. Would Gimilbeth decide that Aewen knew too much and wish her dead?

Broggha's anger no longer seemed as threatening as the anger of the whole royal family.

These thoughts occupied Aewen's mind as she rode down the hill with the rest of Broggha's folk to the Hillman chieftain's estate. When they arrived at the manor, Broggha's men helped the jarl dismount from his horse and walk into his house. After changing into fresh clothing, Broggha retired to his great hall and sat down in a chair by the fire in brooding silence. Servants quickly prepared the meal, and soon Broggha and his men were seated at the table, eating and drinking. Malaneth sat at Broggha's side, but Aewen was dismissed to her own chambers to wait in nervous anticipation her master's ire, her only company the jumble of her confused, tormented thoughts.


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Cameth Brin, Gimilbeth's rooms in the Palace, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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"Where is my lady's nightdress, I ask ye?" Nimraen hissed dangerously, scaring a group of lowly maids assembled in the room. The Gondorian maid, Gimilbeth's favorite, was quick to anger, and at such times her southern accent, which usually caused many a laugh in the kitchens, became even more pronounced.

"We did nothing wrong! We weren't in here since the morning!" pleaded a small, white-faced Hillmen girl. The others nodded in approval.

"You better look at this open window," said another maid, pointing an accusing finger. "Anyone could have sneaked in!"

Nimraen shrugged, and shut the window with a bang. In doing so, she noticed a large, dirty footprint on the spotless windowsill. The geraniums in a flowerbed below the window looked trampled, even in the feeble light falling down from the lighted room.

Frantic now, Nimraen dismissed the maids and searched the room. Everything was in place... except... yes, the golden jar with a lid studded with gems, heirloom of the House of Dauremir, was unfortunately missing. About two hours ago, Nimraen prepared Gimilbeth's green herbal mask in this jar and left it on the dressing table as usual. Close to tears, Nimraen cowered silently in a corner, anticipating the inevitable reprimand from her lady.

Gimilbeth, however, was in no position to reprimand anybody when she was finally brought back to her room, battered and hardly conscious. Nimraen helped her lady out of the wreck of her once elegant dress and into her bed. The old surgeon who followed Gimilbeth looked concerned, especially when a thorough examination revealed no wound, either on the head or the body. Nimraen spent all night by Gimilbeth's bed, bathing her forehead and chest in athelas infusion.

At dawn, King Tarnendur himself came. He took Gimilbeth's hands and called his daughter's name repeatedly, trying to bring her back into the world of the living. This time, in the clear morning light, he was far more successful than the previous evening. Gimilbeth sighed and focused her eyes.

"Father... what happened?" she asked.

"I thought you would answer this question, Gimilbeth," replied the King. "Who has hurt you? Was it this Broggha's 'ward' we found by your body?"

Gimilbeth remained silent for a long time. She felt weak and her brain refused to work with its usual speed and accuracy. Broggha's "ward"? Ah, Aewen, yes... Broggha's mistress... it would be easy to accuse her... but no... she needed Aewen... her accomplice... her spy at Broggha's side...

"Gimilbeth?" prompted the King.

She looked away and said slowly "I hardly remember...Several hillmen surrounded me, Gwindor tried to help, they fought. Another one hit me on the head...hard. This girl, Broggha's ward, dragged me away upstairs, to safety. She is our relative, you know, from the Pennmorva branch. I think she was wounded too - I saw blood on her hands. I was in great pain... then all went dark."

Tarnendur bit his lip. He could have sworn Gimilbeth lied. The King was able to read the hearts of Men - to an extent. He shook his head and said in a suddenly old, grating voice, "I see, my daughter. It seems I accused this young lady unjustly. Sleep now, I shall come to see you later."

The King climbed the stairs to his own rooms, thinking again and again about Sarador's words. The old surgeon told him last night, "Never before have I met such an affliction. Her body is deadly cold and her soul wanders on the paths of the Shadow world. Such an illness was unheard of for many lives of Men - since the Downfall of the Great Enemy in the Dark Land. It was called the 'Black Shadow'. "

How on Arda could Gimilbeth catch such an illness in the present time in Rhudaur? And why had she lied about it?


Chapter 9 - The Aftermath of the Storm

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Cameth Brin, October 19-20, 1347.
Written by Serenoli
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The first person to scold Odaragariel was Amantir. Tarniel was much too frightened and concerned to start on her yet; she was quietly holding Odare's hand, watching as the healer tore off Odare's sleeve and examined the wound. It looked ugly, and was still bleeding copiously, but it wasn’t too deep.

The healer began to swipe it clean with a thick paste of his own concoction, and at the same time, Amantir started berating her.

"What were you thinking? Didn't I ask you to come with me? Who asked you to act the hero?"

Mulishly, Odare replied, "I was looking out for Tarniel."

"Thats all very well, but once you got her why couldn't you do the sensible thing and run for it?"

"We were trying!" Odare said half-rising. Her arm stinged painfully, and with a muffled cry, she sank back onto the pillows again. The healer looked annoyed, but didn't dare interrupt the prince. "But the bear was about to attack us!"

"And so you attacked it first - How very sensible, I don't think! Look at you now! And you were endangering Tarniel as well!"

Odare felt close to tears. Wouldn't anyone tell her how brave she had been to attack a vicious bear for the sake of friendship? Instead, she was being told off! She sullenly turned her face to the wall, and Tarniel, still very quiet, turned to Amantir and said sharply, "Leave her alone. Can't you see she's in pain?"

Amantir opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, and stalked out. Meanwhile, Odare was still pouting, not at all mollified by Tarniel defending her by evoking pity for her. Who asked her to butt her head in? But she said nothing to Tarniel about it, and silently sat through as the healer bound her arm up. When he was done, he told her strictly to stay in bed for a week, and after some more instructions to Tarniel, he left. He had plenty of other injuries to deal with. Tarniel stayed long enough to help Odare change out of her torn dress into something simpler... and then, she left, too, anxious about Daurendil's fate.

Odare, now in a thorough temper at having to stay in bed for a week, growled a little at the maid left with her, ordering her about for trivial things... and only stopped when she started feeling weak and tired. She leant back, and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.

It was only the next day, alone in her room, after the King and Queen had seperately come to visit her, that she remembered the necklace. She had been distracted all morning... for although no one shouted at her like Amantir, they had all signified, by word and gesture, how disappointed they were in her. The King actually seemed rather impatient at her for unnecessarily lying in bed like an invalid for a simple scratch on the arm, while Gimilbeth and Daurendil were so seriously injured, and while he didn't say so directly, it was clear by his manner. It was all she could do to shout at him that it wasn't her fault that others were injured - she still deserved the same amount of sympathy!!

While she was thus angrily ruminating, her mind turned once again to the dread events of yesterday, and she remembered the emerald necklace. She sat bolt upright in bed, almost getting up to search the Hall right away. Then she realized how ill-advised it would be, especially as the night-gown she had on was probably the simplest, least expensive one she had.

So she rang the bell, and immediately sent a guard to look for, and enquire after the necklace, and report immediately should it be found.

***

The burly guard that had caught up Hurgon did not relinquish his hold on him, as they jostled their way to the front of the crowd. In fact, the man was so intent on ramming through that he scarcely noticed it when Hurgon banged his head off the stone wall as they turned a corner. And when he finally broke through the crowd and noticed Hurgon's unconcious form, he only dashed even faster to the kitchens.

Why to the kitchens? Well, he may have been silly enough to try and rescue a perfectly healthy Hurgon, and he may have been insensitive enough to crush the said Hurgon's skull against stone walls and cause him to lose his health, but he had sense enough to know that the official healers would never have time for Hurgon... not while a prince and a princess and other nobles lay bleeding. And Hurgon, it seemed to him, needed help immediately. His hands were now stained with the blood off Hurgon's clothes. He broke into a slight run.

In the kitchens, complacently stirring a cauldron, was his old, slightly stooped aunt, and she was famous, at least in the lower ranks of the castle, for her herbs and expert remedies. He took Hurgon straight to her; she did not even ask him what the matter was, but putting a fresh betel leaf in her mouth, she beckoned him towards the back of the kitchen where there was a small room. He laid him on the floor, fetched all her herbs and instruments, and hovered anxiously as she, chewing slowly on the betel, examined the prostate Hurgon carefully for his wounds.

Time and again she looked, she felt, she searched, and no wound did she find. Her nephew joined her, and both their faces registered bafflement as no wound, except for the slightest protusion on his head, appeared.

Then, suddenly, she bent forwards, and sniffed. Even through the distinctive smell of the crushed betel leaf in her mouth, she could make out the smell of the wine. She laughed, and then after scolding her nephew soundly, she sent him back, instructing him to leave the artist in his room, and leave him strictly alone.

It is perhaps not surprising that the first thing Hurgon thought, when he woke up the next day - with a swollen head, his best robes splattered with red wine-stains, and a completely empty stomach - it is no wonder that he vowed firmly to himself to never, ever go to a feast again. Ever.



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Cameth Brin, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Earniel
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It took quite while before the activity in the Palace finally subsided and gave way to the peaceful quiet of slumber. Well, Wilwarin thought wryly, if this day is any indication for what’s to come, I’ll have my hands full for many a season to come.

She had missed much of the excitement. While bear, hounds and people had been fighting one another randomly, Wilwarin had been moving her belongings to the small bedroom she now would occupy in the princesses’ wing. Sure, she had heard some commotion and screams, but she had not thought much of it. After all, a dancing bear was not something that came everyday, not even in the Royal court of Rhudaur, and the presence of the Hillmen would be cause of noise enough.

It was only when Odaragariel was carried in, wounded by the bear, that Wilwarin learned what had happened. When the princess of Mitheithel had finally fallen asleep, her maid had excitedly informed Wilwarin of how the bear act had gone awry. Now Wilwarin was quite relieved she had not been responsible for the safety of the two girls at the feast; she wouldn’t have been prepared for a full-grown bear. Here, in the princesses’ wing, she had taken every precaution she could think of. For the umpteenth time, she ran along the list again.

There were only two doors in: the door to the rest of the palace, and the door to the gardens. Both had been securely locked and bolted and Wilwarin had been allowed to keep a key of them. And because Wilwarin knew even the strongest lock could eventually be picked, she had drawn a thin silk thread across them which she would remove every morning, and restring every evening. On the end of the thread hung small bronze bells which, while not very loud, she should be able to hear. Entrance would not go without notice.

The next barrier was, of course, herself.

She carefully checked her own equipment. She wore a riding tunic and leggings for optimal movement. Over the tunic came a leather vest for protection, and a cloak for when the evenings turned colder. On her feet she wore leather shoes with flexible soles. Her father had come by them on one of his foreign travels and recognized their usefulness. They were said to be enduring and comfortable, while allowing for stealth.

She had not owned a sword when she had arrived in Cameth Brin; she had not dreamed about needing one in the capital of Rhudaur. But she had been given access to the weapon room and there had chosen a gladius to her liking. The sword was short, but well made, sharp and light, and also similar to the ones she handled before; it now hung at her side. In her vest, she had also hidden a small dagger.

Realising that even the best sword could not hold against a majority, she had discussed it with Tarniel’s bodyguard, and on his advice carried also a small horn that would alert the guards in the entrance hall nearby.

Satisfied her precautions were all in place, Wilwarin continued to watch during the remainder of the night.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carn Dum, Morning of October 20, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Alassar stood upon a high balcony, which he thought of as little more than an extension of his room. The air was chill, coming from the North, and in his excitement, he had forgotten to drape the fur mantle around his shoulders when he left his bedroom. The wind ruffled the bird's iridescent feathers as he sat on the railing of the balcony.

"Pretty, pretty bird," Alassar cooed as his fingers stroked the bird's head.

"Pretty, pretty," the bird mimicked back. Alassar had always greeted the bird in the same way, and with the constant familiarity of the expression, the bird had learned to repeat it.

"What have you brought me from Lord Belzagar today, my fine Lord Âmbal, my friend?"

"Brought Lord Âmbal," the bird's voice grated out.

Alassar had such a close kinship with his "pets," as he called them, that he always expected the bird to reply in comprehensible speech. The bird was unable to do such a thing, however, for it was only a mimicker, a repeater of expressions that it had learned. Alassar bent down and unfastened the strap that held the silver cylinder to the bird's right leg. Unfastening the stopper, Alassar pulled out a parchment and read the words that it contained. The script would be incomprehensible to anyone except those versed in reading the code.

Alassar's eyes skimmed over the message and, smiling, he rerolled the parchment, placed it back in its cylinder, and fastened the cap. He knew he should never have read the message, for it was meant only for the king's eyes. If His Majesty wished to make its contents known to any others, he would do so. Alassar had become overcome with curiosity this morning, though. He knew that such a tendency could be his undoing, but that was only a small fault, was it not? Things had become too interesting in Cameth Brin to wait until the king decided if he wanted to divulge the information to him.

He had selected the perfect treat to reward Ambal, three large mice, just freshly killed. He was certain that Ambal must have smiled at him in appreciation in his own way as the raven tore into the tender meat.

"Satisfied with my gift, my pretty pet?" Alassar asked hopefully.

"Cur-ruk tok," the bird croaked in a metallic voice, its black eyes gleaming.

"Rest now, my gleaming treasure. Another will be called upon to do the lord's bidding. Ukh and away with you!" The messenger spread his wings and flew away. Alassar smiled, knowing that the bird would return in his own time, for he was quite tame. He looked to another raven tethered by a silver chain to the balcony.

"Are you pouting, my lovely Lord Honalnût? You should not be jealous of Ambal. He is your brother in this work, and I love you both."

Alassar took a silver tube from his cloak and buckled the strap around the bird's leg. He picked the bird up and looked deeply into its black eyes. "What do you see that I cannot? Can you perceive things unknown to me? You can travel quickly to places that would take me hours. Oh, that I had the gift that so many others have to speak with the birds! It is to my constant misery that not all has been revealed to me." Alassar closed his eyes and peered into the blackness beyond his lids, seeking meaning in the darkness.

"Go now, messenger of the skies, Lord Honalnût." He intoned a chant of protection to ward against any mischief that might befall the bird on its journey south, and then turned him loose to mount upon his ebony wings into the skies. Alassar watched him as he disappeared and then turned and walked into his room, closing the balcony door behind him.

"Now to take the message to His Majesty," Alassar thought with an unpleasant guilty feeling, suddenly realizing the silver cylinder held in his moist palm had grown strangely cold.

***
NOTE
Ambal - "Handsome" in Shadowlandian Black Speech
Honalnût - "Sky Watcher" in Shadowlandian Black Speech
"Ukh" - "Go" in Shadowlandian Black Speech


Chapter 10 - Things That Go Bump in the Night

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Broggha's Estate near Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 20
Written by Angmar
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Captain Griss had spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon looking for Heggr. The man had not been present for roll call that morning, and when Griss asked the other bodyguards about him, none of them had seen him. Griss paused in the hallway, thinking, and decided to go out and look around the stable area.

He paused and watched some grooms lead away the horses they had just exercised in the courtyard.

"Move back!" he heard the frantic voice of the head ostler. "Clear the way!"

Griss had barely time to jump back against the walls of the courtyard when a gigantic horse, chugging and blowing, with four grooms frantically clinging to the lines in its halter, came charging from the stable into the courtyard. Jarl Broggha's new mount had just been delivered that day, and as Griss watched the desperate struggles to control the beast, he could see what an apt name the huge beast possessed - "Destroyer."

Standing eighteen hands at the withers, weighing 2,500 pounds, it was said that it took twenty-five inches of iron to make just one shoe for the giant animal.

"He is in a foul mood today!" the ostler cried. Griss did not question that statement one bit as he sidled along the wall and made quickly for the stables. All the gold in King Tarnendur's treasuries would not be nearly enough to persuade Griss to mount that tawny devil's back.

Walking into the dark, pleasant interior of the barn, which was lighted by a few lanterns hung from hooks, Griss enjoyed hearing the sounds of the horses munching their hay and grain. He was not there that afternoon to admire the horseflesh, though. He was there to find Heggr.

"Heggr? You in here?" he shouted. Peering over the door into one unoccupied stall, he thought he saw a mound lying in the straw bedding upon the floor. He heard a slight moaning sound and opened the door and walked in.

"Heggr, you drunken fool! Is this where you have been all day?"

His answer was a snatch from a bawdy tavern song.

"Oh, I had no alarms when I tested her charms..."

"Be quiet! You're drunk!"

Through bleary eyes, Heggr looked up. "I drank only a few nips," he slurred.

Griss shook him roughly by the shoulders, but could get no sensible reply. Walking outside the stall, he spied a leather bucket and made his way to the watering trough in the courtyard. Scooping up a whole bucket of cold water, he walked back into the stable and upturned the contents on Heggr's hungover head.

"What? What?" Heggr sputtered. "You trying to freeze me? I will catch my death of cold!" His rotting teeth started chattering, one snag rapidly hitting on top the other. "Oh, my jaw!" he moaned.

Griss pulled him up by his shoulder and shook him roughly. "Sober up! I need to talk to you!"

"Please don't ever do that again, Griss! You nearly scared me to death, and now I'm freezing!" It was difficult to understand him through the chattering of his teeth.

Griss stopped shaking him and supported him by his shoulders. "You lifted a few items from the Lady Gimilbeth's rooms yesterday. What have you done with them? Did you give them to that woman you've been seeing down at the tavern?"

"Griss, I was planning to do that very thing." Heggr's whole body was shaking now. "But my teeth were killing me during the night because of the cold. I was desperate for something to ease them!"

"What does that have to do with the things you stole?"

"I opened this fine jeweled jar and found what I took to be a remedy of some kind. It was all I had, Griss! The only thing I could find. The ale and wine weren't doing me any good."

"So what did you do?"

"I - I put some of it in my mouth, hoping that green stuff would soothe my aching teeth. I never tasted anything like it in my life and spat most of it out! It tasted horrible!"

"Did it help the pain in your teeth?"

"I don't know if it did or not, Griss," Heggr was blubbering like a baby now as he held onto Griss' arms to support himself. "I drank the rest of the wine after that, and I didn't know anything until you woke me up just now. What time is it?"

"About two o'clock in the afternoon."

A look of shock and fear went over Griss' face. "Tell me you don't mean it!" He clung tighter to Griss' arms. "I missed my appointment with my lady last night! Ohhh," Heggr put his hands on his head and groaned.

"What about the lady's fluffy night dress? Do you still have that?"

"Of course, I do! Did you not hear me? I never got to see her last night!" Great tears were falling down Heggr's cheeks and drool ran from the corners of his mouth.

Griss sighed, exhaling in relief. "Good, good!"

"There is nothing good about it! I missed my appointment! She will hate me!" Then Heggr's expression brightened. "I still have the gown and the jar, and there is a little of the green goo left inside. She will be thrilled when I give it and the gown to her tonight!"

"You're giving her nothing, Heggr, nothing at all!"

"What?!" He grasped Griss' shoulders in a death grip.

"I'm confiscating them, Heggr. Someone else wants them!"

"Who, who?" Griss cried. "You have to tell me!"

"Don't ask so many questions, Heggr. Someone important wants them and you don't need to know his name. As a matter of fact, it might be dangerous for you if you did. Now tell me where they are."

"They are right over there in that sack in the corner of the stall, wrapped up in a piece of red velvet I took from the lady's room. But please, Griss, please don't take them! I had promised Fainwen that I would take her something fine, such as she had never seen before!"

Griss released Heggr and gathered up the sack in the corner and began striding towards the barn opening. Heggr, sobbing and crying, followed him and tried to wrestle the sack from his hands.

"I've taken a little too much from you today, Heggr!" Griss exclaimed angerily as he grabbed the man by the back of his tunic and the seat of his breeches and hurled him into the water fountain, much to the mirth of the stable boys. The splash startled the stallion Destroyer, and in a royal bad humor, he dragged the four protesting stable boys behind him as he tore after Heggr, who was just crawling out of the water trough.

His eyes rolling as he viciously tossed his great head back and forth, he shook the four boys loose and narrowed the distance between Heggr and himself. Heggr could feel the horse's hot breath close upon his back. He screamed in pure terror as he felt the horse's powerful teeth grip his backside. The horse began to shake him, but fortunately for Heggr, the material ripped, and he was free, with only his pride and his backside injured.

Griss looked over his back and laughed to see the stable boys scurrying about, trying to capture the horse. Griss walked away from the stable and across the King's Road and entered the alley behind the Hare and Thistle Inn near the Cameth River. A man in a nondescript brown-hooded cloak turned to face him.

"Do you have it?" the man's gravely voice asked.

"Aye, here it is." Griss extracted the sack from beneath his cloak and handed it to the man, then walked out of the alley without another look and headed back onto the road.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Belzagar's house, Cameth Brin, late afternoon of October 20
Written by Angmar
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"My Lord Belzagar, the boy is here from the tailor with your new cloak," Authon, one of Belzagar's assistants, informed him in his private chamber.

"By all means, show the lad in!"

The boy walked in and bowed respectfully.

"Place the parcel on the table, boy. I will settle up with your employer later." He looked towards his assistant. "Authon, give the boy something for his trouble. Now, lad, go out to the antechamber and wait. I have some more work for your master."

Belzagar watched as the boy left the room. "Now, what do we have here, Authon?" Belzagar opened the sack. "A jar of some sort of green ointment, foul looking stuff!" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Now what is this?" He looked with interest into the sack and drew out a frothy, feminine negligee. "I never thought I would see this!" he exclaimed.

"Master, I cannot help wondering how the princess would look when she was wearing it." Authon flushed slightly.

"Neither one of us will ever have that good fortune! Now we must inspect over the garment! Look for dark hairs or flakes of skin. Hair of any other shade or color is to be thrown into the fireplace and burnt."

After a long time spent inspecting every fiber of the gown, the two men found three long black hairs.

"Those must be the princess'!" Authon exclaimed.

Belzagar dipped his quill into the ink pot and penned a letter in code. Then taking the three hairs, he tightly rolled the parchment around them and inserted the missive into a silver cylinder.

He quickly set to work writing another coded letter. "My dear tailor," it read, "see that this gown goes to the Fox, who will make certain that it travels to its appointed destination." Wrapping the gown in the velvet cloth, he put it and the letter in the sack.

"Authon, take the package now to the boy. Inform him that he is to tell his employer that my new shirt needs a repair, and he is to complete the job as soon as possible. Pry out the jewels on the ointment jar and put them in my vault. Destroy the rest of the vessel. While you are doing that, I will be up at the bird cot. One of our black messengers needs to take a flight this afternoon."

In less than an hour, the business was completed. The package containing Gimilbeth's gown was delivered into the hands of Griss, who reported its arrival to Broggha. The parcel was then transferred into the hands of one of Broggha's two messengers, who placed it in his saddle bag. No letters were to be exchanged by the receiver or sender, and only this brief, droll verbal message was to be committed to memory and delivered by the riders:

"Your Majesty, perhaps the owner of this will be reunited with it as soon as possible."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
October 19, in the woods by the road, North of Cameth Brin
Written by Rian
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Golden light, green shadows ... golden light, green shadows ...

The rich colors alternated back and forth in Caelen's weary eyes, lulling her to sleep.

Callon looked down at his sister, then caught Eryndil's eye and mouthed a "Shhh!" Eryndil nodded, and the word passed around his men to keep voices as low as possible. This was hardly necessary, as they were already travelling as quietly as possible, but every little bit helped.

Callon brushed a gentle kiss on top of his sister's head and breathed a sigh of relief. To his knowledge, Caelen hadn't slept at all the last two nights, ever since they left Eryndil's family home. The first night, she alternated pacing the floor and staring out of the window of their little room, until she saw that she was keeping Callon up. Then she lay down on her bed, but every time Callon looked over at her, she was in the same position, and he could see the glimmer of her eyes, wide open in the dark. She had managed to nap a little during their rest stops the next day, but hadn't been able to sleep last night at the Crossroads Inn, either.

"Maybe we should have just stayed at Ostinand," he mused, but really, they couldn't stay there forever, and this seemed as good as conditions as they would ever have for travelling.

Yesterday, she had ridden her mare and Callon their gelding, but today, Callon rode double with her in front of him - she was so tired that he was worried about her falling off and injuring herself.

Caelen's eyelashes fluttered momentarily, but the golden lights and green shadows lulled her back to sleep, and Callon released the breath he had been holding.

It was quiet - very quiet, and warm, with just a gentle breeze starting up.

Suddenly, the mare's ears flicked back. She turned her head slightly to one side, widening her nostrils and slowing down ever so slightly. Callon turned his head to where she was looking, careful to not jostle his sister, but he could see nothing. The mare swung her head back around and twitched her ear to shake a fly off, and Callon forgot about the incident as his sister woke up with a faint cry.

"Everything's fine, Caelie, go back to sleep," he said softly, and she smiled up at his familiar face framed by the tree branches as she drifted back to sleep.


***
That evening they made camp in a little glade surrounded by trees. Caelen walked quietly around the outskirts of the camp, unable to sleep. She had stayed with her brother until he had finally nodded off, then had slowly and carefully stood up and walked off without waking him.

She walked past several more sleeping men, as well as some awake and on guard, until she heard Eryndil's voice and peered through the darkness to see his friendly face.

"Can't sleep?" he asked. His eyes caught hers momentarily with a sympathetic look, then returned to scanning the dark woods.

"No," she said slowly. Then not wanting to appear unfriendly, she added, "I really miss your sister! She was a lot of fun."

Caelen could see the smile cross Eryndil's face at the mention of his sister, although his eyes didn't leave the woods. "Yes, you two seemed to be having a lot of fun - especially at the expense of your poor brothers!"

Caelen smiled back. "Oh, you men - you need teasing, you know, or you get too full of yourselves! That's what sisters ..."

She stopped suddenly as Eryndil placed his hand on her arm in a warning gesture. They remained quiet as Eryndil peered through the darkness, then turned to catch the eye of the guard to his right. They exchanged some signals, then Eryndil turned to Caelen.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Oh, nothing," she said, shrugging her shoulders, not in the mood to talk anymore. She felt weary, yet restless. "Can I walk around for a bit? I just can't seem to settle down."

Eryndil looked undecided, then said reluctantly, "Just stay within my guards, and please be as quiet as you can." Caelen nodded, and Eryndil added, unable to hide his concern, "Try and get some rest after that, though - all right?"

"All right," agreed Caelen, and getting up, she started walking slowly around the camp. She let her fingers brush against the tree trunks as she walked, smelling the night air and gazing at the frosty stars twinklng down on her through the tree branches. Eryndil's eyes lingered on her for a brief moment before returning to his watch.

Caelen reached her mare and stroked the silky nose that she offered to her mistress. "Hwesta, my sweet, how are you?" Caelen crooned to her mare, and Hwesta put her head on Caelen's shoulder and nuzzled her ear. The mare's breath was warm on Caelen's face, and her familiar smell was comforting. Enjoying the sensation, Caelen felt that she might be able to get some sleep tonight after all. She reached up and scratched behind Hwesta's ear, and laughed softly as the mare arched her neck in pleasure. Finally, with a parting kiss on the mare's soft nose, Caelen quietly walked away, heading around the edge of the camp so as to not disturb the sleepers nearby.

The mare's ears suddenly flicked forward, and she stared into the woods with dilated nostrils, pulling back on her line. Caelen, hearing the mare's movement, turned her head to look at her. Hwsta threw back her head in alarm, her nostrils flaring wide, and spooked, pulling back hard against the line. As Caelen turned back to see what the mare was spooking at, suddenly everything turned into a wild mixture of movement and sounds, and something with rough fur hit her hard and knocked her over. She could hear the men yelling and the horses neighing, and suddenly it was over and the heavy weight was off of her. She sat up, blinking in confusion and breathing hard.


***

Tyaron looked over towards the girl. She was going to be fine, he could tell, although she (understandably!) looked rather confused and breathless. One of the men (brother? husband?) was attending closely to her. He turned his head back towards the captain of the group of Dunedain, who was speaking to his friend.

"Marvellous shot!" said Eryndil admiringly. "You saved her life! I thank you!"

"I wanted to stop him before he had time to get in a little taste of the meal he was going after," said Tyaron's friend Alagos, the archer responsible for the shot into the spine of the warg that had caused him to immediately lose all ability to move right in mid-jump, turning certain death for Caelen into merely bumps, bruises and a scare. He caressed his bow lovingly and looked critically at his arrow imbedded in the warg - yes, rather good shot, that ...

"How long have you been following us?" asked Eryndil, slightly miffed that they had gone undetected, even though he knew the wood-craft of elves was beyond the skill of his men, good as they were.

"Ask the mare over there," said Tyaron, the taller of the two elves, nodding his head towards Hwesta. "You sensed us this morning; didn't you, cousin?" he finished, speaking to Hwesta, who was stretching her nose out towards the two elves. Alagos smiled and went over to her, unable to resist the mare's pleading look. Hwesta half-closed her large, dark eyes in pleasure as Alagos' fingers found her favorite scratching place - that difficult-to-reach area behind her ears.

"What are you doing here?" continued Eryndil, trying to get the situation under control and gather all the information he could.

Tyaron raised an eyebrow. "And what are you doing here?" he queried in his turn.

An exasperated sound came from the direction of the mare. "Don't mind him; he gets cranky whenever I prove that I'm a better archer than he is!" Alagos said to Eryndil as he gave Hwesta a parting scratch and rejoined the group. He put a hand on Tyaron's shulder and spoke to him in a language with which Eryndil was unfamiliar, but which had a music and a depth to it that was very pleasing to his ear. A smile was finally extorted out of Tyaron, and he bowed to Eryndil in apology.

"What were we doing? We were watching," said Tyaron. "First, the wide world; then you; then the warg; then the warg watching you. And when the warg decided to stop watching you and start eating you, that's when we decided to step in."

"And for that, I thank you with all my heart," said Callon, who had joined the group, supporting a shaky Caelen. Caelen stared up at the tall elves, her eyes wide.

The elves smiled their "don't mention it!"s, their bright eyes shining in the dark.


Chapter 11 - Arthedain and Cardolan

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Arthedain, 40 miles west of Amon Sul. October 20, 1347
Written by Valandil
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The slow pace of the caravan had kept Beleg restless for days. With men on a march by road, it was an easy four days from Fornost to Bree, four more from Bree to Amon Sul. Now mounted, they were doing barely more than half that pace – and they had spent four DAYS at Bree! And all along the road, it seemed like always some local thane or householder wished to speak with his father, Celebrindol. Of course, Malvegil’s years as king would draw to a close before many more – and Celebrindol was Heir to the throne of Arthedain. So all about the kingdom, men wished to gain his favor, or at least to be known by him.

Beleg wondered what that would be like. Eighty years from now, he could be in the same position himself, as his father's reign neared its end. His father was taking it all in stride in his own turn, but Beleg had found it more and more tiresome, so he had dropped steadily back in the line of their train, behind his father and the entire vanguard, and was now among the wagons.

“Oh Beleg…” taunted a feminine voice beside him, “Calafornien wants to know whether it is her charms that have brought you back among us?” followed by an eruption of laughter and giggles. Beleg turned his head and saw next to him the canvas sides of the royal carriage drawn up, and sitting right beside him were four ladies wearing a wide gamut of expressions. His youngest sister, Estelien, who had spoken, looked mischievous and triumphant, while the young lady in question sat next to her, trying to hide her face from embarrassment (and indeed, Beleg was not unaware of her charms – although they had not summoned him to this interview). Across sat his mother Sulawen, giving his sister a sharp look of disapproval, and next to her, a young noblewoman who was his mother’s favorite lady-in-waiting, trying her hardest to show no expression at all.

“Discretion now, Estelien!” said their mother, her eyebrows knitted together. Perhaps she indulged her youngest daughter too much, she thought, that she was bold enough to speak like this to her eldest son, in front of others. Besides, she would not mind at all if Calafornien drew her son’s interest, a daughter in the House of Fornost’s Prince, so it was no good giving him reason to despise her.

“Besides Estelien,” she continued, “You should be happy to have a friend along for the winter, while your brothers go without.”

“But mo-THER!” protested Estelien, “They weren’t going to send Calafornien along to Cardolan with the others, were they? Especially not to Tharbad!” ending in a half-scandalized tone.

Sulawen rolled her eyes, but Beleg just stammered, “Cardolan? Tharbad?” He longed for the company of his other sister, Ethuiliel – but she was back at Fornost, enjoying her newly-wedded bliss with one of Calafornien’s more fortunate male cousins.

Seeing his consternation, but not quite yet comprehending it, Estelien looked square at Beleg once more and chided in mock-soothing tones, “Aww Beleg… what is it? Are you sad that you don’t get to spend a winter with the Cardolani girls? And find out for yourself if what’s said of them is true?” Estelien and Calafornien broke into giggles and Sulawen’s attendant couldn’t contain the blush creeping up her face. Estelien went on, “Too bad you don’t speak Dwarvish… but then, who does?” Sulawen began to address Estelien once more, but Beleg spoke first.

“What is this about Cardolan? Were my companions sent there? On what task?” he demanded.

The giggling came to an abrupt halt and for a moment the only sounds were those made by horse and wagon. But at last Sulawen replied evenly, “Perhaps you should ask your father.”

His lips grown tense, Beleg nodded sharply and spurred his horse toward the front of the convoy.

Before her mother could rebuke her further, Estelien continued, her face now a picture of genuine surprise, “He really didn’t know!”

***

Beleg pressed his mount to a canter, running up the right side of the column before him. There were forty mounted men riding by twos – nearly half of Arthedain’s budding cavalry. Most turned at the sound of a steed drawing up from behind them, and nodded when they saw that it was the Heir’s first son. At last he reached the side of his father, Celebrindol. Beleg’s younger brother Aramacil – the better horseman, drew back from the Heir’s right side to allow Beleg to come in between them and address their father.

“Father!” exclaimed Beleg as he drew near. Then reining in beside him, “Father, what is this news of my companions being sent to Cardolan this winter? And why am I not among them, to lead them?”

Celebrindol at first kept his eyes forward, drew in a breath, sighed and then clearing his throat, turned to his elder son, “Have you only just heard this, my son?”

“Yes… YES!” replied Beleg, and turning briefly saw the look of consternation on the face of Aramacil. Beleg turned back to his father and continued, “What, am I the LAST to know of it?”

“Well… ah-hem, I am startled that you have only now learned it. An oversight, perhaps?”

“But what is the nature of this visit to Cardolan? The formation of a treaty of some kind?” Beleg knew that the last of Isildur’s line there had died an old man just two years before – his sons long ago slain in civil strife. There had long been talk of reunification between Arthedain and Cardolan – even while bitter old Dirion lived, though not in his presence of course. His hatred for the land of his cousins was too great. But now, nobles on both sides of the border seemed ready to accept it – and King Malvegil was privately elated at the prospect of reuniting all Arnor again, maybe even while his days lasted.

“That… and something more,” answered Celebrindol.

Beleg only waited, expectantly, so at last his father continued, “Some months ago, a scribe of little note found an old scroll of Numenorean lore. It was part of a greater work and the ending described the fashioning of… well, of enchanted weapon-making.” At that last, Celebrindol’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“It was found also, that more on this matter was held in the lore-vaults of Cardolan… but not the portion that we held in Arthedain.”

“Now, your grandfather, the King,” Celebrindol paused before continuing, “Placed much stock in the timeliness of this discovery, deeming it a portend of some coming need of these things. Some thought it might be happenstance, but he was determined to pursue the venture.”

“So,” replied Beleg at last, “a mutual effort to create new weapons. But what was this about Dwarves?”

“The scroll in our holding calls for a small amount of mithril… which seemingly can still only be got from the Dwarves of Moria. Tharbad’s nearness to Moria, and the abundance of master-metal workers there made it a logical place to begin the effort. Well… either there, or Harnost.”

Beleg rode in silence for awhile, digesting all this information. Finally, he spoke once more.

“Father, why was I not sent to Cardolan for this myself?”

“One reason,” his father replied, “is that your grandfather and I are slow to trust the life of a future King in that land which was so long against us. But… there is another.”

”Yes?” asked Beleg, curiously.

“Well… some… on the Council… thought this a worthy project for an Heir to undertake. But it is your grandfather’s sincere hope – and he asks that you give it proper consideration, for he believes he has foresight in it – that you will take up the charge of strengthening the defenses of Amon Sul.” What Celebrindol had not said was that he himself had tried to place the weapon-making task under Beleg’s care, but that his father the King had refused it – deeming Amon Sul’s strengthening as of even greater importance.

Beleg started slightly. It was customary for a Dunedain Heir to spend the time of his father’s reign on a special project – something to better the kingdom. This gave the Heir work to fill the long days of his father’s reign, gave him practice in leadership, and should, in theory, give him a better kingdom to rule when he came to the throne himself. It also might signify how the realm could change when he came to the throne. Beleg’s father Celebrindol, for instance, had taken on the task of creating a cavalry arm for Arthedain’s army. Even in Gondor, years ago Tarannon had built up Gondor’s navy, and gone on to become the first “Ship-King” there.

Soon his grandfather would go the way of all their ancestors, his father Celebrindol would be King, and as Heir, Beleg would have the choice of what great task he would undertake. Here were two possibilities before him. Of the two, he found that the idea of making enchanted weapons appealed to him much more. A revival of old Numenorean craft sounded interesting, and might spur a more general re-awakening of Numenorean culture in the kingdom. Besides, a joint effort with Cardolan could speed reunification. Amon Sul, on the other hand… didn’t seem of much great worth. There was no great city there, only a few small towns. It was fairly defensible anyway, and there were no enemies capable of taking it. Cardolan and Rhudaur had both exhausted themselves in long generations of fighting one another for it. And maybe familiarity with the place had made it less exciting – after all, he had spent every second Yule there for as long as he could remember, and other times as well. Besides all that… for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, the place had always felt a little unsettling to him – while he was there, each time he first saw it on arriving… even just thinking about it.

But – there WAS the Palantir, of course.

“I will consider it father,” Beleg answered at last. “But for now, I already look forward to returning home to Fornost in the spring. At this time I wish to be alone with my thoughts. I shall ride up and join the scouts.”

As Beleg rode away, Aramacil pulled closer to Celebrindol. “‘In the spring?’” he asked. “Father, does Beleg not yet know that he is to stay at Amon Sul through all the next year and the winter after?”

Celebrindol looked a bit uncomfortable, but replied, “I suppose not, my son. I suppose not.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tharbad in Cardolan October 20, 1347
Written by Duilin
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As they crossed the great bridge at Tharbad, Duilin looked back nervously at the Gondorian guard towers. “Almost safe now, eh Thurisind?” he said to his companion. He looked forward, to the Cardolani side of the bridge, and squinted at the sun, now low in the western sky. Whereas the Gondorian half of the city was little more than a dusty military border town, the part of the city in Cardolan was a thriving port. Duilin looked forward to relaxing at a fine inn of the city – since they’d left Osgiliath they’d largely had to make due with dusty roadside inns in Calenardhon and Enedwaith.

“I don’t see how we needed to go all the way to another country to be safe from Castamir and his street thugs. We could’ve headed to Anor, or Ithil, and been fine until things cooled down.” the taller man looked ahead to the city before them.

“Castamir has a long arm, and we’ve made him quite angry. Best to get as far away as we can. Besides, what’s there to do in Ithil? Depressing place, I’ve always thought. And Anor’s as dull as a post. The only other decent city in Gondor is Pelargir, and that’s full of Castamir’s types. Best to make a clean break of it.”

“Well, I’ll admit, I’m a bit relieved to be out of Osgiliath. I always get claustrophobic there. Too many buildings. Too many police.”

“You Northmen, always wanting to be out in the woods, or whatever it is you do. You will admit, the girls are prettier in Osgiliath, though, than anywhere else.”

“The girls are pretty in the city, it’s true. I think all the prettiest girls of the north have gone to Osgiliath to be barmaids. And the native women aren’t bad either, although the Westwomen can be a bit haughty. What do you know about this place?”

“What, Tharbad?”

“No, the North Kingdom. My folk have little contact with this place. I think I had a distant cousin who joined the army of Arthedain, but nobody ever heard from him again. And then there was that fellow in the regiment. What was his name?”

“Which one? The fellow from Cardolan?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Can’t remember. And I don’t know much about these parts. Never been, just like you. Rougher than Osgiliath, I expect. They say these kings are always fighting each other. I’d thought we might go to an inn, and see what we can learn about possible job opportunities.”

“So you’ve led us to a country you know nothing about, eh Duilin? Well, then, lead on.”

They crossed the rest of the way in silence, and once on the other side, looked for an appropriate inn. The Stone Bridge was right by its namesake, and the two men decided to take a look inside. The inn was about as one might expect – pretty barmaids, at least, and a good number of patrons. The innkeeper walked up to them, glancing nervously at the blonde giant as he addressed his smaller, more usual looking companion. “What can I do for you gentlemen? Would you like rooms? My boys can stable your horses.”

“Yes, that all sounds good. For now, we’d like some tankards of ale.”

The two men sat down. “This seems adequate enough,” said the smaller man, still surveying the establishment.

Hearing no response from his companion, he saw that he was in the midst of a flirtation with the buxom little serving wench. Ah, the amenities of the city, thought Duilin. Hoping to give his companion some space to succeed in his seduction, Duilin stood up. These Cardolanis seemed like good enough folk – most of them reminded him of his own family, back in Lossarnach – brown hair, medium height and build. He’d seen some Dъnedain in the town, but they seemed rarer than back in Osgiliath. Duilin noticed a group of about a dozen men, armed, but not in the uniform of the army of Cardolan he’d seen worn by the guards at the bridge. “Mercenaries,” he thought to himself. “Well met, lads,” he cried, greeting the group. “If I am not mistaken, you are in the same line of work as I.”

The men looked at him, not saying anything. After some time, one spoke, “you came in with that giant northman, didn’t you? You’re not from these parts, are you?”

“Indeed not, friend. My tall companion and I are lately released from service in the army of Gondor, and we’ve come here to the north to seek our fortunes with whichever kingdom is in need of our services.”

“Ah, then you’re right,” the man paused, “friend. We are in the same line of work. You’ll find little enough work here in Cardolan, I’m afraid,” the man said. “We’ve just been dismissed from service. The kingdom is in strange shape since old Dirion died two years ago, and the nobles aren't willing to pay for soldiers. We had thought to go south to seek our fortunes with old Rуmendacil. Maybe see some action against Easterlings or Southrons, or see the great city. But if you’re here up from there maybe Gondor’s a bad choice. Is the King in Osgiliath also not in need of men?”

“Ah, no. Gondor’s always in need of good men to serve in her armies. My friend and I just ran into some, er, difficulties back home.” Seeing their looks o f incredulity, he clarified. “My home, I mean – obviously my friend is from the wilds of the North. Anyway, we thought it would be best to leave Gondor for a time. You say Cardolan isn’t hiring. What about the other kingdoms?”

“Well, Arthedain is how you say Gondor is. They always are looking for good men. Are you horsemen, perchance? The heir of Arthedain is building up a cavalry for the kingdom, they say, and needs good horsemen, in particular. Some of our companions are headng up towards Kings’ Norbury to seek service there.”

Another of the men broke in here. “I wouldn’t go to Arthedain, though. My brother is in the Arthedain army, and it seems deadly dull. Lots of garrison duty, and training marches. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s in Arthedain, and Arthedain’s terrible. They’re all haughty Dъnedain there, and the women turn their noses up at good men of Middle-earth. If you’re lucky, you get put in Norbury, and Norbury, they say, is even duller than Tyrn Gorthad, and the rest of the country is even worse. Garrison duty in Tharbad, or even Tyrn Gorthad, is a pleasant enough job, but in Arthedain it’s meant to be awful.”

“So there’s work and pay in Arthedain, but it’s not very interesting. What about Rhudaur?”

“Well, Rhudaur’s more interesting they say.” said one of the men. “My cousin does business with Cameth Brin, and he was just up there. It sounds like there’s a lot of action – hillmen and orcs and the like. But I don’t think I’d like to go to Rhudaur, either. Those hillmen are bad sorts, and nothing but trouble has ever come out of Rhudaur.”

“Aye,” said another. “If you have to stay in the north, Arthedain is the safest bet.”

“I’ve heard talk of another kingdom, away up north,” Duilin said.

The men looked at each other nervously. “Yeah,” said the leader. “We’ve heard talk of Angmar ourselves. Don’t much like the sound of it, though. Away up north, and they say the King is an evil sorceror. They say he’s always taking in new soldiers. We talked to one of their recruiters in an inn in town, earlier today. Something about him gave me the creeps. No Angmar for us, thank you very much. We’re going to head down to sunnier climes.”

“Thank you, friends, for the words of advice. I wish you luck in Gondor. There should be plenty of excitement in Rуmendacil’s army. At the very least, Osgiliath has the prettiest girls in the world – and not all haughty Dъnedain girls, either.” Not that all Dъnedain girls were so haughty, Duilin thought to himself. He remembered Lothiel back in Osgiliath, and the nights they’d spent together – there was a lovely girl. And, as a bonus, she’d still be just as lovely if he didn’t get back there for ten years. But it was probably best to play along with their prejudices.

“And good luck to you as well. Old Malvegil may not give you much excitement, but he pays well enough, they say.”

Duilin returned towards his own table. The Cardolani soldiers had given him much to think about. There was Arthedain, reliable but boring. The Cardolanis assumed that they’d go up to Fornost, but the prospect didn’t seem terribly appealing. On the other side was Rhudaur, exciting but dangerous. He’d want to know more of the place before committing to go there. He realized that, without even considering it consciously, he had already rejected Angmar. Something about the way others talked about it made him want to stay as far away as possible. He looked for his friend, to tell him what he’d learned, but he saw that Thurisind had abandoned their table. Going up to the innkeeper, Duilin inquired as to his friend’s whereabouts.

“Oh, I think he went up to his room.” The innkeeper winked at him. “He may have company.”

Duilin groaned. Here he was, doing the hard work of discovering more about possible opportunities, and the barbarian was off making love to a serving girl. Ah well, he thought to himself. He might as well find a girl of his own for the night. Seeing a pretty young thing glancing shyly at him, he beckoned her towards him. Decisions could wait till tomorrow.


Chapter 12 - Honorable Men

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Tharbad, October 21, 1347
Written by Duilin
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Thurisind awoke with the sun, somewhat disoriented. Looking to his side he saw a pretty brown-haired girl. Through the cobwebs of his half-sleeping brain, he tried to recall her name. Well, no matter. He left a few silver pennies by the bed for the girl and dressed. She was well worth it, he thought. Not as beautiful, perhaps, as the women in Osgiliath, but pretty enough and great sport in bed. He wondered if his companion had found a girl for himself the night before – he had left him talking to a group of men. He hoped his friend hadn’t gotten himself into any trouble.

He thought back to Osgiliath. His friend could make trouble indeed. The two men had become fast friends during their service together in the army of Gondor, serving together in a small fort near the end of the Ash Mountains. Their term of service up, the two had decided to make their way to the capital, and see if they could make their fortunes there. Duilin had some kin in the city, and so, as it happened, had Thurisind. While Duilin’s kin were honest, hard-working folk of the people – his uncle was an innkeeper – Thurisind’s relations were of a higher kind. For he was distantly kin none other than the Lord Vinitharya – that is to say, of Eldacar, only son of the King’s Heir of Gondor. Thurisind had presented himself to his kinsman, offering himself and his friend in service to his mighty cousin. Eldacar had taken a liking to his enormous cousin from the north, and to his friend. He remembered fondly his childhood in the north, and wished to learn of its present state. Eldacar, too, hoped to gather men around him he could trust, seeing the Dúnedain of Gondor murmuring against him. Thus, Duilin and Thurisind had fallen in with the personal retinue of the Heir’s so, being taken on as his private bodyguards. Ah, what a time those two years in Osgiliath had been. Favorites of the King’s heir! They had been free most of the time to roam the city as they would. But then, of course, Duilin had mucked it up.

While Thurisind came to know his kinsman and caroused about the city, Duilin had somehow become involved with a great, but mysterious, and almost certainly married, Dúnadan lady. It was unclear to Thurisind how they had met, and which had seduced the other, but before he knew it, he had taken up the job of acting as look-out and guard for his friend’s assignations. “Come now, Thurisind,” Duilin had said brightly, “you know I would do the same for you. All you need to do is make the signal if anyone approaches, and delay him as long as you can. I’ll make it up to you.”
One night, about a month into the affair, Thurisind, who followed his friend and his lady at a distance, began to suspect that another pair was also following. Once the lovers entered the spot of their tryst, one quickly departed, while the other remained. Thinking quickly, Thurisind feigned drunkenness, and stumbled towards the remaining man, hoping to gain information. “Friend,” he slurred. “Might I ask how to make the Star of the North Inn?” he named an inn in the city that visitors from his own land often used, “I seem to have lost my way.”

The other looked at him uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with it. Sir, if you don’t mind, I have a task which I am at, and I cannot be distracted.”

“My pardon, I hadn’t meant to disturb you,” Thurisind stumbled, slightly bumping the man. “And my pardon for that, as well,” he laughed drunkenly. “I hadn’t meant to disturb anyone,” he repeated, stumbling back towards the door of his friend’s lair.

The man’s response had been enough to suggest that he was, in fact, an agent of the woman’s husband. Thurisind made the agreed-upon signal, and sat down upon the step before the door, pretending to pass out. Soon he heard footsteps approaching, and then, voices. The other man had returned, but he had brought with him others. “Sir, they went into that building, and have been up there since,” said the man Thurisind had spoken to.

“Outrageous!” bellowed another voice. “If she believes she can cuckold me, the King’s grand-nephew, with no consequences, then she is sorely mistaken.”

Thurisind opened his eyes to take a look. The voice was familiar to him, as was the man – he was tall, nearly as tall as Thurisind himself, but slender, with long, dark hair of the sort typically worn by the aristocracy of Gondor. It was Castamir, who was, indeed, grand-nephew to the king, and, from all Thurisind’s brief encounters of him, an arrogant ass. The men approached, and Thurisind continued to feign unconsciousness.

“What is this?” said Castamir. “Who is this oaf?”

“Just some drunken Northman,” replied t he man Thurisind had spoken to. He was looking for some inn, and spoke to me, but I sent him away, and I guess he passed out on the stair here. Should we wake him?”

There was a pause. Thurisind wished to open his eye to see what was going on, but thought it best to feign unconsciousness for as long as he could. Finally, Castamir spoke. “Wait, I know this man! He is no ordinary drunk Northmen – this man is in service of my cousin. If I remember rightly, he is some sort of kin to my cousin’s northern whore of a mother.”

Now Thurisind roared awake. He would have to reveal himself at some point, and given that the game was basically up, this was as good a time as any. Thurisind hoped that his friend had heard the signal, and was on his way. There were half a dozen men surrounding him. “The Lady Vidumavi was no whore. She was a great lady of my people, and my own kinswoman.”

“And I suppose your beloved kinsman has you act as pimp, to bring him the wives of other men to befoul, and then to act as a murderer, to kill their husbands when they seek revenge.”

Thurisind laughed. “You think your wife is cuckolding you with Eldacar? Absurd. He is devoted to his wife and family. I have told no lies to your men today,” he lied. “I have had too much to drink and gotten lost in this part of the city, which I know poorly. I know nothing of your wife, and my presence here must be a coincidence – if there is any truth to your story at all.” Where was Duilin? He couldn’t still be in flagrante with the lady, could he?

“Insolent knave! If what you say is true, then you can have no objection to our passing by. For I tell you that my wife is inside, and you have no right to refuse me passage.”

So it came to it. There was still no sign of Duilin. Now he must either let them pass or draw his sword, unless he could devise another artifice. His hand was moving to his scabbard when there was a noise above. A half-clad pair – Duilin and his lady, had moved onto the balcony. Seeing her husband below, Castamir’s wife fled back inside. Castamir, seeing her, roared in anger at Duilin, “You knave! Come down here and face me.”

“I think I’d rather not. Grabbing his clothing under his arm, he clambered up to the roof, then, running, leapt to the roof of the neighboring building. Some of Castamir’s men ran into the house, while others pursued Duilin from the streets below. Thurisind, with his hand still on his sword, turned to the angry lord of Gondor. “My lord, you will not mind, I trust, if I try to make my way from here. I should not like to disturb any marital conversations.”

Castamir looked at him in disbelief. “You knave. We shall have words in the future.” He pushed past Thurisind to go deal with his wayward wife.

Thurisind, relieved to have, at least for the moment, avoided a fight with the powerful nobleman, made his way back to Duilin’s uncle’s inn, the Grey Cat. It was late, and the common room was nearly empty. An hour later, Duilin arrived. “I think I’ve lost them,” he laughed. “That was a bit of fun, eh, my friend? I wasn’t expecting it, I must say – she told me her husband was down in Pelargir tonight. I mostly had you come along to annoy you..”

“You find it fun to make an enemy of one of the most powerful men in the kingdom?” Thurisind decided to annoy the insult to himself.

Duilin looked back at his friend. “Well, at the time it was enjoyable. That girl is insatiable, I have to say. And lovely, too. Can you believe she’s the same age as my grandmother? These Dúnedain!” But seeing the warning in his friend’s eyes, he paused. “Why are you looking at me like that? What’s that about the most powerful man in the kingdom?”

“Don’t you know whose wife she is?”

“What? No. Whose?”

“The Lord Castamir’s, you lecherous fool! And he knows who I am, and will easily discover who you are as well.”

As the information sunk in, Duilin spoke again. “Well, this has not turned out nearly so well as I’d hoped. What do we do now? Can Eldacar protect us?”

“That is most doubtful. He has little enough interest in drawing attention to his Northern kin, and we have genuinely wronged a kinsman of his. After this foolishness, I doubt he’d want to protect us.”

Duilin, now completely sober, stood up. “There’s no helping it, then. We must get out of Gondor.”

“Out of Gondor? That’s madness. Can’t we go off to Anor until the heat’s worn off?”

“You think we would be safe in Minas Anor? That Castamir has no eyes there? For all we know, he is going to go to the King with this! Gondor is not safe for us, at least not for the moment. We must go, and now.”

Duilin rushed off towards the quarters above the inn where his uncle stayed with his family. A few minutes later he returned with his uncle, squinting sleepily at the two men. “Uncle. We need horses, now. We’ve run into a spot of trouble and must leave Gondor for a while.”

“Horses? Leaving Gondor? What on Arda are you talking about? Where are you going? And you know I only have a few horses – sparing two would be hard on me, especially if I’ve no idea when you’re returning.”

“We head for Tharbad,” Duilin said. “When we arrive in Cardolan, we’ll find someone to send you your horses back.”

Within an hour, they’d left Osgiliath behind them, riding hard up the road through Anórien towards Calenardhon. And now they had finally arrived in Tharbad. Thurisind quietly left his room, leaving the girl to sleep. Entering the common room of the Inn, he wondered what Arnor would have in store – and what trouble his companion would lead him into.

***

Duilin awoke late in the morning. He found last night's girl had already left - presumably she had to go about her work for the day. Duilin yawned and stretched, and wiped the sleep from his eyes, trying to get his bearings. After dressing, he made his way down to the common room. As he waited for attention from the innkeeper for his breakfast, Thurisind came in - it seemed his companion had already been up and about for some hours.

Sitting down, Thurisind greeted his friend. "Ha, Duilin, finally awake I see. I've been using the morning hours to investigate this city and see what of interest might present itself."

"And did you discover anything? I have already learned much from my conversation last night."

"I have also learned much. Tharbad seems promising. There is much private work to be had, I think - the nobles and merchants here are much concerned about theft, and would like to hire men to protect their wealth. And there is also work of more illicit kind, should we be so inclined."

"No, Thurisind, I don't think that Tharbad is wise. Staying here too long risks getting word to Castamir. And I imagine that much work would involve us in going over relatively frequently to Gondor's half of the city. I want to be as far from the reach of that arrogant ass as possible."

"Yes, I was afraid you'd say that. What have you learned?"

Duilin related his conversation with the soldiers last night, but for some reason neglected to mention Angmar at all. Something about the place made him wish not to think about it. "I'll say that of the other kingdoms, I don't much like the sound of Arthedain. It sounds like the army of Gondor all over again, but worse. I think those years in Osgiliath have spoiled me for proper garrison duty."

"Aye, me as well," Thurisind said, after a moment's thought. "But Rhudaur sounds worse - dangerous, chaotic, and, most importantly, with very little cash on hand. I've heard, though, that there might be other opportunities, if we go along the road to the town of Bree, at the crossroads with the great East Road. That town, they say, is full of all sorts, and work of various kinds can be found there."

"Bree is on the way to Norbury, Arthedain's city, as well. " said Duilin.

"Shall, we, then, make our way there?"

"It seems the best option. I'd like to avoid Arthedain's army if we can, but penniless hill country full of barbaric hill men seems like a last resort. We should see what Bree has to offer before we give ourselves over to King Malvegil."

"I agree entirely. But first we have to figure out how to send your uncle back his horses, don't we?"

Duilin groaned. "How on earth are we going to find someone we trust to get our horses back to Gondor, in a city where we don't know anybody?"

"You're the one who promised your uncle. I've no idea. I thought you might have some family connection here - they all look just like you."

Duilin looked irritatedly at his friend. "Why on earth I should I have family connections in Tharbad? I grew up in Pelargir - it's hundreds of miles from here! This is quite a spot. Maybe we can ask the innkeeper."

"He'd cheat us as soon as help us - recommend some corrupt relation of his who'll steal them as soon as we look the other way."

"Well, I don't see you having any ideas."

"Hmm..." Thurisind thought for a moment. "I've a thought. Would your uncle be able to recognize his horses?"

"I think so, yes."

"Is there any sort of proof of ownership back in Osgiliath?"

"Yes, there's deeds of some sort, and descriptions."

"Then here's what we do. We find some travellers who are going to Osgiliath and looking for horses. We sell them the horses, and also recommend them an inn in Osgiliath."

"My uncle's."

"Yes, of course. We provide them with a sealed letter of introduction to your uncle, so that he will give them the best rate, and so forth."

"And the letter will tell them that these are his horses, and that we are returning them, as promised, but that the men bringing them aren't aware of this. Then he can threaten to sic the police on them as horse thieves, and get the horses back."

"That, my friend, is a brilliant plan. We are going to get men to pay us to return my uncle's horses to him. I am glad I will not have to break my promise to my uncle."

"Of course not, Duilin, we are honorable men," he laughed. "Now let's go find ourselves some marks."


Chapter 13 - The Road to Cameth Brin

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Northeast of Cameth Brin, early afternoon of October 21, 1347
Written by Rian and Valandil
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"Go on," Callon whispered to Caelen, who was staring at Eryndil, who was staring at ... well, it looked like he was staring at the road they were planning on taking that morning, but who knows? If only we could see what a person is staring at inside their mind ... surely it would be more interesting than that quiet road was this bright morning.

Caelen bit her lip ("Stop that!" whispered Callon - it was a bad habit she had, and their mother had often tried to break her of it) and walked resolutely towards Eryndil, Callon following close behind her.

"Excuse me," said a soft voice behind Eryndil, but he was already turning around - with the reflexes of a man used to surviving in the wilderness, he had heard and felt their approach before Caelen had spoken.

"Yes?" said Eryndil gently, with an encouraging smile. Since they had left the safety of Eryndil's father's home, where Caelen and his younger sister had gotten along famously, whispering and giggling and playing outrageous tricks on their long-suffering brothers, Eryndil had noticed Caelen regressing back to how she was after the attack on the road and her mistreatment by the brigands. And he noticed the worried furrow returning to Callon's face when he looked at her.

Caelen bit her lip again, took a deep breath, and continued. "I was just wondering if you would be so kind as to grant me a boon I would ask of you," she said, looking up at him tentatively, glad that her brother was near her - she had not had much interaction with men outside of her family in her short life, and so far, the men had not made a good showing. But in the days after their rescue by Eryndil, he and his men had done a great deal towards improving the average, and Caelen had a feeling that perhaps - just perhaps - she might be reconciled to the sex one day.

Eryndil bowed. "If it is within my power, I would gladly grant you what you would ask," he answered graciously.

"It's this," she said simply, opening her hand to disclose a broach. "It's a broach of mine ... would you please take it ... as a gift ... I mean, for all your kindness to us ... I ... I really want to give it to you ... please take it," was the somewhat incoherent request.

Eryndil bent down to look at the broach, moving slowly so as not to startle her. Even so, he noticed with sorrow that she drew back from him just a bit.

"It is lovely indeed," he said with admiration, and it was - the head and arched neck of a stallion worked three-dimensionally in gold, against a silver mesh background dotted with a few tiny golden elanor blossoms. He was just opening his mouth to state his polite refusal - he had just been doing his duty, after all - when Caelen spoke again.

"And look!" said Caelen, forgetting her reticence in her excitement to show a secret. "It opens," she said, smiling up conspiratorily at him, and with a quick movement of her fingers, the horse's head swung up on a small hinge, displaying a small cavity underneath.

"Isn't that fun?" she demanded, holding it up to him and waiting impatiently for his admiration of her gift. Eryndil took it carefully and looked at it more closely. The workmanship was exquisite - the horse, worked in a slightly abstract mode, looked as if he had just paused for an instant before galloping off again - the artist truly knew horses and how to portray a figure in motion.

"We used to put all sorts of things in there when we played "Rangers and Princesses" growing up - pretend jewels, coded messages, mysterious poisons ... you know!" She turned her head to look at her brother. "And Callon would put a spider in there whenever he got mad at me!" she finished, with a glare at Callon.

Callon smiled at the memory, and then laughed as Eryndil pretended to shake something out of the broach and then jump back in fear before smashing it with his boot.

"Guess there was one left in there still!" laughed Callon, as Caelen shook her head at them with her hands on her hips. But she was laughing, too.

"I thank you very much, but I'm afraid there might be more spiders in there - you'd better take it back!" he said, offering it back to her with a wink. But Caelen put her hands behind her back and looked up at him stubbornly.

Eryndil grew serious. "Seriously - I thank you very much - it is an exquisite piece, and very interesting, and I appreciate the heart behind it - but I was only doing my duty. This is a lovely family piece, and you should keep it. I am glad that I was able to restore it to you."

Caelen's expression grew more stubborn, and then suddenly softened. "But I want you to have it," she said plaintively. "If you hadn't come along, it would have been gone forever. And we would have been dead!"

Or worse, thought both Callon and Eryndil grimly, looking at the lovely young lady with the morning sun shining on her red-gold hair.

Eryndil was not quite sure what to say. He didn't like taking things for having performed his due service. But she was so insistent. Then a thought struck him. He smiled and bowed as he said, "This is such a princely gift that surely you must be wandering royalty in disguise, generously bestowing your favors abroad." Eryndil hoped his acting hadn't sounded too ridiculous - Callon had walked over to get the horses. "But here, that you may have a token yourself...please take this in exchange."

And he reached into his pouch and brought out a small wooden object. He had intended it for Hendegil, and having not yet finished, had hoped to give it to her this Yule - but maybe now he could make her something else.

"It's not finished, and it's not really that good," he said, holding it out to her. "But at times on watch in the forests, I have time to carve little trinkets. This is one of three goats," and he wished intensely that he had carved a horse instead. Still, Caelen leaned in close, curious, and saw a large goat in the middle, flanked by two smaller ones - all a little box-shaped or stubby.

"You see, there's a fable I was told as a child, of three such goats who defeated a troll. Why - there's an inn up north, near the bridge where this tale is set - the inn is named for these goats. Anyway, not as lovely as horses, and you can't ride them - but goats are more sure-footed on the hills of Rhudaur. To our family, they're a sign of good luck!" He stopped there, unwilling to tell her where the gift was originally to be bestowed.

As Caelen's face lit up and she took his crude carving, some strange thoughts began to pass through Eryndil's mind. And he realized how they had been playing around the edges of his mind for some time, as he gazed on her bright smile, her gray eyes, her auburn hair... that lovely form. And she seemed like a sensible girl, as girls went. It didn't hurt that she had become such quick friends with Hendegil.

His new position with the King would keep him busy - but should also provide him with enough to make a keeping of his own. And Caelen and her brother were going to the same town. But no - best not get attached so quickly. The girl had been through so much, and had indicated no special favor toward Eryndil.

Except for her gift of course - and his gaze dropped to where he held it in his hand. But then, realizing how long he had stood unmoving, he slowly set it into his pouch and offered to help Caelen onto her horse, which Callon had just brought up behind her. For the time had come to be parted.

Eryndil waved his farewell to Callon and Caelen as they headed back onto the road toward Cameth Brin. The brother and sister should be alright the rest of the way. This stretch of road was well-traveled, and might be about the safest in all Rhudaur (if that was saying much), so they should soon be in town, only two leagues (six miles) away. It was better this way too. Riding in with just his own men, straight to the palace and an audience with King Tarnendur would send a stronger, clearer message than if he had extraneous companions along. And Eryndil suspected the King wanted a strong, clear message to be sent by his arrival.

His father had managed fifteen horses for them, which left a couple for baggage. The Thane had twelve of his own that were fit for the road, and had rented out three more from one of his householders. Once he reached town, Eryndil hoped to send as many back as he could. Could he keep four? Six?

They had started early in the morning of the 17th. His mind drifted back to the partings and the farewells – and the handsome tunic that Hendegil had made with her own hands and given him to wear “in town”. He would wait until tomorrow to put it on – so it was clean and unsullied for his arrival.

They had made reasonable time, all things considered. Eight or ten leagues (24 or 30 miles) per day was not the speed of a messenger though. If his men were all trained to the saddle, they’d have easily reached Cameth Brin the day before, but the stops worked better for a five-day trip anyway. And the way was hilly. He had broken up the riding for his men by spells of walking in the mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Callon and Caelen had chafed somewhat at the slow travel – so it was all the better that they go on ahead now.

Their first night out they had stayed at an inn on the outskirts of Penmorva, where there was still some to-do about an execution there just over a week before. On the 18th they made it to the Crossroads Inn. The 19th was the only night they had to sleep in the open. There had been a guardhouse within reach, but Eryndil wouldn’t risk it, with young Caelen along, so they went off the road a bit and found a secluded place to camp. Last night, the 20th, they made it all the way to River Crossings, and today could have easily reached Cameth Brin. He was a full three days ahead of the due date by his orders.

But Eryndil knew that his men were not used to the saddle. Resting tonight would let them arrive fresher the next day. But it was Gwaerod’s horse losing a shoe that decided him. There was a smith here in the little town of Riverside who could do the job nicely.

First, the Inn. Around the remoter parts of the Kingdom, Eryndil was known and liked by the various innkeepers. They knew they wouldn’t get trouble from his men – and would likely keep trouble away. So – they let them stay at little or no cost. But here, so close to Cameth Brin, it wasn’t going to be the case. Still, the price surprised him.

“Ha-penny each to putchee up fer the night – Ah can get the lot o’ ya intuh two rooms. Three-quarter penny, and yee’ll get supper tonight – what comes with one ale, and breakfast tomorrer, with coffee.”

Eryndil knew the moneybag was running low, but he agreed. So he had Ivanarth count out the nine silver pennies and the coppers to reach the total. They had just spent almost two pennies at the same place - The Riverside Inn, to get a midday meal for fifteen – counting Callon and Caelen. Good enough fare, and plenty of it – and served outdoors under a shady oak. Well – just one more thing to settle up, then his spending should be done until they reached Cameth Brin. And the smith’s work shouldn’t be more than a few coppers.

He motioned for Ivarnarth to follow, and called for Gwaerod to leave his seat, grab his horse and come along to the blacksmith. He couldn’t help but notice that Gwaerod, Gwiroth and Lothrond had met an old friend from town who was passing through the other way. He smiled to think that these three, who had grown up in Tanoth Brin and had been the most useless of his men in the forest, might be the most valuable to him on this new assignment.


***

The first several miles had gone well - no, more than that, they had been downright pleasant. A fine autumn morning, the two of them on their horses - Callon felt like maybe adventures weren't all bad after all. And perhaps they would find their aunt and uncle and cousins soon - the few inquiries they had made so far hadn't yielded any information, but Callon was still hopeful. From what he had remembered from so long ago, they were somewhere north of Cameth Brin, so maybe when they got there (or the town below it, Tanoth Brin or something like that) they would find out more.

He glanced over at his sister, and she looked back and smiled. She looked rather odd in that jacket of his that he had made her put on - Eryndil had said that this stretch of road was much safer, but after their recent misadventure, Callon felt that taking a little extra precaution never hurt, and the jacket helped to blur her form and hide her nice riding suit. There wasn't much he could do about her hair, though, short of cutting it off. She had tied it back and tucked it inside the jacket at first, but it was just too irritating to her that way, and now it was back outside of the jacket and gleaming in the sun.

"Come on, Cal, let's run!"

Callon answered with a yell to his gelding, urging it into a brisk gallop, and Caelen was right behind him with her mare, who was tossing her head and whisking her tail, saying "it's about TIME!" about as clearly as a horse could say it. They let the horses have their heads for a while, then pulled them down into a walk on a quiet stretch of road, shaded by some tall trees.

Callon reached down to pat his horse's neck. "Good fella," he said. "You liked that, didn't you?" He sat back up and surveyed the view, a wary look replacing the relaxed expression that had been there just a moment ago.

He stole a look at his sister, who was sweet-talking to her mare. "I have GOT to get her married off, I've just GOT to get her married!" thought Callon. "I just CAN'T keep her riding around like this!" His eyes narrowed as he looked at her critically. "Nice hair, good complexion, good teeth, moves well, strong ..." He stopped abruptly as he realized he was evaluating his sister as he would a mare that he was thinking of purchasing. He shook his head. "This trip has been too long!" he thought with grim humor.

Caelen turned to say something to him and stopped short as she saw his expression.
"What's wrong?" she asked him apprehensively.

"Oh, nothing - I was just keeping an eye on things, that's all - Eryndil said this bit of road was safe, but ..." He shrugged, not quite sure how much to say, not wanting to frighten her. How could he say what he was really thinking? "I just don't want you to get brutalized and almost killed again," probably wouldn't be the best thing to say right now, he thought sadly, looking at her innocent, young face with the large, fearful eyes. He had failed her - he hadn't taken care of her, and it was gnawing at him.

Caelen took a deep breath. "It wasn't your fault, Callon," she said firmly.

"I was supposed to take care of you, and I didn't do it."

"We were outnumbered, Callon - you did the best you could - the best ANYONE could have EVER done. If anything, it's my fault - you told me to ride away, but ... I just couldn't leave you, I couldn't ..."

Callon said nothing, and Caelen rode up next to him and put a hand on her brother's arm.

"It took Eryndil and what? 8 men? to save us. There's no way you could overcome all those men by yourself! Now stop punishing yourself!" she said firmly.

"Eryndil," Callon thought pensively, "Eryndil ... he would make a good husband ... " He searched his memory for any signs of interest that Eryndil had shown towards his sister, but couldn't remember anything, and Caelen had certainly not shown any interest in Eryndil - the only males that his sister was interested in had four legs. She was so young ...

Caelen noted with satisfaction that Callon's expression had changed to a more thoughtful one after she mentioned Eryndil and his men. "I hope he'll stop berating himself now!" she thought to herself. "There's nothing he could have done..."

They rode on in silence, and soon came upon the town of Tanoth Brin. As they came into town, Callon looked around in shock. Vacant houses overrun by wandering poultry and pigs, squalor hand-in-hand with run-down finery, and worst of all, Hillmen everywhere. He looked over at his sister and saw his emotions mirrored in her face, with the added element of fear whenever groups of Hillmen would pause and stare at her. Then he saw her clench her jaw and lift her chin and look straight ahead. He felt proud of her for her fighting attitude, but he also felt sorrow for her loss of innocence. The world nowadays was apparently not what either one of them had once thought it was, sheltered in the protected haven of their parents' homestead.

They both breathed a sigh of relief as they passed out through the city gates, but they weren't away from people yet, for before them, on both sides of the sharply rising road, was a makeshift town. Tents dotted the hillside; people and animals moved about; the smoke from campfires rose into the clean air, obscuring the view of Cameth Brin which rose before them. Callon looked around, puzzled - Eryndil hadn't described this to him. But it looked peaceful enough, and surely this close to the town behind them and to the king's residence in front of them, there wouldn't be any trouble.

Nevertheless, Callon turned to his sister, saying, "Tuck your hair in your jacket, Caelie," and she quickly complied.

They kept up a brisk walk by unspoken agreement, and they soon reached the encampment.

Try as they might to be inconspicuous, they stood out like two sore thumbs. Their clothes, their horses, their gear, their skill at riding - everything marked them as privileged Dunedain. And Caelen's unruly hair was working its way out of the jacket, too; curling tendrils were blowing in the breeze, catching the sunlight.

The people, however, made no motion towards them, much to Callon's relief. Most people ignored them; some looked up with a grunt and returned to what they were doing.

They were almost through when they had to pull up for a large group of men lugging some sacks across the road, groaning and complaining. Callon quickly glanced around in a feigned unconcerned manner for the best path through if the men decided to block the road against them, when he heard a voice that was burned into his memory.

"Look what we got here, Griss - some old friends of ours, come just in time to help us!"

Callon's head whipped back towards the men, and was shocked to recognize two of the men from the band that waylaid them on the road.

The dirty Hillman started to make a move towards the riders, but was held back by the man next to him.

"You lazy lout!" said the man. "You know what the Jarl said - we gotta behave ourselves ... for now, at least. Get back to work!" he commanded, and then, turning with mock politeness to Callon and Caelen, indicated that they could pass.

"I'd rather have my hands on her than on these bags, " grumbled Heggr, as his eyes followed Caelen hungrily.

Callon would have liked nothing better than to run his sword through both of them right then and there, but there were just too many of them, and only one of him - they had to move on, and now, before the mood of the men changed. Caelen's eyes were large with fear, but she held her head up and her hands were steady as she moved past the group.

"Come back and visit us again, honey - we'll show you a good time!" they shouted after her, along with other, less-polite comments.

"I have GOT to get her married!" thought Callon desperately, biting his lip till the blood came.


Chapter 14 - Married?

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Cameth Brin, late afternoon of October 21, 1347
Written by Rian
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When they finally arrived at the king's stables, Callon produced the letter of recommendation from Eryndil, which had also got them past the outer gates of the upper city and the inner gates of the castle grounds. The stablemaster was thrilled to have such a strong, fine-looking young man applying for his beloved stables. "Times are hard now, lad, not many good men around here anymore," he said with a nostalgic look in his eyes, taking the letter from Callon and starting to read it. A few surly-looking men came by, pushing wheelbarrows full of soiled straw. They slowed, looking at the newcomers. Their eyes lingered on Caelen, and she unconsciously moved a little closer to her brother ...

"I have GOT to get her married! thought Callon grimly, thinking of Eryndil hopefully.

The stablemaster finished the letter and nodded his head in approval at its contents. "I'd be glad to have you, lad - and the young lady? Perhaps like to help a bit inside somewhere with some cooking or cleaning?"

Then Callon got a wild idea. Why wait for Eryndil?

"I'd prefer if my wife didn't work right now - we've had a difficult journey, and I'd like her to rest awhile," he said firmly, emphasizing the word "wife" with a bright smile on his face, then turning to stare at Caelen intently with a look that pleaded, "Just go along with me on this one!"

"Especially right now," he added with a final flash of wild inspiration and a (hopefully) sentimental look at Caelen, and had to look away to keep from laughing at the wild variety of emotions flying across his sister's face.

"Oh, I beg your pardon! Your wife, yes, your wife. Of course, of course! Lovely young lady!" he said with a bow. "Pardon me, but you two just seemed like brother and sister - you look a lot alike, you know!"

"Well, yes, we are closely related - family marriage, you know, known each other for years," said Callon with what he hoped was a convincing smile, praying that this would also somewhat explain their manner to each other, which was decidedly not that of a young married couple.

"I'll have one of my men take your lady and your things to the married servants' quarters, then, and she can rest a bit while I show you around."

Callon assented with a smile and a nod, and the bewildered and spluttering Caelen was led off.

As the stablemaster took Callon around the facilities, Callon forgot his worries about his sister. Back with horses! It was so nice - and something he was familiar with and good at. Unconsciously, he began to relax and even enjoy himself. The stables were run down, but decent overall. There were more empty stalls than occupied ones, but the horses were generally well-kept. The tack needed some repair, but he was good at that.

The stablemaster was glad to see that this young man obviously knew his way around horses, and after an hour or so, let him take a break and check on his "wife".

He found his way to their quarters and entered the room to find Caelen pacing back and forth angrily. She whirled around to face him, but he stopped the impending words with an urgent "Shhh!" and a look down the hall at the people passing by. Caelen pursed her lips together and was quiet.

Callon shut the door and sat down on the bed, wishing he was back with the horses. Caelen sat down next to him and hissed in a loud whisper, "Married!? Married?!"

"Well, what else could I do?" whispered Callon back, standing up and starting to pace just as his sister had done. "Did you see all those men in town? Dirty, uncouth ... and then those two fellows with the wheelbarrows in the stables - they were staring at you, Caelen, and I'm sure they weren't just admiring your hair! Maybe it was crazy, but I just had to do something. I had no idea it would be this way here - the king's city overrun by Hillmen! It's disgusting!"

He stopped pacing and knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. "I'm sorry if I did wrong, but that's all I could think of right then," he whispered. "As a married woman, you're a lot safer here."

Caelen was quiet. "I guess you're right, but ... but ..." She shook her head and then leaped to her feet. "Why did you have to go and make me pregnant!?!" she exclaimed, her voice rising in frustration.

The two ladies listening outside of the door shook their heads at each other. "That's just the way men are, ducky," said the first as they quickly but reluctantly walked away, conscious that they had been too long away from their tasks and the head housekeeper would be looking for them soon. "What did you expect when you got married?"

The second woman nodded her head sagely. "She'll feel better about it when she's holding the little baby in her arms," she said, thinking of her own brood at home.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, before noon of October 22, 1347
Written by Valandil
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The breakfast had been as good as promised, and Eryndil’s men were fresh and well-rested this day. They started the horses at a nice easy walk, leading the horses for one spell to stretch their legs, then a last pause to refresh themselves within sight of Cameth Brin’s tower – no more than eight or ten furlongs (a mile or a bit more) away. Then back into the saddle.

At the Four Furlongs Inn – a half-mile from the first bridge – they broke into a canter, Eryndil leading and his men behind in double file, their horses all keeping time. Just as they changed their horses’ gait, they nearly ran down two older men who were walking unsteadily down the road – one in a grey cloak, one in brown. But Eryndil called out to them and they turned in time to avoid an unfortunate meeting. As they turned, Eryndil caught the eye of the taller one – the man in grey. There was something about that face, thought Eryndil. Was it someone familiar? Or was it just the look of dignity in that face, where he expected to see only an old beggar? Well, no time to think about it anymore. There were more than enough displaced Householders and Thanes, and the man could easily be one of them.

Cameth Brin grew larger in their view, towering tall above them. The road, following the Hoarwell River, brought them along the north of it, and over the first bridge, which crossed the stream coming from the High Waterfall. As they passed the tower above them, they crossed the second bridge, which crossed the stream from the Long Waterfall, Eryndil’s favorite, with its run of cascades. Finally, after passing the walled city of Tanoth Brin to their left, where the road ran between the river and a moat which ran under the city wall, they took the left fork and followed it on to another left, over the third bridge and to the gate of Tanoth Brin.

The gate was open and Eryndil was allowed to pass unchallenged – others were coming and going freely, for it was midday. Most of them were townspeople or farmers going in or out with carts they pushed by hand, or in some cases, driving a small wagon pulled by ox, pony or horse. The guards at the gate acknowledged him with a salute, though, for all wore the uniform of Rhudaur. Once through the gate, they slowed their horses and made what speed the roads allowed. But people stood back for them, and a few looked in awe, though their numbers were not so great.


Eryndil had been to Tanoth Brin few enough times before, and up to Cameth Brin but once. He had to admit he felt a little uneasy in the big city - he was so unaccustomed to it. He had positioned Gwiroth just behind him and to his left, in case he had need of direction. Ever-trustworthy Narwaith was behind on his right. Norumar, the big man, was in the second row – he always made a good impression. And bringing up the rear were Nimloss, brother of Narwaith, and Lothrond – one of his other city boys.

On they rode, through the streets of the town, on into and through the crowded, swirling market. Once through the market, the streets became a little more clear and their way easier and faster – for most of the traffic was from the gate to the market at the center of town. At least that was what Gwiroth and Lothrond had told him. Finally, through another gate and out of Cameth Brin, over the bridge that spanned the Cameth River and onto the King’s Road.

Here Eryndil almost stopped but mastered himself and pressed on. For along this road there once had been only a handful of grand estate homes for the highest nobles in the realm. But now the place was filled with rough-looking men, bustling about and in the process of building a new shantytown. He turned to his own men and nodded. This was clearly the place where the King wished him to make a good impression, and his men understood Eryndil's unspoken command to get back into order. Onward then they rode by the camp, with men pausing in their work for a moment to watch them pass, riding in time with one another at a steady, rhythmic trot.

The way soon became a rather steep incline and they slowed their horses to a walk. Then they reached the steepest part of the climb, with the switch-backs. At last they reached the top of the road, and approached the outer gate of Cameth Brin. This gate was also open, but several guards stood nearby and challenged them when they approached. Eryndil was glad for the break. His men had held their order commendably well, but both man and horse were out of breath from the climb. Eryndil brought them all to a halt and dismounted. Before turning his attention back to the captain of the guards, he signaled to his men to water their horses at the roadside trough. Then he turned back to the guardsman and held forth the scroll with the King’s Orders.

The guards were immediately satisfied, but Eryndil waited until the horses were satisfied as well. He then re-mounted and led his men on through the gate and into the outer part of Cameth Brin. They took their horses now to a trot. They were over a bridge almost before he noticed it – really the road crossed over a sort of culvert. This upper city was much more orderly – and clearly a good deal richer. In a short way they were before the second gate. This gate was actually shut, even in midday, and this time Eryndil and his men all stayed in their saddles. The guards there were also quickly satisfied with his , and a call was given for the gate to be opened.

Once through the gate they were led to the left, before the stables, and asked to dismount. Stable hands saw to the feeding, watering and grooming of their steeds, and the men were directed to some benches and tables, where bread, cheese and water were brought to them. Eryndil watched for Callon, curious if his letter had successfully gotten him a position there, but he didn’t see him.

Once the gate had been closed, one of the guardsmen ran off to the right, past the tower and toward the palace. He soon returned with a tall, well-dressed, dignified looking man. The guard pointed out Eryndil before returning to his post. Eryndil stood, and the man approached him.

“Eryndil, son of Camglas of Ostinand, welcome to Cameth Brin. I am Orefim, Chancellor to King Tarnendur. If you will please accompany me…” and he bowed somewhat, gesturing behind himself.

Eryndil had been prepared for this. He nodded to his men. Nimloss and Lothrond came up just behind him. They would accompany him before the King, while Narwaith stayed behind in charge of the other men. Eryndil had decided against bringing Norumar, for if he drew the King’s eye he might be taken into the King’s own guard. So Norumar remained seated, and Eryndil walked beside Orefim, with Nimloss and Lothrond falling into step just behind.

Orefim led them past the tower and on into the royal palace. Past the guards they went, up the stairs one level, then down the hall. Two more guards stood at an open door, and when Orefim reached the threshold, he stopped and called out in a loud voice:

"Eryndil of the King's Service, son of Camglas the son of Borlost, Thane of Nandemar!"

This was the first time Eryndil had been in the presence of the King. Eryndil was a tall man, as most Dunedain nobles were, but King Tarnendur was taller still. And his countenance was noble, though given more to thoughtfulness than to great activity. Yet at the present, Tarnendur stood, as if he had been pacing the floor. But at Orefim's presentation, he struck a very royal pose, and Eryndil strode forth to him and bowed down on one knee about two paces before him, then waited in silence.

"Arise, son of Camglas, the son of Borlost!" said the King. "For now I desire to be seated, and you will stand and hear me out." At that, Tarnendur signalled for the guards to step outside the room and shut the door. Even Nimloss and Lothrond were constrained to wait in the hallway, leaving only Tarnendur, Orefim and Eryndil in the chamber. Eryndil rose and stood still, his hands clasped behind his back, while Tarnendur approached and descended into an ornate, rather uncomfortable looking chair.

"I suppose you're wondering why I have summoned you here?"

Eryndil's instincts told him correctly it was best to keep his silence.

The King turned reflective, his eyes staring off to the side, and paused for a moment before beginning.

"There is trouble in Rhudaur."

He paused and shifted his gaze to Eryndil's eyes to gauge what effect his few words had made.

"Alright then, I will just tell you right out. Things are not as I have always hoped they would be. And the more I try to make them better, the worse they seem to become! The Dunedain of this land are falling... Falling!"

"Our people have strayed from the Faithfulness that marked the Exiles of Elendil from the King's Men of Numenor who went down into the depths long ago. What then will become of us?"

"Even in the Council of the Realm, there is trouble. Not all who sit upon it are worthy of it. As their King, I look at them... and I cannot trust them!"

Tarnendur looked even more closely at Eryndil and sighed. Then he continued further, his words building in intensity as he spoke, "So... a few weeks ago, I said to Orefim and Lord Nimruzir... 'Find me some men I can trust, men to lean on in these trying times to come! Their loyalty to their King and Kingdom must be unquestioned - and they must be men of shrewdness and activity. Of no less than 50 years,' I said, then, 'no ... 40! And they must hold to the Faith which our people once possessed!' " At this, Orefim fidgeted slightly. " 'Find me six such men, and bring them here to me at Cameth Brin, that they might set a hedge about me, and aid me against the schemes that now beset me.' "

"Well," he said, more slowly now, "They found five - but one of them was dead already. Hmmph! No use to me is that one, not even to himself. But you, Eryndil, were one of the other four men named - and in truth, your fame preceeds you. You are known across the land for your faithfulness, your integrity, your fearlessness - and your fairness. Now, will you grant me this and aid me here as I see fit?"

At last Eryndil knew it was his time to speak, "It is not for me to grant, but for you to ask. For I am but your servant, my Lord King, and would ever do as you desire and command."

"And you claim to possess those qualities which I have required for this assignment?"

"Yes, my King, as for loyalty, age and numbering myself among the Faithful and true. As for shrewdness and activity, that can be best measured by others."

"In truth, others attest to them well enough," and his eyes searched deeply into Eryndil's once more. "Then it is settled! My dream, young man, is to remake this land into what it once was... into what it SHOULD be. But first... we must save it! We were to begin to gather and meet at once - but one of your number has not yet arrived - the other two were in town already. Besides there is a special Council Meeting called for tomorrow which gives me too much to think about - it'll be a Balrog of a time! So - we will start next month - just after the Fall, come back and see me then."

The King rose, and placing a hand on Eryndil's shoulder, began walking him toward the door. "Oh - you will be paid 12 gold crowns per month." Eryndil suppressed the low whistle he might have otherwise made. He had hoped for nine. He could staff a house with 3, keep it stocked with food and supplies for 3 more, if he were careful - he could save 3 and live very well on the 3 left.

"You still have all 12 men of your detachment? Haven't lost one, eh? Well - you may keep them all as your retainers, still on the King's payroll, but at half pay, quartered under your roof." That had figured into Eryndil's calculation, as it was the normal practice. And his men couldn't complain - half-pay, but their food and lodging provided.

"And there is a house all picked out for you. I think you'll be surprised to find what it is. It's in the outer circle of Cameth Brin, near a portion of the south wall, that overlooks... the King's Road."

"King Tarnendur?" Eryndil stopped, remembering something.

"Yes, what is it, young man?" and the King turned to face him directly.

"Horses, Sire?"

"Oh yes - and I heard you did a nice job riding them into town. What about the horses?"

"The horses ridden by my men and myself were on loan from my father - all that he has. I judge that I may need some, even here in town. I think that I may buy from him up to six of them - for your service, oh King. I am sure he would take 15 crowns. The rest I must needs return."

"Fifteen crowns for six horses?"

"They're good horses, Sire."

"Alright then - Orefim!"

"Yes, Your Highness?" asked the other, inclining his head and taking a half step forward.

"Get him 15 crowns for the horses, and five more to pay him up for the rest of this month - he'll have to get his house in order, won't he? Then see that he's added to the roll to get his 12 crowns on the First of each month." Orefim bowed in response.

The King turned back toward Eryndil. "Take these days to get your house in order, to learn the city - and to start keeping your eyes open. I will summon you when I need you - probably after the First. From then, you will likely be here every day - at least part of the day - unless you're sent elsewhere at my word. Take heed now, and good day."

Eryndil bowed, the doors were thrown open, and Orefim and Eryndil strode back down the hall the way they had come, Nimloss and Lothrond falling in step.

"So - I am to have a house in the city?" asked Eryndil.

"Yes," said Orefim with a smile. "You will find that it's an old family heirloom."

Eryndil's eyes widened. This could only mean one thing, and THIS he had to see. Rhudaur's third King, Hyarandil, had moved his capital to Cameth Brin, but his eldest son, Tarnendil, had bid all his nobles to build winter homes in the city, that they might be drawn together in unity. Eryndil's great-great-grandfather, the 15th Thane of Nandemar, had built one at that time, by family tradition - though none now knew what had become of it. For his family had left town and not returned to live there again after Tarnendil was slain - over 200 years ago.

And now... the house was to be his! A surge of delight swept through Eryndil as they neared his men, still waiting by the stables.

But a man who Eryndil didn't know stepped before his men and addressed him, his cap held before himself and a smile on his face.

"Begging your pardon, sir Eryndil, is it? I am the King's stablemaster, and I wished to thank you for the recommendation of the good lad Callon, who brought me his letter from you. Knows his horses for sure, that one!" And then he winked and tilted his head, adding in a low voice, "and he has a sweet young wife besides - that Caelen!"

His heart suddenly sinking, Eryndil tried to master his expression, but felt that it must be in vain - his words at least would not betray him. Why would they lie to him, and claim that they were only brother and sister?


Chapter 15 - Home in the City

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Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 22, 1347
Written by Rian
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Caelen leaned against the wall moodily, looking out at the blue sky traced with wisps of clouds. Last night and this morning had been awful - she never could lie well, and this keeping up of the pretence of being married and "expecting" was driving her to distraction. This morning was the worst - the well-meaning women smiling and laughing, trying to include the newcomer, not knowing that she was lying to all of them ... At least when Callon was there, she could just smile and remain quiet as she imagined a modest pregnant women would be around her husband, but being around only the women ... She had excused herself as soon as she possibly could, and amid calls of "Go lie down now, dear, you'll feel better in a month or so," forced herself to walk (how did pregnant women walk? Would her walk give her away?) instead of run down the hall to the fresh air outside.

She watched a bird flit across the sky and perch on the wall next to her, flicking its tail and turning its head to examine her with its bright eye. But the bird was not the only one watching her.

"I wish I could fly away with you," she said softly. The bird flicked its tail again and gave a little trill. "You have it easy - you can go wherever you want to ... " She stopped in mid-sentence as the shadow of a hawk darkened the courtyard and the bird flew swiftly for cover.

"I'm afraid none of us can truly do that, and the wise will acknowledge this and work with it instead of fighting it," said a lovely Elven lady as she walked quietly up to Caelen. "I'm sorry to have startled you, but we seem to have the same taste in quiet places! My name is Arinya, and I am the tutor to the Princess Tarniel. You must be Caelen, are you not?"

"I am, my lady," said Caelen, too startled to say more.

"Please, call me Arinya," returned the tutor.

"Even though it is no longer 'morning' here?" answered Caelen, recovering her wits and wishing the tutor to know that she was at least somewhat learned in Elven-lore.

"You have spoken truly, in more ways than one, Caelen - you are 'bright' indeed!"

Caelen looked down and blushed, pleased at the tutor's praise. "My mother taught us much - when she could get us off of our horses, that is! I resented it at the time, but now I'm so grateful! I love to read!"

"Do you have any of your mother's books with you? I would enjoy seeing them, as I love reading myself!"

Caelen stiffened and looked away, as memories of her mother's beloved books, charred and smoking in the ruins of their home, returned in a rush.

Arinya looked at her, intrigued. Most people would have tried to fill the awkward silence, but she remained quiet, willing the girl to continue.

Caelen looked up. "All of her books were burned in the fire that destroyed our home and took the lives of my parents and siblings," she said unevenly, not quite sure why she was confiding in this lady.

Arinya looked at her sorrowfully. "I'm truly grieved to hear that, Caelen," she said. Looking off into the distance, she added, more to herself than to Caelen, "We truly cannot go where we want to..."

Now it was Caelen's turn to be intrigued. However, Arinya did not provide explanations. Instead, she smiled again and said, "But right now, we can go where we want to - if you would like to go to my chambers and see my books, that is!"

Caelen smiled. "I would," she replied, and they walked off together - Caelen very glad to leave intrigues behind her, at least for the moment.


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Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 22, 1347
Written by Valandil
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Orefim assigned a servant to show Eryndil and his men the way to their new home. Deciding they needed to stretch their legs, Eryndil commanded his men to walk and lead their horses. They went out of the inner gate of the palace grounds and back into the outer part of Cameth Brin. About halfway to the outer gate, when the market was to their left, they took a right. Then they passed along their course, winding through streets in a succession of twists and turns that Eryndil soon lost track of. It was unusual for a Dunedain city to be laid out in this manner, rather than the usual orderliness - but in fact a Dunedain order had been imposed here, as much as was allowed by the wild contours atop this rocky place - without leveling the whole thing.

At last they reached the house. It was the fourth from the corner on its street and faced north, and all the houses about it had a similar look. It was tall (3 or 4 storeys above the Ground Floor) and narrow - but the buildings here had at least a little space between them, unlike those on the streets of Taneth Brin below, which were mostly built right up against each other.

Another man from Orefim had been sent ahead as a messenger to prepare the household for his arrival, so when they passed through the gates into a small front courtyard, all the household servants were assembled at the front steps: 4 men, 4 women and two small children as well (a boy and a girl).

The two senior servants stepped forward and bowing their heads, welcomed Eryndil to his home and introduced themselves. Soromo was the head servant. He was a good deal past 100 if a Dunedain (and he was, mostly), tall and slender with a look of dignity and reserve. His silver colored hair was combed straight back, and he was clean-shaven, and wore a long dark gown and usually kept his hands together over his chest, the five fingertips on one hand in constant contact with those on the other. Eryndil would later find that he had a son serving in the King's army in some other part of Rhudaur, but learned little more of Soromo's family at first.

The house-mistress was Soromo's opposite. Naneth by name, she was in her 50's and stout, less than half-Dunedain and rather less reserved or dignified. Her hair, in streaks of gray and fading red, was pulled back and tied in a bun in back. She wore a simple dress and a stained apron. Naneth was a widow and had two grown children - her son was the house lackey and she had no idea where her daughter was, for she had run off with some man a few years back.

Soromo introduced the other servants, all apparently of mixed heritage, to greater and lesser extents (mostly lesser Dunedain), but Eryndil couldn't keep track of all the names at first meeting. They were:

The other men:
* Borngol - the "jack-of-all-trades" that Soromo could usually rely on to get things done. In his late 40's or early 50's.
* The house lackey - the half-wit son of Naneth - strong-looking with blonde hair, in his early 30's
* A young stable hand - no more than 20

The other women:
* A cook who was a little more Dunedain than most, and very dark of complexion and hair. Maybe 40, but hard to tell.
* A maid with long hair. She was in her 30's. Soromo did not introduce the children, but they clung to her tightly, and Eryndil later learned that her husband had left her.
* A scullery maid in her mid-teens - she never spoke a word and was thought mute.

After the introductions, Borngol, the lackey and the stablehand led the horses through a narrow gate on one side of the house, while Soromo led Eryndil and his men through the front door, the other servants bringing up the rear. They passed through the vestibule and into the Gallery, then back through the house to the high Dining Hall, where a meal was set out for them. They were invited to dine before concluding the tour. The food had a flavor of the far south to it - meats and vegetables roasted with various spices and sauces, rice, goat cheese, rolled grape leaves and flat bread - more like what was served up in Umbar than even Gondor.

Eryndil's men were assigned to their quarters, and then Eryndil was taken through the remainder of the house. He selected a room at the front of the third floor to be his own - it had a high vaulted ceiling in front - for the part of the building that was four floors went back from behind there. It was really quite a spacious place, and Eryndil would later learn that Soromo and Naneth had run a boarding house from it before it was cleared out for Eryndil earlier this month by the King's command.

After completing his tour of the place by inspecting the servants’ quarters on the fourth floor, Eryndil went back to his newly chosen room on the third, and called for writing instruments. In a short time the maid came, with pen and paper, followed closely by the lackey with his bag – containing all his earthly possessions not on his person, and soon after by the cook, who bore a mug of water and some pastry on a plate. “Dessert, sir!” she said with a big smile, and departed along with the others in their turn.

So – Eryndil sat down to eat before sitting down to write. The pastry was beyond his experience (as much of the dinner had been), a flaky, multi-layered crust, with some crushed nuts and something else, he wasn’t sure what – the whole thing was just soaked with honey! He thought it was one of the best tasting things he had ever eaten!

His dessert finished, Eryndil turned himself to his pen and paper to write. But just then there came a tapping on the door.

“Yes?” called Eryndil.

“A message from the palace area for Sir Eryndil.” It was Soromo’s voice.

“Enter,” said Eryndil, rising and extending his hand to receive it. He wondered that some new word would come so soon. Soromo gave him the note and waited. Eryndil gave it a quick perusal and saw that it was from Callon. His insides felt knotted up and he realized his eyebrows were wrinkled and his mouth set. He turned to Soromo.

“The messenger who delivered this, is he still here?”

“Yes, Sir Eryndil.”

“Good – have him wait – and give him refreshment, please. I will call when I have made reply.”

Soromo departed, a bit less than satisfied, then Eryndil went slowly to his chair, sat and drew the letter back before his eyes to read it in full.


Greetings Good Sir Eryndil,
We hope that the final portion of your journey went well and you're getting nicely settled in here at Cameth Brin.
Honestly, our own ride here was somewhat troubling. We made it through the countryside alright, and the lower city, but on the last stretch, The King’s Road, no less – we saw the very men among whom we had fallen into, back on the road, and from whom you rescued us. They were part of the ragtag army setting up huts and shelters along the roadside there. They saw us too – and the looks they gave my sister again made me angry – almost beyond reason. And then, while your letter to the stablemaster on my behalf was well received, and I was given work here (and I thank you again for that), the other stable hands looked at Caelen in a way that left little doubt of where their thoughts were going.
Perhaps I acted wrongly, but I panicked, and told them that Caelen was my wife – and even that she was with child! I only wanted to protect her, and hoped that this little ruse would make everyone keep their distance from her.
It was probably not the wisest thing to do, but I have seen her treated terribly once now – and the clouds of similar treatment had long been over her head – which is why we were on the road in the first place. If it was your own sister, what would you have done?
Nonetheless, since you know the truth about us, that we are only brother and sister, I ask that you not reveal us.
I had hoped to tell you about this in person, but I was out exercising a team of horses when you came. Other duties call me now, but the servant who guided you to your new home offers to return there with my note to you.
Caelen and I have both enjoyed getting to know you thus far, and we truly hope we may see you regularly here in Cameth Brin.
Sincerely,
Callon

Eryndil read it over three times, and finally put it down in disbelief. So they were NOT married? They really WERE brother and sister! Or were they? He wasn’t sure WHAT to believe. Yes, yes – this MUST be true. He picked it back up and re-read they part about ‘why’.

After a few moments he paused and looked away, deep in thought. He needed to make some sort of reply, for sure. Besides, Soromo and maybe all the house would expect that he did – for he had said he would. So – he took up pen and paper at last, but for a different task than his initial intent.

Greetings Callon,
I have received your note, and this is what I think.
I advise against the course of action you have chosen. You deceive, and to deceive is wrong. Even when done to do what seems right, as you have in this case, the wrong always works its way back in, in unexpected ways.
However, I am not insensitive to the pressures you must have felt at the time – alone in a strange place, surrounded by what appeared to be hostile intentions.
Further, I will keep your confidence, and will not disclose the true nature of your connection with Caelen.
Lastly – I feel quite confident that we may see much of one another in Cameth Brin, and rest assured, that to do so will give me great pleasure.
Regards,
Eryndil

That done, he closed it up, sealed it with wax from a candle and wrote “Callon, Royal Stables” upon the outside, went to the door and called for a servant. Within two minutes, he was satisfied to watch the messenger emerge from the house into the front courtyard below, and thence to the street and on up toward the gate to the inner city.

Then he returned once more to his table and lowered himself slowly into his chair. He began to write once more – this time on his twice-delayed task:

Camglas son of Borlost,
Thane of Nandemar at Ostinand,
October 22, 1347

Father,
I have safely arrived at Cameth Brin. The horses you lent me are all well. I ask now a boon of you. My duties here may require horses of my own. I would purchase up to six of them from you, if I could. The King Tarnendur has generously agreed to pay 15 gold crowns for six of them. The rest, the other six of yours, and the three of your neighbor, I here return to you. I ask that you receive also the coin sent along with them, or else return 2 Ѕ crowns for each horse you keep, of the four ridden by my men. Two I have kept here.
Father – the King treats me well indeed. In addition to my pay, I am given the house built here in town by your great-grandfather, more than 200 years ago! Long ago we left it behind, and now it is restored to us!
More, the house is very spacious, and my pay exceeds my needs. Father – I urge you and mother to come, spend the winter here with me. Dornendur can handle things there for this winter, and you can return before time for spring planting. Bring Hendegil also – or send her, at least, if you will not come. But I hope you will come. It is long since I have spent a Yule with my family. I had hoped to do so this very year, at our long home. But now, that will not be – yet perhaps we can still spend it together – here in this, my new home.
The men who deliver the horses, the coins and this note are under orders to await your decision, and to escort you safely here, if you will come.
Your son,
Eryndil

Pleased with the thought of his family coming soon, Eryndil placed the letter inside the bag with the 15 gold crowns. Then he passed the word for Narwaith. In a short while he came, and Eryndil’s instructions to him were brief. He was to stay over and rest one more day, returning to Ostinand starting the day after next, bringing also Nimloss, Hithirion and Griblung. Eryndil outlined for him which two horses he should leave, which four they should ride, and which others to take, and that they were to deliver these other horses and this bag to Eryndil’s father, Thane Camglas of Ostinand. Eryndil outlined the contents of the letter within to Narwaith, and gave him instructions to wait and bring back his family if they would come.

Narwaith only questioned briefly the choice of horses, for one of those to be returned was the best of the lot, but Eryndil held firm. No need to explain how five years before, he and Hendegil had helped deliver that horse – and that it was still her favorite. She had parted with it five days ago for his sake, but now he would return it to her.

The instructions given, Eryndil led the way back downstairs, and went out through the back of the house, to visit the grounds behind. It was a narrow strip of land, but somewhat nicely laid out, for what space was there. It contained a few outbuildings, and at the very rear, a coach house and stable, the latter of which opened, as did a gate beside it, into a sort of alley-way that ran behind the houses on this block. Meanwhile, an impromptu celebration of sorts was under way, with the arrival of the new master to his home, and Eryndil’s rugged woodsmen getting acquainted with the household servants. Ceruvar had just retrieved his harp, a side of meat was set over a burning fire out of doors, with apples roasting near the coals. A couple of the servants had instruments of their own – the cook played a flute and one of the men had a contraption that made sounds when he pushed it together or pulled it apart. The children were running around and laughing. Only Soromo stood apart, silent.

It had been a good day – and was nearly done, for the sun was sinking toward the horizon, his writing had taken him so long. Tomorrow he would begin to learn his way around the streets of this new city, and take a look over the wall at the camp springing up along the King’s Road. Tonight – he would just enjoy.

But the image of a young maiden with auburn hair kept interrupting his more tranquil thoughts.



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Tanoth Brin, afternoon of October 22, 1347
Written by Valandil
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Amid all the hustle and bustle at the gate to Tanoth Brin, two old men made their slow, steady approach. Vagabonds, by the look of them - drifters, maybe displaced, trying to find a way to survive. One wore a cloak and hood of gray, the other of brown. The first may have been a good deal taller, but he slumped over so - as if loaded with a great weight. But in truth, they carried little to burden them.

And though all the others were allowed to pass freely, the guards stepped before these two and challenged them.

"Awright you two, move it along! We got plentya beggars in this here town already."

"Sir, you are mistaken," replied the one in brown. "We are not beggars."

"We have..." said the one in gray, haltingly, "family... in this place."

The guard who had spoken first scowled and sneered, but his fellow intervened, "Let them go in, Danion. They'll be no harm. And, if they indeed have family here..."

The guards let them pass, and the two entered the lower city with heads cast down. When they had walked a block or two past the gates, the one in brown spoke once more to the other. "We are here, Master. How shall we pass our first night in town?"

"I don't know, loyal Harma. What money we have will run out fast, if we stay at an inn every night. And we'll have to eat. We need to find work for our hands, I suppose. Oh - I wish for a good sword, but for too many years I've held no other steel than my own chains and shackles." Then he turned to face the other with a look of gratitude.

But his faithful companion was looking up toward Cameth Brin, towering over them.

"They say she's up there... Master."


Chapter 16 - Morning of the Council Meeting

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Cameth Brin Palace, early morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth was walking along a narrow path in a shadowy forest bathed in moonlight. She felt small stones and tree roots beneath her bare feet and shrubs clinging to the ample skirts of her nightdress. At length she came under the shade of huge pine trees. Somebody was waiting for her there. She barely discerned the shape of a horse with a tall rider on its back. She stopped hesitantly, hoping to remain unnoticed and ready to turn and run away the way she had come. At this moment, the eerie silence of the woods was rent by a horrible shriek. A piercing cold voice rose and fell, ending in a long wail that froze the very marrow of her bones.

Flinging away the fur coverlets, Gimilbeth sat bolt upright in bed. The shriek was still ringing in her ears and her heart was beating frantically. The room was dark, faintly illuminated by the thin predawn light. Cats that usually slept at the foot of Gimilbeth's bed were now fully awake and visibly frightened. Hissing, they jumped away, and disappeared under the bed.

She heard the thud of running feet in the corridor. Without so much as a knock, several guards with drawn swords burst into the room, followed by a bleary-eyed frightened Nimraen.

"What happened, Lady?" asked Vardir, the captain of the night guard. "Who was here? Are you hurt?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," snapped Gimilbeth. "How dare you enter here unannounced and uninvited?" She pulled the blankets up, covering her shoulders and bosom. Morgoth be praised, she thought gruffly, at least she did not put a herbal mask upon her face this night!

Visibly taken aback, Vardir stammered: "But you cried for help, did you not? We clearly heard your cry!"

Gimilbeth lowered her thick eyelashes. So it was she herself who shrieked... Oh, the shame of it!

Ever helpful, Nimraen chimed in, "As you surely know, my lady had been ill and is not yet fully recovered. Perhaps she had a bad dream. Anyway, there was no need to bang in here with no warning. You see for yourselves that Lady Gimilbeth is safe. Leave now and guard the doors!"

Uncomfortable and visibly suspicious, the soldiers bowed and left, some of them making a sign against evil behind their backs.

When they left, Gimilbeth shook her head to clear it and yawned. "What time is it?" she asked Nimraen.

"'An hour before sunrise, my lady. But Lady Arien is so late to show her face in autumn in this cold country. Most people at the Palace are up already. Today there will be the Council held, they say."

Yes, the Council. Gimilbeth shivered. First Council with Broggha. But there was no way out now. She had to be there to stand against the brigand, if needed. She doubted if anybody else were capable of it.


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The Hare and Thistle Inn, Tanoth Brin, early morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Although he had considered it a great hardship, Heggr bathed that morning. What Heggr called a "bath" consisted of merely washing his face, hands and feet, and putting on a clean tunic and breeches. He had considered even that a great imposition.

Since he was at last "courting," he had even toyed with a concept that would be a bold move for him - a full bath. However, when he set out to instrument the audacious idea, he found that the ice was still upon the pail of water, and he had quickly discarded the plan. Now that he considered it, he could not remember ever having a full "take off all your clothes and get totally drenched in water" bath in his life. He doubted that he had even been washed on the day he was born. He was not about to break an established precedent on account of a mere woman, even though she was very pretty.

Heggr felt the way a thrashed dog feels after it had been beaten for being caught sucking eggs. The treasures that he had stolen for Fainwen had been taken from him, and he had been given no reimbursement. Nothing could be done about it now, for the princess' nightgown and jeweled jar were lost to him forever. At least one thing was in his favor - he had coins in his money pouch.

When he swaggered into the Hare and Thistle Inn near the Cameth River, he saw Fainwen wiping a table with a none-too-clean cloth.

"Where have you been, Heggr?" the woman asked in a none-too-friendly manner. The slightly younger than middle-aged woman went on with her wiping, now judiciously ignoring Heggr, who approached the table where she was working.

"Tending to Jarl Broggha's business and performing acts of derring-do!" Heggr said proudly, puffing out his chest at his own self-importance.

Fainwen arched a brow, held the grayish cloth on the table, and regarded Heggr skeptically. The other early customers of the tavern laughed loudly.

"Derring-do, Heggr? Since when was being drunk most of the time accounted as that?" jibed a gray-bearded man at another table. He cracked a smile, enjoying the sport at Heggr's expense.

"Oddlaug, why don't you shut up?" Heggr muttered at the other man, who scowled and went back to his drinking.

Heggr walked closer to Fainwen, who moved her head to avoid his ripe morning breath.

"Heggr, your breath smells so bad I swear that your entrails are in a state of mortification!"

Heggr had a look of offended dignity and pure hurt, for he was fond of the plump barmaid. "Not much I can do about it," he said gruffly.

"Go to the blacksmith, Heggr, and get some of those teeth pulled out! There are herbs that any apothecary can sell you that would do a world of good at getting rid of that stench! And that brings me to another thing, Heggr!" Fainwen was getting worked up. "Acquaint yourself with soap and water! You smell like a hog in his sty!" She turned from him with a flounce of her skirts and walked back into the kitchen, which was divided from the serving area by a thin curtain.

Heggr sat down at a table by himself. He knew what was really bothering Fainwen. He had not brought her the promised gifts the other night. He knew she was seething at that perceived slight. Only one thing to do for it, he knew - inspire her jealousy. Seeing another barmaid, a fat, red-faced woman, he called her. "What does the house have on its menu for breakfast this morning?"

"Same thing as usual," she yawned as she wiped her hands on the dirty, grease-covered apron over her large stomach. "Porridge, ham, potatoes... pie... bread..." She listed the breakfast menu that seldom varied in the winter. "What do you want, Heggr?"

"A tankard of ale, a large bowl of porridge, ham, potatoes, plenty of bread, and half a pie!"

"Ambitious, aren't you?" She scratched her reddish-veined nose as she stood with one hip cocked and lazily regarded him.

"Aruiniel, after you bring me the food, sit with me, will you?"

Fainwen had just come out of the kitchen, and Heggr saw that she was pretending not to notice them. He smiled as he watched her go to another customer, spying on the woman and him out of the corner of her eye.

"I am particular about whom I sit with, Heggr, and it is not just any gentleman with whom I want to spend my time." She gave him a knowing look that he recognized immediately. "Do you have enough coin, Heggr, to make me want to sit with you?" she asked flirtaciously.

His eyes darted furtively around at the other customers and then fell to the coin pouch tied to his belt. "I think so, Aruiniel. Now get me my breakfast." When she sidled closer to him, he patted her ample hips.

After she had brought him his breakfast, Heggr bought her a tankard of ale. As he ate, she pulled her chair closer to him and put one of her flabby upper arms around his shoulder. Fainwen was back polishing another table, eying them both surreptitiously. Her eyes glowed pure malice as Heggr wiped his greasy mouth off on the back of his sleeve and then kissed Aruinel's chubby cheek.

The huge woman tittered like a young girl. "Oooohh, Heggr! You are a lusty one this morning, aren't you!"

Heggr took another deep swallow from his tankard, and as the ale ran down the corners of his mouth, he pulled the woman's face to him and kissed her rambunctiously, gloating to himself that Fainwen might at last appreciate him. He was correct in his appraisal.

Fainwen walked towards the table. When Heggr told the tale later to Griss, he could not actually say that she "walked;" it was more like the charge of an enraged mare which was guarding her territory.

"Get up, Aruiniel!" she shrilled. "You are sitting with my man!"

"Ooohhh, who is jealous this morning?" came Aruiniel's catty reply.

"None of your business, you slatternly hussy!" Fainwen's gray eyes were full of malice. Fainwen was not a large woman, while Aruiniel would outweigh her by many pounds. Heggr was amazed when Fainwen grabbed Aruiniel's hair and pulled her over backwards in the chair. Aruiniel landed in a hissing pile of skirts and gray, dirty petticoats as Fainwen jumped on top of her, scratching and slapping and cursing in what would not be considered a ladylike fashion by anyone's accounting.

Heggr pulled his chair out of the way, and as he finished eating the piece of pie, he watched the scuffle on the floor.

"Cat fight! Cat fight!" the other men shouted in glee and gave the two plenty of berth as they rolled, wrestled, scratched, hissed and bit as they pulled hair and tussled on the floor.

"I'm betting a coin that Aruiniel will triumph!" the gray-bearded man said and held up a coin.

"I am betting on Fainwen! She's a scrapper!"

Indeed she was, for in a short time, a furious Aruiniel - a lock of greasy hair hanging over her eyes, her clothes torn and her face scratched and an eye looking already swollen - sat sprawled on the floor with Fainwen still pounding her face.

"They're going to kill each other!" the gray beard shouted.

While Aruiniel never admitted defeat, it was obvious that Fainwen had the best of her when she rose to her feet and glared down at her opponent. Folding her arms over her chest, Fainwen watched as the gray beard pulled Aruiniel up. With an air of offended dignity, Aruiniel flounced off to the kitchen to settle her nerves and soothe her injured feelings with a goblet of wine that a patron had not finished.

"Well?" Fainwen demanded as she tapped her foot on the floor.

"Well, what?" a sheepish Heggr asked cautiously.

"Even though you are a sneaking, vulgar, crude, drunken, vile, worthless little man whose breath would gag even a buzzard, you are still my man, Heggr, and never forget it!" She plopped beside him in a chair and drained Aruiniel's unfinished tankard.

"Forgive me, sweetheart," Heggr tried to pacify her by tweaking her cheek.

"What happened to those presents you promised to bring me?" she demanded to know.

"I don't know what it is all about, Fainwen, but I think there are big things afoot." He looked at her doubting face.

"Big things like what?" she glowered at him.

He whispered, "All I know, my dearest love, is that I was told if I asked too many questions, I would never live to be an old man."

Her face sobered at that, for she knew that although Heggr was a shiftless, spineless drunken fool, he was one of the Jarl's men, and the Jarl was marked by destiny for great things.

"All right, I believe you," she sighed.

"I will make it up to you, sweets," Heggr put one hand on her shoulder and sucked on her earlobe.

There was a stir at the door to the tavern as Griss and another soldier walked in. His gaze went immediately to Heggr.

"What are you doing, lounging around in the tavern at this hour? It is past time that you presented yourself for duty! Get up, Heggr! You have been selected as one of the guards to attend Jarl Broggha at the council meeting!"

"Yes, Captain, yes!" Heggr pushed the chair back and saluted his superior officer. Then turning his head, he winked at Fainwen and marched away to the council meeting. After all, the tower where the meeting would be held was close to the palace, and perhaps the princess had left her window open again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, palace garden, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Today the healer had pronunced that Odare, at least, might leave her bed. Amantir, who had not seen her since the day of that disasterous feast, decided now might be a good time to visit her.

He found her in the garden, with a maid close by. Surprisingly, Tarniel was not there.

"Good morning, Princess," he greeted her stiffly, "I trust you are well now?"

She nodded politely to him, "Good morning. I am as well as could be expected, Prince." They faced each other like that for a moment, and next minute Odare suddenly dropped her polite manner and began to giggle. "Princess! When have you ever called me anything but Odare?" She shook with uncontrollable mirth. After a moment of shocked surprise, he found an unwilling smile creep onto his face as well. He began to walk beside her.

"Well, I wasn't sure if you're still angry-"

"Actually, Amantir, I am," she said, but her tone implied otherwise. It was always so with Odare- quick to anger, but not very good at retaining her anger. "I still think you behaved like a fool that day."

"I don't know much about fool," he said, his tone moody, "But yes, I'm not happy... about how I did behave. Not regarding you, of course, I still think you should never have attacked the bear - don't pout, you know very well its the truth - but... I should've done more. Taken control, perhaps. Done something other than think just of running away."

Odare was surprised- she had always regarded him as too much immersed in a weak apathy to even think through that much. But evidently he had woken up from the apathy now - or had he? His next words threw her into doubt again.

"But I'm only the youngest, it is up to my brother and my father, and - how could the let these hillmen into our lands? They caused the entire fiasco, they're untrustworthy"

Odare nodded in agreement to what he was saying. Tarniel's necklace was still missing, and she had a shrewd idea that it might be found in Broggha's camp. "But there is nothing I can do, except sit and watch them have their own way."

"Nothing you can do? Nothing? If you feel so strongly against them, there is plenty you can do! You just have to - I don't know, be a bit braver, develop a spine!"

"What, you want me to fight them and end up like Daurendil, or Nauremir? You think that will help?" he turned on her defensively.

"I didn't say that! No, I mean you should stand up to your father. I don't think anyone trusts these hillmen, and yet, no one is speaking against them! Why don't you do that? So what if you're young, you're still a prince, your word goes for something! Oh, if I was a man, what I wouldn't have done!" and then she stopped short, knowing how unladylike her words must sound. But Amantir was too taken up with the rest of what she said. He had suddenly remembered there was to be a Council today - and maybe he wasn't old enough to be at the Council, but if he could find his way into it, and maybe have a say in what was done - maybe Odare, with all her foolishness, had the right idea about what bravery was, though admittedly attacking bears wasn't bravery, just rashness, but he had to admit she had a point. And taking some kind of action must be better than spending all night and day feeling unworthy and powerless against a few hillmen!



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis and Serenoli
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In the morning, Prince Daurendil went to visit his friend Nauremir, one of the victims of the memorable night of the feast.

Daurendil himself felt lightheaded and slightly disoriented when he stalked across Bar Aran - the Main Square. Daurendil clenched his teeth and straightened his back and concentrated on avoiding the dirty puddles left after the night’s rain. Old Sarador had let him outside for the first time, and it wouldn't be good if the Vulture saw his dizziness, in case he was still watching his patient from one of the Tower’s high windows.

The Prince made his way to the Dunedain Guardhouse on the south side of the square. When the main hall had been hastily evacuated, Nauremir was brought there and put in charge of the garrison physician. Daurendil found him in the guard’s healing rooms.

"How are you, Nauremir, my poor friend? I see you are doing well." In truth, Nauremir looked ghastly, but the Prince was trying to be considerate, as a noble should.

"Ah… Daurendil…" Nauremir managed to squeeze the Prince’s hand and some color appeared on his pale cheeks. "I am glad to see you in good health. I heard you got a nasty blow on your head. By Eru, the Hillman will pay for it!"

"That he will!" Daurendil balled his hands into fists in hot fury. "The King will order him to make amends today. I am eager to see how the scoundrel will wriggle out of it!"

Nauremir nodded. "Trying to kill the King’s Heir is no small matter. Carcharoth’s pelt! High treason, that is what it is! It is a hanging business!"

"My father will see to it," promised Daurendil. "And if he doesn’t, I will see to it myself. Am I not a member of the Council now?"

He paced along the room, gesticulating excitedly, and speaking of his plans for the future. Soon all the Hillmen would be driven from Cameth Brin, never to return!

At length he stopped and said, "But I must go, I have to say good morning to Mother, and then the Council is in an hour. Farewell, Nauremir, try to get better soon. I need you."

In the garden by the palace, Daurendil spotted Amantir and Odaragariel. They were talking, heads held conspiratorially together. Two bored guards were hanging nearby.

Daurendil approached the pair on tiptoe and tugged at the end of one of Odare’s long blond tresses. When she turned furiously, he grinned

"Morning, lady-Oddie! Morning, Am! What mischief are you planning together?"

"I see you're still alive then." Odare replied, her look of chagrin vanishing. "And as for mischief - hark who's talking!" She grinned, and then said seriously, "That was some display against Broggha at the feast, Daurendil."

Daurendil's face clouded over again. "Don't worry your little head about him. He will pay for his actions!"

Amantir spoke up, "Are you so sure that the Council will take action against him, then? So far they have done nothing to oppose him, and -"

"And he will certainly face opposition today! You seem to forget I'm part of the Council now."

"But, perhaps you'd be glad of some support?" Amantir asked suggestively.

"Support?" he quizzed, eyebrows raised.

"The Council has been hesitant to act against Broggha before, and despite all you can say, they might be hesitant again. After all, no one can deny that you did attack first -"

Daurendil's fists had tightened up in fury again. Odare quickly stepped in to help.

"All he means is that those doddering fools who make up most of the Council will only listen to the wily Hillman, if it is only one man speaking against Broggha. And so Amantir and I thought, maybe, you'd want to take someone along with you, someone to second your voice."

"And who would that be, you, lady Oddie?" now his tone was mocking.

"No, your brother Amantir!"

There was silence. Then uncertainly, Daurendil said, "He's too young, they won't let him in."

"I'm not asking anyone's permission!" replied Amantir hotly. "I'm a prince of this country, and I deserve a say. I don't need permission from anyone!"

For a second, Daurendil looked shocked. Then an unwilling grin crept across his face. "Well, if you can be that spirited at the Council, perhaps they'll listen to you after all. And even little Odare here," (Odaragariel scowled at being called 'little') "has been privy to the Council, so maybe its your turn."

There was a moment of shared smiles, unusual among the three. Then Daurendil departed, saying he had to visit Mother, and "You do know where the Council is being held, don't you? It's starting in an hour, don't forget!"

And with a lopsided grin, he walked off.


Chapter 17 - The Droll Trio

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Broggha’s Estate near Cameth Brin, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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As she always did, Malaneth was assisting Jarl Broggha in dressing that morning of October 23. Recently, he had ordered a complete new wardrobe that would reflect his rising prominence in Rhudaur. The tailor was Faron, who was said to be the best tailor in the city. One of the small boys who was apprenticed to Faron had delivered the garments only yesterday. Faron was also Broggha's contact to the highly positioned Rhudaurian lord in the country's government, the spy for the King of Angmar. Broggha did not know the identity of this lord, but he never questioned why this information had not been revealed to him. There were some questions better left unasked. Perhaps Broggha would be told in time if it were the will of his master, but he was not concerned about the matter.

He frowned at Malaneth as she touched the silver amulet that he wore on a chain about his neck. "Woman, I told you never to touch that!"

Averting her eyes, she quickly pulled her hand away. "My lord, my apologies, but the charm is quite lovely."

His glance raked over her face as he slid the blue wool tunic over his head. "Since you are so fond of baubles, fetch the golden amulet from my box and drape it about my neck."

"Aye, my lord." She handed him the magnificent new cloak of stitched-together lynx pelts. The cloak was cream colored, speckled with large patches of umber and tan, and sported a furry ruff around the neck. She fastened the cloak at the neck with a jeweled brooch.

"I am displeased that Aewen did not attend me at my toilet this morning. Deliver the message to her that I am quite disappointed in her."

Malaneth caught the Jarl's gaze. "My lord, she was ill at her stomach, indisposed with the sickness that strikes in the morning," she explained.

Scowling, Broggha said, "Go to the old midwife in the village today and purchase from her whatever elixirs might be needed to settle my ward's distressed constitution."

"Aye, my lord," she replied.

Jarl Broggha reached out for Malaneth, and, clutching her in a tight grasp, he bent down and kissed her soft lips. Her arms clung to his neck.

"My lord, I will miss you today," she sighed. "Will you be gone long?"

"That is a question I cannot answer. It all depends upon how reasonable I find King Tarnendur."

***

As Jarl Broggha and his escort rode up the hill to the tower, the huge, red-bearded hillman reflected on the demands that he would make of King Tarnendur. Crown Prince Daurendil and his friend, Nauremir, had attempted to murder him at the feast. Broggha had considered killing young Daurendil then, but the bloody slaying of the crown prince in the capital city - no matter how good the reason - would cause too much of an uproar and perhaps earn the false sympathies of Cardolain and Arthedain. The prince would die in time, but from purely "natural" causes.

Actually, the assassination plot had worked to his advantage, costing him only a little of his own blood, and clearly putting him in the position of "wounded party." The crown prince and his friends had been clearly wrong and, by every precept of civilized man, Broggha was totally in the right.

King Tarnendur was in a poor position to bargain with Broggha. The hillman had the undeniable support of his own army and of his clans and people. Broggha could ask almost anything he wished of the king, and the king would be hard put to deny him.

Upon arrival at the tower, grooms had led away the horses of Broggha and his men to the stables. He and his entourage walked up the flights of stairs until the fourth level of the tower. He nodded to the guards who opened the doors for him.

As he stood poised to enter, he thought to himself, "The public execution of Daurendil's friend Nauremir and the exile of Daurendil himself to another country? Half the kingdom as wereguild? Or the hand of the maiden, Princess Tarniel, in marriage? What shall I demand of the decrepit old king?"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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The King looked around the Council table. Everyone was there: Daurendil, flushed and visibly nervous on his right, Gimilbeth, immobile like a wax figure on his left. And in the next chair, there sat Broggha, large, sumptuously dressed and confident.

The Hillman brigand had arrived early and with a great display of chivalry helped Gimilbeth into her chair, taking the one next to her. "It is my greatest pleasure to sit next to the fairest lady in the land," Broggha said with a predatory smile addressed both to Gimilbeth and to the bewildered Curugil, whose place he had taken. The King saw all this but chose not to interfere. The question of precedence was a small matter in comparison with the problem of the attack on Broggha that the stupid youngsters had perpetrated, failing miserably and putting the crown in jeopardy.

Who knows what weregild, what blood money the Hillman would now demand? And what if, indeed, he would ask for more? This very morning, Gimilbeth had advised him to deliver poor young Nauremir, his son’s best friend, into Broggha’s hands to pacify the brigand! How could his own daughter be so heartless? Tarnendur was prepared to pay, to give away money, lands and titles, but he vowed not to waste Dunedain lives. "We have become so few…" Tarnendur thought grimly. "Every Dunedain life is a treasure and the lives of those of the House of Elendil even more so!"

The King rose wearily to his feet. Deadly silence hung in the room. His own voice sounded hollow and remote like that of a ghost when he opened the Council with a few customary words. He greeted the new member of the Council, Broggha, Count of Pennmorva, expressed his regrets on the matter of the unfortunate occurrences at the feast and promised to punish all the instigators of the fight, starting with the man who brought in the dogs that attacked the bear and started all the commotion.

Broggha’s face visibly darkened. He rose to his feet and waited till the King finished his lame speech and sat down. Then the Hillman started talking in a powerful, commanding voice. Tarnendur felt all the blood drain from his heart. It was much worse than he ever supposed it to be…

***

Broggha's cold blue eyes roamed over the council chamber before settling on Daurendil briefly. Perceiving the nervous tension written on the young man's face, Broggha smiled disdainfully at Daurendil and then directed his attention to King Tarnendur. Relishing the power he knew he held over these descendants of the arrogant Nъmenуreans, he stood for a time as though in meditation before he spoke. Then when his great, deep voice boomed out across the hall, there was a tinge of sorrowful regret in his words.

"My lords and ladies and august members of this council, I take my place here today as a representative of my people. Realizing the great significance of this event, I had prepared a speech of conciliation, calling for unity among our peoples. However, the events that have transpired recently have made my planned words moot." Pausing, Broggha waited for the impact of his words to sink in. He noted with satisfaction that the king's face was slightly paler than it had been before. Daurendil appeared even more nervous than he had before, while Princess Gimilbeth had a look of resignation as though she had expected that Broggha's speech would take this turn.

"A few nights past, I came here as a guest, fully expecting hospitality to be extended to me as would any invited guest in a civilized land. What did I find? Instead of the proffered hand of friendship, I found the dagger of the assassin!" At this point, Broggha looked directly at Daurendil, who seemed to sink into his chair.

"How can there ever be peace in a land where such enmity and perfidy exist?" Broggha's voice rose even louder and he slammed his fist upon the table for emphasis. "Though I came here that night with only the purest motives - that of uniting our peoples for the common good - I met pure villainy! Sorely wounded by the hand of Prince Daurendil's friend and cup companion, Nauremir, I barely escaped with my life!"

Broggha noted with satisfaction that King Tarnendur had a bleak, defeated expression upon his face. His eyes bored into the old man's dull ones. "Your Majesty, as a man of honor and integrity, surely you cannot allow such heinous offenses to be perpetuated in the capital city of this country upon a man who wishes only peace!" Mock sorrow on his face, Broggha looked down at the table before continuing.

"Surely, Your Majesty, you would grant to me as the offended party, a man whose honor has been insulted and whose life has been threatened by your young son and his friends, a proof that my life will not be in danger from the very Crown Prince himself?"

King Tarnendur nodded his head weakly in agreement. "Aye."

"Your Majesty," Broggha's tone was conciliatory, "I know you are a man of honor and integrity. Therefore, I do hereby claim - as the injured party - the right of weregild as reparation for the damages inflicted upon me. I also claim that you should offer some guarantee that my life will not be in continual jeopardy from your own court!" Broggha was satisfied that his delivery was infused with the proper amount of righteous indignation, offended dignity, and firm resolution.

"I would wish there were some other way that I could realize satisfaction, but my people have taken this as an insult not only to me, but to themselves. Should you refuse, Your Majesty, to pay this debt in good faith, I cannot guarantee that peace can be maintained!"

His face grim and somber, Broggha waited for the king to speak.


***

Every word that fell from the red-headed cheftain's lips only enraged Daurendil the more. And then he heard his father's weak, 'Aye,' agreement if you will, to whatever the hillman was saying. And then, the thinly veiled threat... I cannot guarantee that peace can be maintained... that set him off.

He did not wait for his father to speak, but got up. "Weregild? You dare come here, claiming injuries, Broggha? You are not a welcome guest, and I do not hold that you deserve anything more than the point of a sword!"

Gasps swept the room. Broggha looked almost satisfied at the Prince's outburst for a moment, his lip curling in obvious disdain - Tarnendur had risen, and Daurendil found his own hand had crept to his sword-hilt.

Then, from outside came the most dreadful hammering. The door was rattling, and shaking, and could not be ignored. Someone got up, and pulled back the bolts, and pushed the door open. There was a crash, a muffled oath from outside, and when all the dust had cleared, they saw, sprawled upon the floor, Prince Amantir, and the Princesses Tarniel and Odaragariel.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Tower, Amantir’s rooms just below the Council Chamber, morning of October 23
Written by Serenoli
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There was a knock on the door. Amantir, who had been pacing around his room, deciding the exact words he would say at the Council meeting, shouted, "Come in!"

Tarniel came in, saying "Amantir, have you seen Odar- … oh, there you are!" she stopped, surprised to see her friend sitting cross-legged on Amantir's bed.

"Shut the door! What are you doing here, Tarniel?"

"Looking for you- the healer sent me to get you, you know it's only the first day since you got out of bed, he says you shouldn't over-exert yourself." Then, pausing slightly, "What are you two doing here alone?"

"Nothing. I'm coming," said Odare, slightly impatient. Outside, the clock chimed the hour, and Amantir and she exchanged glances. Already they could hear the soft thuds of footsteps on the staircase outside, meaning the Council-members were arriving. "When should we go, do you think?"

Amantir sent a repressive look at Tarniel, meant to convey that this was something he and Odare wanted to discuss without her present. When she didn't budge, he replied in a low voice, "We don't want to go at the very start, they'll just try to make us leave. As I see it, we should interrupt them just when Daur is talking, and say... what we have to say."

"And how do we know when he's talking? You want me to eavesdrop? It is not ladylike to stoop at keyholes-"

"That is not a problem, you can hear everything from my window if you lean out far enough, they're only a floor above, you know." Amantir moved to his window and sat down on the wide window sill, leaning his head out. "Hmm... doesn't sound like it started yet." Then catching sight of Tarniel again, he put on an elder-brotherly tone and said commandingly, "Tarniel, why are you still here? Odare will come when she's ready, you can rest assured."

Tarniel looked puzzled and indignant at the two of them, especially Odare, who was staring intently at a bit of lacework on her dress. Then, folding her arms, she sat down on the nearest chair and asked, "What are you two plotting? Odare, you'll get into trouble again!"

"We're not plotting anything! We're doing something very important... anyway, I'd've told you, but it's not just some fun scheme, and besides, you're too-"

"Too young. Scamper off, little sis," said Amantir, now straining to hear the murmured words coming from above, and proving that the most cowardly of men can still be royal with younger sisters.

"I am not scampering! And what are you trying to listen to? Where are you going?"

"Shhh!" Odare put a warning finger on her lips. She was now leaning over Amantir's shoulders, and they could now make out the King's voice. A few words and phrases came floating down to them- esteemed guests... unfortunate occurences... decisions to take...

Then, then there was a scraping of chairs, and Broggha's voice, deeper and rougher than the King's, came floating down. This time they could hear more clearly, and as they listened, it was obvious from both Odaragariel and Amantir's faces that they did not like what they were hearing. Even Tarniel, still puzzled, did not interrupt them anymore. None of them were puzzled to hear Broggha's speech interrupted before long by Daurendil's angry voice. Amantir and Odare nodded to each other, and Odare whispered, "Time to go."

And they slunk out of his room, and up the stairs, with Tarniel following them. She had now realised what they were about to do, and was pulling vainly at them, whispering warnings of what would happen to them if they interrupted the Council.

They came running up the stairs, and immediately encountered their first obstacles, two guards on duty outside the door. Quick as thought, Odare shouted in a frightened, broken voice, "Guards! We're being pursued, downstairs-"

She didn't need to say more. The two guards looked at each other, and then pounded down the stairs, and the three ran to the door.

"Good acting!" Amantir said fervently. He grabbed the door and pulled. It didnt budge. He rattled it some more, scarcely aware that the noise inside had died. Odare grabbed the door and pulled, and at the same moment, Tarniel grabbed both their cloaks, and pulled.

Someone from inside unbolted and opened the door, and unprepared, all three tumbled backwards and fell on top of each other. They got up to find the entire Council staring at them.

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then, Amantir shakily began, "Um, Good morning, I thought I'd just, um..."

Odare poked him with her elbow, and he went on, "Come up here to lend support to Prince Daurendil. I agree with him," he finished rather lamely, and waited to see what would happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, late morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis, Serenoli and Elfhild
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The sight of the droll trio at the door lessened somehow the tension in the room. Old Nimruzir of Fennas Drunin slapped his thigh and laughed aloud approvingly, while the younger counselors, Elured and Belzagar smirked quietly. Gimilbeth arched her brows in disapproval, striving to remain non-committal. Broggha kept a morose silence, biding his time.

"Children," chided the King, "enough of this foolishness! You are a grown man, Amantir, but still you indulge in silly pranks. It is the Council of Rhudaur here and you have no call to attend it, as you know yourself full well. But you have even brought Odaragariel and your young sister here!"

"But that's because we want to help!" Odaragariel piped in.

Tarniel remained silent, close to tears, her cheeks pink from embarassment. When Tarniel had landed in a heap with Odaragariel and Amantir in the council chamber, she had wanted to disappear right then and there. She had tried to stop them, but now, from all appearances, it looked as though she was an accomplice to their little adventure. Her face flushed crimson as she listened to her father's condemnation of their actions, and she wished she was someplace far, far away. She felt the eyes of the Barbarian upon her, imagining that her dress was gone and she appeared before him naked.

"Yes, we want to second Daurendil's voice!" Amantir finally warmed to the subject and now spoke in a clear young voice that carried easily beyond the open doors up to the guards on the roof.

"I'm a prince of this country, and I deserve a say, be I a Council member or not. Nobody likes to see the barbarian here, it is a hypocrisy to pretend otherwise!"

Odare nodded fiercely in approval. Broggha's face visibly darkened, but he didn't deign to argue with the children. He addressed Tarnendur instead.

"Strange hospitality do I find under your roof, my King. You call us "barbarians," but what has become of the famed Dunedain nobility? First your guest is greeted by the assassin's dagger, then his name gets defamed by a young cur who never learned proper manners as a Prince should! I appeal to your Majesty, stop them now before I endeavor to stop them myself!"

"Don't hearken to him, Father!" Daurendil cried, clutching the hilt of his sword with such force that his knuckles went white. He swallowed and continued in a rush.

"At the feast, the Hillman only got what he deserved, the vile brigand and murderer he is! How many homesteads did he burn before coming here? How many Dunedain lives are on his hands? Gibbet is the only weregild he really deserves!"

"We second that!!!" cried Amantir and Odare. Tarniel brought her cold hands to her burning cheeks and remained silent, wishing she were leagues away from this room. She prayed that no violence would come from the meeting. She shuddered to think of another explosive confrontation like the one which had happened at the feast.

Tarnendur's pent-up frustration suddenly resurfaced. He brought his fist down on the table with a crash. "Get out of here! Now! Don't you dare to meddle uninvited into the affairs of State! Get out and close the doors."

The faces around the table visibly paled. Most of those present knew the King only in his late middle years and didn't even suspect he could produce such a powerful roar. Even Broggha seemed impressed and nodded in approval.

Hearing her father's roar, Tarniel was taken aback, for the king was usually gentle and mild-mannered. He must certainly be incredibly wroth! Tarniel grabbed Odaragariel's hand and began desperately trying to pull her away.

Odare winced, and felt the blood rush up to her cheeks. For a moment, just for a moment, she felt just like a child being remanded for trying to be older than it was. She looked at Amantir, and saw his face, crushed. Then after an eloquent look at his father, who was now trembling with rage, he said, "If you insist, father. But I shall speak more on this later!" he ended defiantly, and finally turned away. And then, Odare obeyed Tarniel’s whispered urgings and the pressure on her hand, and after a final nod at Daurendil, she too, moved away.

The three of them walked off, past the two bewildered guards who questioned them as to their assailants, and Tarniel waved them away. There was such an air of defeat that none of them dared speak to each other.

Behind them, they could once again hear raised voices in the Council-chamber, but they no longer bothered to hear who was speaking or what they were saying. It didn't seem worth it.

Amantir went off to his room alone, with a brooding look on his face, and an awkward silence passed between Tarniel and Odaragariel. "Her pride has probably taken a blow, for no doubt she realizes just what a foolish idea sneaking into the council chamber was," Tarniel thought to herself somewhat smugly, for she had tried to persuade Odaragariel and Amantir not to follow through with their plan to eavesdrop.

To break the silence, Tarniel said, "Umm, do you want to come with me to see how Hurgon's painting is going?" It would be a pleasant distraction, she thought, much needed after the excitement of earlier. They might as well enjoy themselves before the king had words with them.

Odaragariel was aware that Tarniel was resisting the urge to say 'I told you so' and trying to divert her thoughts from what had happened. So, with a half-smile, she replied, "Yes, let's do that," and soon the two were walking down the stairs of the tower, heading for the painter's studio in the palace.


Chapter 18 - Weregild denied

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Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, around noon of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar, Gordis and Serenoli
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Relishing the situation, Broggha watched as King Tarnendur reprimanded the three young people - Amantir, Odaragariel and Tarniel - and ordered them from the council chambers. While the king had handled the awkward situation in an appropriate manner, still Broggha knew that the old man must be embarrassed at the spectacle they had presented before the council. "How truly weak he must have grown," Broggha thought, "if he cannot even control the members of his own house!"

He glanced at Princess Gimilbeth, who watched the scene in disapproving silence. From everything his spies and his own observation told him, she was a strong, intelligent woman. Had she been born a man, she might have presented far more challenges than her aging father, and her two impetuous, headstrong brothers. She bore watching.

Broggha could scarcely believe how easily the royal family was falling apart before his own eyes. Everything that had happened had exceeded Broggha's most extravagant hopes. The king was exactly in the position that Broggha had hoped that he would be. Prince Daurendil had shown the weakness of his youth, allowing his temper once again to begin to get the better of him. With a little taunting, the fool would be ripe to challenge him. Prince Amantir had appeared as hardly a noble, but rather as a surly child. How could Broggha ask for anything more? All that remained was to tighten the fist slowly and extract more concessions from King Tarnendur. The old fool would pay dearly for his son's impetuosity!

"Your Majesty," Broggha spoke, "barring any further outbursts from unexpected intruders, perhaps we can now turn our attentions to discussing my terms, or as it would be more appropriate to say, the demands of my people." He looked to Tarnendur, whose somber face appeared even older and more haggard than it had at the beginning of the council meeting. The king nodded to him to continue.

"Actually, considering the gravity of the offenses against my people and me, the requests are modest and easily met. An attempt upon my life was made, and I was seriously wounded. From his words and actions, I can see that Prince Daurendil has not changed but still holds the same ill feelings for me. He has offered no assurances that he will not threaten me once again." Broggha's face assumed a look of patient injury. "Perhaps I am even in danger as I stand here today." He looked towards the angry Prince Daurendil, who was striving to control his rage. Broggha's lips curled contemptuously as he watched the youth swallow nervously. The council chambers had become deadly silent as the members waited for Broggha to state his intentions.

"For a weregild, I require these conditions be met," Broggha spoke boldly. "I demand the ceding of the lands of Imlad Mitheithel and the surrender of all titles which the crown holds and grant them to me and my descendants perpetually. All deeds and titles will be acknowledged and recorded in the muniments of the library of Cameth Brin and all copies duly recorded will be turned over to me."

His face wearied, the king touched his temples at these words. Prince Daurendil almost stood up at his place, but a look from his father kept him seated. Princess Gimilbeth gave Broggha a look of cold hatred.

"Furthermore, I demand an apology from Prince Daurendil to be rendered to me before the council."

Prince Daurendil gripped the table tightly and looked uncertainly at his father.

"For Nauremir, who is a boon companion of Prince Daurendil," Broggha's eyes almost glittered, "who raised his hand in violence against me and would have taken my life, had he been able, I ask what is my right to ask! I desire his head!"


***

A few moments before Daurendil had seen red, his anger not letting him think even. But now his head seemed to clear. He was still angry, angrier than he had ever been in his life, and it made him feel strangely calm, and assured. The Prince, his fingers still gripping his sword-hilt so tight they hurt, did not rise, did not rush at Broggha as it would be so easy to, and instead, spoke in a would-be calm voice.

"I do not deny it. I at least, have been entirely honest in my dealings with you, Broggha, I have shown you just what I think of you. You demand the lands of Imlad Mitheithel as recompense for your injuries at my hand. And yet you choose lands that are neither mine, nor my father's to give, but belong instead to the Princess Odaragariel, who has, as yet, no cause of quarrel with you. Modest request, indeed.

"You demand an apology from me," he continued, his voice losing its calm every moment, and showing the true extent of the passion that had gripped him. "And Nauremir's head," for a moment he paused, as if too overcome to speak, "Neither of which you shall ever have while I am a prince of these lands!"

He turned to his father, eyes pleading and fierce, "Surely you can not accede to his mad demands! For that is what they are, and they show his true character! He is using us, father, he is using this Council, making a mockery of our laws to gain what he really wants!"

***

Tarnendur felt heartened when he heard his Heir's uncharacteristically calm and assured statement about Imlad Mitheithel. "The boy is right." thought the King. "Perhaps he has grown at last to the stature needed to be my Heir ... but no, it seems he didn't!"

The end of Daurendil's speech made the king ball his fists in frustration again. The Heir's stubborn refusal to admit his fault and to apologize made the matters much worse, especially considering that neither of Broggha's other demands could reasonably be granted. Daurendil ended his speech appealing fiercely to his father "Surely you can not accede to his mad demands!"

Pointedly ignoring Daurendil, the King turned to Broggha.

"My son is yet a minor and he can not answer for his childish words. He lets himself be led astray by his hot-headed friends and by the ardent passions of his youth. I am his father and his liege Lord and I extend my apologies to you, Broggha of Pennmorva, and to your people for his rush words and actions. I will see to it that it never comes to pass again."

A whisper ran around the table at those words. Elured winked at Belzagar: both secretly despised the Heir. Old Curugil muttered something and shook his head in disapproval, while Nimruzir, who was always fond of both the royal boys, his great grand-nephews, frowned and gritted his teeth. Gimilbeth fixed her brother with a sardonic stare, which was wasted, however, as the Prince's eyes were downcast in shame. Daurendil sat pale and stricken, fighting back angry tears. The King continued, his voice stronger now.

"You were wronged, Broggha, and have the right for a weregild. But I cannot grant you the boon you seek. The lands of Imlad Mitheithel are indeed not mine to give or to hold, but belong to the Princes of this land, the oldest noble house of Rhudaur, who came here in the times of Arnor's glory, when the Dunedain were young. The last of this house, Odaragariel of Mitheithel, is my ward. A poor King and a faithless guardian would I be if I dilapidated the lands of the orphan entrusted to my care!"

"As for Nauremir, once he is recovered, I promise that he will be brought before the King's Justice as well as the one who stabbed him treacherously in the back. Every man in my land has the right to fair trial, and his guilt should be proven and his defense voiced, before his head could be forfeit. I will not abandon my wounded kinsman for your henchmen to slaughter! Here is my decision."

Seeing Broggha's darkening face, the members of the Council cringed inwardly. Broggha rose to his feet like a thundercloud, dwarfing the others by his sheer bulk, amplified by his rich furs. But before he could utter his angry words, Gimilbeth by his side suddenly stood and spoke, her voice cold and unemotional.

"Pray do not challenge the King's justice, Lord Broggha. There are some boons that even the King is unable to grant, without loosing his honor. The lands of Imlad Mitheithel you will not have, but there are others from the King's personal domain that you may add to your county of Pennmorva as part of the weregild you seek. I hope for a mutual agreement upon this matter."

Looking into Broggha's blazing blue eyes, Gimilbeth continued, somewhat sardonically.

"As for Nauremir's head, it has become futile to argue over this matter. Nauremir is beyond either your vengeance, Lord Broggha, or your justice, My Lord King. Nauremir died this morning and it is Eru Himself who will judge him now!"

Elured, Nauremir's uncle, gasped at the news. Both the King and Broggha looked equally incredulous. "Too happy a coincidence to be true," thought Tarnendur. "Unless... unless Gimilbeth dispatched him herself with one of her hellwrought potions." The King felt cold sweat on his neck and forehead at such a thought.

Daurendil looked stunned by the awful news of his best friend's demise. "But... but... I saw him this very morning," the Crown-prince stuttered. "He was doing well. How...how can he be dead now?"

“What a poor dimwitted fool!” thought Gimilbeth with disgust. Broggha watched them like a hawk, suspicion written plainly on his face. She wished to strangle Daurendil with her bare hands, slowly, slowly... Instead she smiled most sweetly and said, "I understand your grief, my brother. Please accept my sympathy for your loss. Nauremir died of blood infection about an hour after you left him. I was there to bring the healers some herbs and saw him die. He asked to be buried in their family's crypt at Brochenridge."

Broggha looked from one face to another - King Tarnendur, his face a pasty shade of white, seemed stricken; Prince Daurendil's face was puckered and wrinkled like a small child on the verge of tears; and Gimilbeth appeared very cool and calm as she made her momentous announcement.

"Dead? You say he is dead?" Broggha's great voice thundered as his face turned a livid shade of red and a vein on his forehead ridged. "Do you expect me to believe the convenience of his passing at the very moment that I demanded that he answer for his crimes against my people and me?" His great paw of a fist came down and smashed into the table, sending the tablecloth quivering and the vessels chattering. "Do you expect me to leave here empty handed with none of my demands met!"

"Perfidy!" he shouted as he watched the vessels at last come to equilibrium. "Perfidy! Treachery!"

Gimilbeth arched her brows in the most disdainful manner, practiced to perfection over the years. She replied in a voice cold and dry as snows on the peak of Gundabad. "If you doubt my word, Lord Broggha, you can go visit Nauremir's body yourself. He will be laid in state in the vaults of the Palace for all to see and to say their final farewells, before the coffin is sent south - to Brochenridge."

"Can you not have any respect for the dead?" the King asked sorrowfully. "Whatever he has done in this life will be answered for now in the Halls of Mandos."

Gimilbeth took an exquisitely fashioned handkerchief from her left sleeve and dabbed at the crystal tear that appeared in the corner of her right eye. "My lord Broggha, can you not see that we are overcome with grief? Have you no pity upon a family that has been devastated by the loss of the young prince's cup companion?"

Griss, who had been standing at attention along the side of the room, mused to himself, "The Princess seems sincere... I can almost believe her... No! I do believe her! I can see the sorrow written all over her face! In truth, the young fool must have died!"

A look of incredulity on his face, Broggha's mouth hung slightly open. "Not for one moment do I believe that Nauremir is dead! This is all some trick to deceive me! I demand to see the corpse now!" Broggha's voice was both angry and incredulous.

"Whenever you wish, Lord Broggha," Gimilbeth replied dryly, narrowing her eyes to hide their triumphant gleam in the shade of her dark lashes.

That morning, Gimilbeth had not been idle.

At dawn, shortly after she had scared everyone in the Palace by her terrible shrieks, she went to see her father to give him the unavoidable explanations. Soon their conversation shifted to the approaching Council. The King refused to abandon his young kinsman Nauremir to the vengeance of the bloodthirsty Hillman, as Gimilbeth advised him to do. He became angry and sent his daughter away. Yet, something had to be done to appease Broggha, and, after some reflection, she found the perfect solution to the problem.

Gimilbeth was well-versed in the herb-lore. She knew not only simple potions that Dunedain used for healing, but also some darker draughts and poisons - the legacy of the Downfallen Numenor, preserved only in Umbar.

One potion in particular suited the occasion perfectly well. It was made from an herb common in the White Mountains, nondescript looking and awful tasting. Only the wisest of the Numenorean lore-masters knew that this very herb had been used by the Druedain to send them into a death-like trance lasting for days and weeks.

Hastily, Gimilbeth fetched the dry leaves from her extensive herb collection and prepared the infusion. She hid the vial in her ample skirts as she went to see the unfortunate troublemaker Nauremir in the Guardhouse hospital.

Once there, Gimilbeth greeted Nauremir most sweetly and made herself comfortable in a chair by his bedside. The young man was bewildered and scared to see the dreaded witch of Cameth Brin paying him a surprise visit. Gimilbeth sent the assistant healer who watched the sick man away on an errand and quietly poured the contents of her vial into Nauremir's cup, while the boy was looking away.

The wound was making Nauremir thirsty, so Gimilbeth had no need to wait for long, repeating meaningless condolences, before Nauremir took the cup and made a long swallow. Instantly his eyes bulged, his mouth gaped and horror contorted his handsome features. Gimilbeth, who was watching the young man like a prowling cat watches an unsuspecting mouse, pounced. She clutched Nauremir's throat and forced the rest of the liquid into his mouth.

As she did so, she felt Nauremir's heartbeats in the jugular vein slowing, slowing, until they became indiscernible. Her victim's skin became cold and deathly white with a faint bluish tint, usual for the dead.

Leaving the necessary directions to prepare the body for the funeral and to deposit the coffin on a table in the Palace vaults, Gimilbeth left for the Council, feeling quite pleased with herself.

And now she stood before Broggha - false grief on her face and wicked joy in her heart - and repeated "Whenever you wish, Lord Broggha."


***

Certain that he was being deceived and not quite understanding how, Broggha gave Princess Gimilbeth a suspicious glare. "If Nauremir is truly dead, it is certain that he is not going anywhere for quite some time. Let him cool in the vaults! There is still business to be decided between the King of Rhudaur and me!" His eyes turned to meet those of King Tarnendur.

"Your Majesty, I am an extremely patient man, but I am not a man given to great levity when there are serious matters to be discussed. My men and I came here today expecting that our grievances would be amended and that we would be treated with honor and respect. However, we have been met with nothing but petulant outbursts from Prince Daurendil who refuses to do the manly thing and apologize; refusals to grant the land which I have claimed, and that under the weakest of excuses; further insults to our honor; and now, most conveniently, one of the villains who attempted to take my life has suddenly died! We - my people and I - have suffered everything and have been granted nothing! None of these things serve as a redress for the grievances suffered!" Broggha had allowed his anger to grow rampant, and his voice boomed across the hall.

Belzagar's face showed nothing of his feelings, but inwardly, he was irritated. "Broggha," he thought, "is not handling this as well as could be wished. All that has been achieved is a weak apology from King Tarnendur, and the witch Gimilbeth seems to have gained the initiative here with her sudden announcement of the 'death' of the young villain Nauremir. She is becoming more of a pest, perhaps even a threat, by the day. His Majesty must be apprised of these developments as quickly as possible! The little lords of the sky must be set to flight with their messages."

Belzagar's thoughts quickly roamed towards Lord Alassar, his superior in Carn Dum. He knew how fond the man was of his ravens. "He will see one of his favorites - Honalnыt - soon enough." In the meantime, he would prepare a missive to give to his assistant, Authon, who would see that one of their agents would take it to Broggha. He thought in his mind of what he would write in code but his thoughts were interrupted when Broggha spoke again after a short silence.

"As I have said before, Your Majesty and the lords of this court, I am a patient man. I realize the rashness of Prince Daurendil, and I accept upon his behalf the apology of his sire, Tarnendur. I will not, however, accept a token offering of a few acres to add to my present holdings! To settle this weregild, King Tarnendur, I demand more land, and, in addition to that, I demand a monetary payment... in gold! And if the treasuries of Rhudaur cannot provide the sum that I ask, there are always jewels that can be added for compensation." He looked to Princess Gimilbeth and the smile upon his face was more like a smirk.

At these words, Belzagar's mood brightened. Perhaps he had misjudged the man. He should have known that since His Majesty had chosen the man, it was for a good reason.

***

Weary and disgusted, the King listened to the words of the greedy Hillman. "And if the treasuries of Rhudaur cannot provide the sum that I ask, there are always jewels that can be added for compensation." With that, the scoundrel looked to Gimilbeth with such an ugly smirk upon his face! The Princess with her modestly downcast eyes and tears on her long dark lashes looked at the moment delicate and vulnerable - strikingly alike to his much regretted wife Inzilbeth. Tarnendur suddenly remembered that this very morning the poor child awoke screaming because she saw in a dream the ghastly death of her loving mother... And the brigand dared to threaten her!

The King suddenly saw red. Striving to stop his hands from gripping his sword and cutting off Broggha's red head in one swing, Tarnendur growled, anger and menace clear in his voice.

"What exactly do you mean, Broggha? What weregild do you really deserve? Were you dead, I would have gladly paid half of my treasures to your grieving relatives - if you happen to have any. As it is, you are very much alive, as far as I can see, and not much worse for loosing a little blood at the late Nauremir's hands!"

Tarnendur rose to his feet, his discarded chair crashing into the stone wall. "The Council is closed!" he barked, and made his way towards the door.


Chapter 19 - Narrowly Escaping Embalming

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Cameth Brin, early afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Serenoli, Gordis and Elfhild
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"What's that, Tarniel?"

Tarniel, who had been walking silently beside Odare, said, "What are you talking about? Where?"

Odaragariel nodded towards a procession of people, approaching the Palace, carrying something... something that looked like -

"Is that a coffin?" she asked in a horrified whisper. Tarniel made no answer. Behind them, they heard pounding footsteps... she turned to see Daurendil behind them.

"Is the Council over?" she asked, bewildered. But Daurendil ignored them completely, his eyes fixed on the distant procession, and broke into a run, his face set and desperate. She looked at Tarniel, who was equally bewildered. Without a word, they ran to catch up with him.

They reached the group just in time to hear Daurendil's frenzied query, "Who is that, there, in the coffin?"

They did not need to answer his question. He had already seen the pale, unmoving countenance of Naurmeir in the coffin. Wth a howl of misery, he sank to his knees, murmuring, "I did not believe her when she said it! I did not believe her, and it's true!"


***

Sarador the Royal Surgeon was happy. Embalming was one of the medical procedures he really enjoyed doing. Sure, it was not as exciting as an amputation, but it had its advantages. For one thing, the patient tended to lie still and didn’t distract the surgeon by his thrashing and cries. Also, Sarador enjoyed another possibility to study human anatomy, an endlessly fascinating subject for a scientist.

The old surgeon spotted the coffin from his window, and hurried downstairs two steps at a time, attracted by the corpse as surely as a real vulture would be. He gave an order to bring the body into the palace basement, where he had his anatomy room. He had several hours before the funeral and was not going to waste the precious time. The earlier the inner organs were removed, the better.

Humming softly the tune of a bawdy song popular in the Eastern army of Gondor about a hundred years ago, Sarador took out the instruments from his medical chest and arranged them neatly on the table. There were gleaming knives and scalpels of various sizes, some straight, some curved, forceps and spoons used to clean the body cavities, and Sarador’s favorite small saw for scull trepanation. Nearby stood the assortment of jars of various sizes, waiting for the intestines, the heart, the liver and the brain of the deceased.

The hapless Nauremir lay naked on a bigger table, cold and blue, oblivious to everything. Sarador chose a medium size scalpel and made ready to open Nauremir’s belly with a single practiced stroke.

***

Gimilbeth returned to the Palace feeling quite pleased with herself. Her ruse was a total success, and the brigand Hillman was so astonished that he forgot to press his demands further. Now he would have to wait long for the next Council to be convened... very long. Gimilbeth laughed aloud in the security of her rooms.

Her mood darkened however, when she saw her father waiting for her in her sitting room. The King sat slumped in an armchair, his elbows resting heavily on the polished table. He had a goblet of wine in his hand. He downed it in one long swallow and looked at his daughter with old, reddened, sad eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh and unfathomably weary.

"You have murdered him, Gimilbeth, have you not?"

How old and frail her father suddenly looked! The hands that were holding the goblet were wrinkled and mottled with dark spots. Old age was on the King... early... so early... She felt a pang of pity and put a reassuring hand on his sleeve.

"No I have not," she replied levelly. "Nauremir is not dead, he is simply sleeping. I gave him the potion that will help him to pass for dead for some days."

"Not dead?" echoed the King. "How can it be?" His lips moved for some time silently. Then he sprang to his feet so suddenly that Gimilbeth recoiled.

"But Sarador is taking his guts out this very moment!" he shouted.

"Sarador?" repeated Gimilbeth. She had forgotten about the Old Vulture.

"I told him to embalm the body, as is our custom," whispered the King, completely ashen now.

Without another word, Gimilbeth turned and sprinted downstairs into the Palace basement where Sarador kept his study. She heard the King's shuffling footsteps behind, but she outran him easily. Panting, she flung open the door to the surgeon's study and cried out at the sight that awaited her there.

Sarador was stooping over the body, a gleaming knife in his hand, his beak of a nose casting an ominous shadow on the naked chest of his victim. Gimilbeth's strident cry startled him, making him drop the scalpel right on Nauremir's abdomen.

Sarador arched his brows and pursed his lips in disapproval. It was highly inappropriate for the princess to come here and meddle in his work. Quite unladylike! If she were shocked, she fully deserved it! What else had she hoped to see here but a naked man's body? It was fortunate for her, in fact, that the corpse was still whole! The sturgeon hurried to the side table, took a piece of linen and covered the body up to the neck.

Gimilbeth, however, was not at all disturbed by Nauremir's nudity. She had a good look at the body and sighed in relief. The wretch was still whole, Morgoth be praised!

"Master Sarador, the King has reconsidered, " she said, trying to sound cool. "There will be no embalming."

***

Odare found herself supporting Daurendil, slowly leading him back to the palace. His eyes were unfocused, his limbs unresponsive... he was obviously in deep shock. She brushed back her own tears, found herself tongue-tied, and concentrated on taking him inside somewhere.

They had reached the palace when suddenly Daurendil stopped walking. Tarniel had not followed them, and they were alone in the entrance hall. As if dredging his words from a great depth, Daurendil said, "I saw him today- just an hour before the Council. He was alive, he was cheerful, he was about to recover, I know it!" His words were feverish, tumbling over each other.

"I know, I know it's hard to believe," she replied soothingly, not knowing how to help him accept the truth. "But - he is dead, and-"

"He was not supposed to die!" He almost sceamed these last few words. She gazed silently at him, anguished, and he leaned against the wall behind, eyes closed in a weary gesture. She had not seen him like this before, and had no idea how to handle him.

At that moment, conversing, Hurgon Fernik the painter and the healer who had tended Odare came into the hall. They hesitated when they saw the two standing there, then the healer said quietly, "Princess Odaragariel, you should get back in bed, and rest awhile. It's only your first day up, and you are not strong enough to-"

In a loud voice, Daurendil, his eyes still closed, said, "Don't listen to him, Odare."

"Excuse me, your highness?" said the healer in a confused, aggravated voice.

Daurendil finally opened his eyes. In a bitter voice, he spat out, "Don't trust any of these lying healers! You said, you said he would recover, and look what happened to him! My advice to you, Odare, stay clear of them unless you want to follow Nauremir to the grave!"

The healer looked as if he had been slapped. Hurgon burst out, "But you've got it all wrong! It's not him you should blame, it's the witch Gimilbeth!" and then, as if suddenly realizing he was talking to Gimilbeth's brother, he grew all red, and murmured, "I mean, the bitch, no, the snitch.. I mean, sandwich-"

"What?" said Daurendil, distracted. Odare almost laughed, and stopped herself just in time.

"Slip of tongue... too much wine-drinking... I never meant to call her a witch.. or any of the others... you won't tell her?" he looked up anxiously.

Daurendil looked daggers at the mumbling Hurgon, and turned to the healer with an expression which clearly said, "Tell or else!"

"All I know is that he was fine this morning. And then the Lady Gimilbeth visited him... alone. We do not know what happened in their interview, but he died while she was present. That is to say, she called us to him - he was in a pretty bad state, and she said he had had some kind of fit. And then he - died."

Daurendil did not stay to hear him out. He rushed off once again, and Odare, after giving the still-mortified Hurgon a quick pat, pulled her skirts up and followed him. If he was about to do something rash... and the chances were very high that he was... someone ought to be there to stop him.

***

Hurgon watched the two fleeing royals, and the only wild thought that crossed his mind was that they must be going off to tell Gimilbeth exactly what he had said about her. His one mortal fear on earth was Gimilbeth. There was no choice: he had to run, too.

He shouted, "Hey! Wait a little! You misunderstood me!" But no one listened to him.

They passed the kitchens, the heavy smell of lunch wafting out at them. A burly man walked out, arms full of newly baked rolls of bread. He saw the running trio, and assumed at once that Hurgon was chasing the Prince and Princess. With a war-cry, he launched himself at Hurgon, dropping all the bread; he grabbed Hurgon's collar, and they fell, kicking and struggling onto the ground.

Hurgon picked a roll up and bashed it into the man's mouth, and the man, with a cry of rage, swallowed half the bread in one gulp. That still left the other half, and Hurgon took advantage of the delay to start tickling the man. A small crowd had gathered already, urging on one or the other one. Odaragariel and Daurendil were nowhere to be seen - they had hardly noticed Hurgon on their way to the Tower.

Then, just when Hurgon thought he was winning, he saw the two whizzing past again, now directed towards the Palace. Momentarily distracted, he stopped tickling, and found his hand enclosed in a deathly grip. He let out a yelp of pain. Daurendil, who had pushed roughly through the crowd, took no notice of them, but Odare, still following him, found herself torn between preventing a potential rash act commited by Daurendil in the future, and a rash act being commited by the burly man right under her nose.

Dithering for a while, she decided she liked Hurgon better than Gimilbeth anyway, and sprang on the burly man, her curved dagger in her hand like magic.

"Let him go! What's he done to you?"

"It's all right, my Lady, I've got him, he can't hurt me now." replied the man, pleased that she had witnessed his brave deed. Hurgon whimpered in pain.

"I meant you, you little idiot! Let Hurgon go right now!" Completely wrong-footed, the man let Hurgon go. Odare grabbed his hand and pulled Hurgon to his feet, and once again chased after Daurendil. Hurgon gave a parting kick to the burly man, and then, before any retaliation could occur, he made after Odare.

This time they reached the Palace with no interruptions, and Hurgon, now rather bewildered, but determined to follow them all the same, saw them pounding down the basement stairs. He was just in time to hear Daurendil shout, "You! There you are! Come to gloat over the dead body, have you?"

He was puzzled. Why would Daurendil speak to Odaragariel like that? Then he realized there were two more principals in their little scene - Sarador, the Vulture, looking even more disapproving at the three new entries and Gimilbeth, ashen-faced and panting as if she, too, had been running. Hurgon took one look at her, and yelping, hid behind the nearest column.


***
"Master Sarador, the King has reconsidered," Gimilbeth said, trying to sound cool. "There will be no embalming.”

Sarador straightened his spine in indignation and adjusted the old squirrel fur lined cloak he wore on his shoulders. Gimilbeth watched with amusement how the old Vulture ruffled his feathers preparing to defend his prey.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "With all due respect, what does the King know about proper preservation of corpses? In a week, this here fellow" - he pointed at Nauremir with his gnarled finger - "will stink so much that people away in Fornost will wriggle their noses!"

"It may be so," replied Gimilbeth, taking a cautious step away from the angry surgeon. "But you better explain it to His Majesty directly. He is heading this way."

And indeed, the door suddenly swung open and a living whirlwind rushed into the normally peaceful abode of the sage. Gimilbeth had no time to react before someone’s iron fingers gripped her shoulders in a painful grip and shook her mercilessly as a dog shakes a rat.

When the intruder momentarily stopped his assault, Gimilbeth found herself looking into Daurendil’s face, red and distorted with rage. His eyes looked positively mad like those of a Hillman warrior who had consumed too much of their sacred mushrooms.

"You! There you are! Come to gloat over the dead body, have you?" Daurendil yelled right into Gimilbeth’s face.

Gimilbeth had recovered somewhat and her eyes were shooting daggers back.

"Let me go, you crazy oaf!" she hissed in reply, her voice dripping pure venom. "Unhandle me now, stupid pup, or you will sorely regret it!"

Her hands flew to Daurendil’s wrists, but she lacked the force to dislodge his hands or to wriggle herself free.

Daurendil was shouting something at her again, his grip on her shoulders strong and painful. There were other people in the room, out of Gimilbeth’s field of vision. Odare’s voice was speaking to Daurendil, but he paid it no heed. Someone, possibly Sarador, tried to drag Daurendil away from his sister, but a powerful kick from the Prince sent him flying away. Gimilbeth heard a heavy thud and a string of obscene curses as the old surgeon hit the wall.

Gimilbeth never in her life studied wrestling and deeply despised women who went around swinging swords, striving to imitate men. Women were born weaker, but they had their own viles and tricks - feminine weapons that, if wielded properly, were deadlier than a dagger.

Gimilbeth was simply biding her time now, listening intently through the pandemonium in the room for the weaker sounds outside. Soon her ears caught the only sound she had been waiting for – the sound of heavy shuffling footsteps on the stairs outside. The King was coming.

Gimilbeth gasped aloud as if in pain and shock, fluttered her long eyelashes and willed herself to start crying. Long practice honed this skill to perfection – soon a rain of crystal tears washed down her face. The steps were at the door now. The door was opening when Gimilbeth started moaning for help.

***
Puffing and panting, Tarniel desperately tried to keep up with Odaragariel, Daurendil and Hurgon as they made their mad rush across the palace grounds. Being a young lady who mostly spent her days engaged in very dignified activities such as sewing and embroidery, she soon found herself left in their dust as they raced on. Her mind reeled with panic and confusion; Nauremir was dead, and madness had taken everyone else. And now the usually mild-mannered painter, Hurgon, was brawling with another man, using not swords or daggers as weapons, but rolls of bread!

And then they were off again – Hurgon, rescued by Odaragariel as she and Daurendil ran back towards the palace, now stumbling along behind them. Gasping for breath, Tarniel entered the palace, too addled from her flight to consider how undignified her entry appeared.

"Hail, Lady Tarniel," the confused guards greeted, as equally bewildered bystanders looked on, all wishing to know what was going on.

"Where... where did... they go?" she gasped out.

"You mean Lady Gimilbeth, Prince Daurendil, Lady Odaragariel and the painter?"

Tarniel nodded in affirmation.

"They raced down to the lowest level of the palace, as though they were being chased by a horde of orcs!" the doorman exclaimed. "What is going on? Is there something wrong?"

"It is a very complicated matter..." she replied in a gasp of breath, "but unfortunately I have no time to explain... My gratitude to you! Now I must be finding the others..."

She started to head for the door which led to the stairs, but the king himself came by at that moment, rushing as fast as his old legs would take him. Now Tarniel was really frightened. Running down the steps after her father, she screamed in horror as she saw Daurendil attempting to throttle Gimilbeth. Then her gaze swept to old Sarador, who was staggering to his feet, bracing himself against the wall, and the still body of Nauremir lying on the embalmer's table.

The barrage of horrifying images was too much for her tortured mind to take, and she fell into a swoon at the bottom of the steps.

***
From behind his column, all Hurgon saw was the door. When he saw Tarniel swoon, he was the only one NOT staring horrified at the fighting brother-and-sister duo, and hence the only one who sprang out to her rescue, catching her awkwardly before she hit the ground. He ineffectually fanned her, and muttered, "Uh... My Lady... uh, umm," and then recollecting that you ought to give unconscious people a good shock, he looked in desperation for a jar of cool water, failing which he....

Tarnendur looked at the choas before him, and he just bellowed. It is not certain whether it was anything as loud as the one he had produced earlier that day, but Odare, who had been present both times, was inclined to believe the second was stronger than the first. The scene seemed to freeze in time; Daurendil still holding Gimilbeth, whose face was streaked with tears (exactly two in number, big, fat and very hard to squeeze out of her eyes, but she managed it), Sarador still holding his long knife like a weapon before him. Odare leapt up to Daurendil, and prised his limp hands off, and Tarnendur pulled Gimilbeth away. Daurendil looked like he was about to throw Odare off and attack once more, when suddenly there was a sharp sound.

Hurgon had just slapped a princess.

He himself looked shocked at what he had done, but it had worked, for Tarniel's eyes were fluttering. Odare ran over to see if she was all right, leaving Daurendil unfettered. This point seemed to have crossed Tarnendur's mind as well, for he said, before anyone could start anything, "First of all, Nauremir's dead. I mean, he isn't. I mean," he closed his eyes for a second, as if recollecting himself. "He's alive. Gimilbeth managed it somehow."

This seemed likely to give rise to a host of questions, Daurendil looking a bit stupid suddenly, and Sarador had drawn himself up so much that he was taller than anyone in the room, so Tarnendur continued hurriedly, "Secondly, Daurendil, what do you mean by trying to kill your sister? And, thirdly," he turned to Hurgon, "why did you slap Tarniel?"

The explanations that followed were tedious, often shouted, repetitive and very much interrupted. There was much emotion displayed. Nauremir got his cold cheeks kissed at strange moments, and much tears were spilt over his face. Gimilbeth almost had herself strangled once again when Daurendil learnt how she had 'saved' his friend, and given him such a scare. But in the end, it all came right, and Tarniel specifically begged Tarnendur to stop glaring at harmless Hurgon Fernik, because he was an old dear after all. And it DID come all right, in the end, more or less.


Chapter 20 - Chapter 20. Other Means for Evil Ends

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Cameth Brin, early afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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"Nothing gained! Nothing!" Belzagar was stunned at the King's announcement that the council session was at an end. "Broggha has pressed the old fool too far this time! He should have been content with the offer of additional lands around his estate." His cold, dark eyes flickered over Broggha, who had not left his place at the table, but seemed frozen in the same position, almost as though he were a figure captured in wax.

The other members of the council chamber were as surprised at the King's quick departure as he was and murmured among themselves. Elured turned to the lord beside him and whispered something into his ear. Slowly they all rose to their feet and some gathered together in small groups to discuss what had happened.

Broggha turned his head, his eyes following the king and his close associates as they walked out of the council chamber. Broggha's expression was simple to read - the tall, red-headed giant's face was almost the color of his hair, the knuckles on his clenched fist were almost white, while a muscle jerked spasmodically on his left cheek. At last, Broggha pushed back his chair and turned to leave as his guards and hangers-on went to his side. With a swirl of his magnificent lynx fur cape, he strode from the council chambers.

Belzagar lingered for a while as he wrote down a few notes about the meeting in a small bound book. Most of the other men had left the chambers by the time that Belzagar rose to his feet and went to the stairway landing. Authon, his assistant, was there waiting for him, and together the two men walked silently down the stairs and out into the mulling sunlight of the chilly day. Across the courtyard from them, he saw that Broggha and his men had already collected their horses from the stables and were mounted up. The horses' ironshod hooves clattered on the cobblestone as they trotted by the two men.

Other than a few remarks about the weather, Belzagar and Authon did not speak until after the grooms had brought them their horses and they were mounted up.

"My lord Belzagar, you seem deep in concentration. What transpired at the meeting?" Authon turned to him as their horses trotted past the market, which was in full session with vendors calling out their days' offerings.

"At the meeting, Prince Daurendil made a fool of himself, as is his practice to do."

"We could expect that from him," Authon chuckled, waiting, knowing that Belzagar had not really gotten into the meat of what had transpired at the meeting. Perhaps he was reluctant to discuss it here in the open, so he did not press him until they turned onto the King's Road.

"It appears that Nauremir has outfoxed us and died a most untimely death," Belzagar replied with a tone of amusement in his voice.

"What!" exclaimed a disbelieving Authon. "There must be some trick!"

"Obviously, and I would say that the witch, Gimilbeth, is behind it all. For a woman, she proves tricky, wily - far, far brighter than any of her languishing line."

"Yes, my lord, it would seem so." Authon waited politely for more information to be forthcoming.

"I know you are wondering, Authon, my good fellow, what we gained today. We gained nothing in terms of material advantage, other than a promise of some additional land for Broggha. You know he will not be satisfied with that, but the man needs time to reflect as to what will be his next step. King Tarnendur is presenting a bit of a problem in the achieving of our plans, it seems."

The horses slowed to a walk as they went down the steep, winding grade of the King's Road. At least the descent was not icy, as it sometimes was in the winter when the road became a regular beast of an ice chute for iron-shod horses' hooves.

The air had become more chill by the time the two men had ridden into the courtyard of the Hare and Thistle Inn. Then, over mulled wine, the spymaster and his assistant talked in lowered tones.

Belzagar drew out his bound book, quill pen and inkwell from the box beside him on the floor and began writing, while Authon looked around at the pretty barmaid, who was winking at him as she served the patrons at the adjoining table. Tearing out a sheet from the book, he slid it across the table to Authon. To anyone else seeing the paper, the writing appeared to be a series of meaningless sketches, something one would do in an idle moment with little heed paid to the art.

Authon looked down at the writing and nodded his head. The barmaid had finished serving the other patrons and strolled over to them.

Authon winked at her as he gave her the paper.

"Oh, my lord," she tittered, "you are most outrageously naughty! What a picture! Truly it makes me blush!"

"See that it goes to the right place," Authon grinned lasciviously at her.

She giggled as she folded the paper and pushed it between the cleavage of her square-cut neckline.

"Fetching creature, that," Belzagar remarked as he watched the woman walk away.

One of the men at another table exclaimed in a slurred voice, "I'd like to fetch her!"

"My lord," Authon's voice was low, "it truly amazes me the way you can run a whole spy operation right under the noses of the King's spies and they never suspect a thing!"

"A simple matter when we are dealing with such dull-witted men," Belzagar chuckled.

Both men went back to drinking, each one assured that the message to Broggha would be delivered in a round-about but very efficient way.

"Now," Belzagar thought as he drank his mulled wine, "when we get back to my hall, I must take great thought in the message I compose for His Majesty."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Broggha’s estate near Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Elfhild and Angmar
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After the council meeting, Broggha thundered into his keep. At his approach, the doormen hastily opened the two large doors which led inside. Aewen and Malaneth, who had been warming themselves by the fire in the hearth, looked up in alarm at Broggha, who had just stormed into the large hall. Rising to their feet, they greeted him timidly.

"Hail, my lord," Malaneth began, but Broggha's thundering voice silenced her.

"Silence, wench!" he roared. "I am in no mood for idle chatter!"

"My lord," Aewen ventured timidly, "how went the council meeting?"

"I said that I did not want to talk!" he roared angrily and, bringing his hand back, slapped her across the face.

Taken by surprise, Aewen stumbled to the side and clutched her face in her hands, sobbing.

Malaneth glanced fearfully towards Aewen, and then, trying to mollify the Hillman, she offered hesitantly, "Would you like some mead to soothe you on a cold day?"

He glowered up at her from beneath his ruddy brows, but then his expression softened somewhat. "Aye," he grunted, nodding.

Soon Broggha was sitting by the hearth, sulking over a tankard of mead. In tremulous silence, the two women stood nearby, awaiting his next command. Time seemed to drag by as Broggha slowly drunk from the vessel.

Griss strode into Broggha's great hall, and instantly he was aware of the tension in the room. Aewen's eyes were red from weeping, and there was a nasty looking bruise on the side of her face. Her thoughts impossible to read behind a placid mask, Malaneth sat silently by the fire. Griss had known that Broggha would be in a towering rage after the council meeting, and he saw that he had not been mistaken.

"Well, Griss, what do you have to report?" Broggha's angry voice boomed out and sent echoes through the great hall.

"He is dead," Griss shrugged, "as dead as a butchered beef."
The women glanced to each other, silent questions in their eyes. They wondered what had happened that day, but, judging by Broggha's earlier outburst, they deemed it both futile and dangerous to ask the Jarl anything about the matter. Perhaps when his temper cooled...

"Are you certain about that, Griss?" Broggha asked skeptically.

"Well, I did not examine the body up close if that is what you mean. There was an honor guard, and old Sarador was fluttering around like a black butterfly. I did not think any of them would like it too well if I tried to peel the corpse's eyelids back or try to listen for a heartbeat. From what I could see, though, the stiffness of death had long set in. The man was pasty pale, like a ghost."

"And you are absolutely certain about this?" A dark light burned in the Jarl's eyes.

"YES!" Griss fairly shouted.

"Then I will accept your observations, Captain Griss, but I hope you are not correct. Anything else to report?"

"Well, nothing important. The man is dead. No more can be said about him. He must have died peacefully, though. There was a happy expression on his face. Maybe he had been thinking about women when he expired," Griss chuckled. "We can forget about him now. He is no more a threat."

A gloating smile on his face, Broggha turned to Malaneth. "Fetch Captain Griss meat, bread and warm mead."

"Yes, my lord," she replied and soon had brought Griss the ordered victuals, then retired back to her place at the fire.

Broggha was silent while he downed another tankard of mead. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and deadly. "We did not obtain our expectations at the meeting, but consider that only a minor set-back. King Tarnendur underestimates our people, but before the winter snows begin to fall, he will learn much to his sorrow how very important that we actually are."

His men turned from their tankards and looked expectantly across the table at him. "My lord?" a puzzled Griss asked.

"The lords of Rhudaur are secure in their warm halls. They have grown self-confident and believe they are safe and nothing could harm them. It is time for them to have some visitors, who change their minds and keep them occupied."

Griss set his tankard down on the table and gazed expectantly at Broggha. "My lord, I think I understand. You want some of my men to disguise themselves and go raiding. Superb idea, my lord! They have been getting too lazy sitting around the fires!"

Griss' inability to comprehend sometimes was truly unbelievable, Broggha thought to himself. "Nay, Griss, that is far too risky. There is always the possibility that some men could be captured, and under interrogation, tell all they knew. There are other means to achieve our ends that are far better." For a moment Griss' expression was incomprehensive, and then he smiled knowingly.

"You mean the orcs, my lord? But still, I do not quite understand."

"You will, Captain, you will," Broggha gloated smugly.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tanoth Brin – Cameth Brin, late afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Lord Belzagar had been in no great hurry to leave the Hare and Thistle. The inn, one of the better ones in Cameth Brin, had been lively and bustling that afternoon. The days when the king sat in council were always busy ones in the city, bringing lords and their families from far distant areas into the capital to conduct business.

As Lord Belzagar and his assistant Authon drank their mulled wine at their table, they listened to the hum of conversation about them. A man at the next table was relating the account of the small troupe of traveling entertainers who had left the city that morning. Members of the troupe had been giving performances in the halls of various lords and wealthy citizens of the city. One of them, the bear handler, had never been seen again after the tragedy at the recent feast of the king.

"The town is well rid of them!" the man exclaimed. "Those rogues stole everything they could get their hands upon! Their women are even bolder than the men! A perfumer in the city market caught one of the wenches - who appeared to be great with child - slipping merchandise into a small slit in her gown. The shopkeeper's wife and daughter held the slattern down while they searched her. You would never believe what they discovered! The thief's huge 'belly' was nothing but a leather sack that she wore strapped on under her dress!"

The narrator had the whole tavern leaning forward eagerly, not wanting to miss each detail of the story as it was revealed. "The perfumer's wife pulled out one container after another of fine perfumes, and that was not the end of what she found in the hoard! Next came ladies' kerchiefs, tableware, vegetables... some say there was even a live hen concealed under the thief's voluminous gown!"

One of the wits near the back gibed, "Next you will be telling us that she had hidden a whole sheep under there!"

The tavern burst into gales of laughter at that remark, and at that point, Belzagar decided it was time for them to go. The afternoon turned colder as Lord Belzagar and Authon's horses climbed the ascent to the lord's modest townhouse on the hill of Cameth Brin. After turning their horses over to grooms, the two men walked down the hall and made their way into Belzagar's private meeting room. Servants had soon placed goblets of the finest wines into their hands. The two men drank quietly and studied the flames in the huge hearth until they were interrupted by the appearance of a quiet servant. Opening the door, the man walked into the room and gave Authon a note, then bowed and left.

Belzagar waited until his assistant had scanned the contents before asking, "Authon, what do your spies in Broggha's hall have to say?"

"My lord, in an enraged fit of fury, he struck Lady Aewen shortly after he had returned to the hall. He is mulling over what he considers 'the outrageous treatment' that the Hillmen received at the hands of the king. His loyal thrall, Griss, is convinced that Nauremir is actually dead. Broggha is also intimating that there will be an orc raid sometime in the future. The last word that I received from my sources says that he and his men will probably spend the rest of the evening as they do all others - drinking, reveling, and feasting."

"Thank you, Authon. Your sources are always so reliable." Lord Belzagar set down his goblet of wine on the table and steepled his hands together while he watch the play of flames on a burning log. Authon smiled in satisfaction at the compliment about his efficient spy service and waited for his master to speak.

"As you know, Authon, I am given much leeway in regard to what I do here... Even though Broggha's drinking and temper are almost legendary among his people, his abilities are held in high regard in the North. But..." Belzagar turned his cold gray eyes to bore into Authon's. "You will get word tonight to Broggha that he must stop mouthing about his plans so openly. If you have spies there, we can only guess who else has them. Impress upon him the need for stealth and secrecy, and above all, curtail his boasting. You must also emphasize to him that he was raised up from nothing and he can be brought back to that same estate just as quickly."

"My lord, I understand. The message will be relayed."

"One other thing, Authon. The Lady Aewen is a kinswoman of mine. Not many people know this. You are also to tell him that he must treat her better, or his finest steed might just have an unfortunate accident. Now, Authon... you were asking today about that artifact that I recently obtained... the cut glass crystal that is said to come from Numenor itself. Personally, I believe that it is a fraud, but... there is always a chance that it might be authentic. You know how I delight in collecting."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trollshaws, end of October, 1347
Written by Angmar
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A cold, feisty wind whipped up the campfire into a fury, twisting the flames and sending the smoke racing away towards the east. The few remaining leaves of autumn which clung to the trees were cast aside like abandoned children and left to fend for themselves.

The Trollshaws were not the most pleasant of places even in summer, but it was a remote location, seldom frequented by any Rhudaurian patrols. In its favor was the abundance of game, and so the Sergeant would not have to be worried about maintaining a supply line. Two things the lads had packed in abundance before leaving Angmar were hardtack and orc draught. His company could live quite well here indefinitely. The appearance of an early winter storm did not bother the sergeant, for there were plenty of caves in which they could hole up until the worst of it was over.

The company commander, Pizbûr Ashûk, stood near the campfire as he ate a piece of venison from the point of his knife blade. The sheltered dell stood in the lee of a hill which provided some relief from the wind, but not enough. The Sergeant looked around at his men, who were standing about at the other campfires, eating or arguing about some petty matter. They were good lads, though, loyal to him and to the clan. He never had much trouble with them, at least not any trouble that he couldn't handle.
Durbûrz was second in command of the company, or more specifically, Third Company, First Regiment of the Third Brigade, of the Army of Angmar. The journey to Rhudaur had been a long one, conducted with maximum regard for stealth and secrecy. To avoid the range of Amon Sûl's palantír, the company had traveled down the western slopes of the Misty Mountains. The Rhudaurian soldiers had never suspected a thing and were blissfully unaware that there had been an orc infiltration, the first one for many months.

Pizgal Durbûrz shambled up to them, and, after saluting, stuck the point of blade into the pot and dug out a piece of venison dripping with greasy water. "Sergeant, think it'll snow?" Durbûrz mumbled as he chewed the stringy meat, occasionally wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand.
Sergeant Ashûk surveyed the skies dubiously. "It just might, Corporal, it just might."

"I don't like to do work in snow," Durbûrz complained as his thumb and forefinger worried a piece of tough meat caught between his teeth.
"Think you'll melt?" Sergeant Ashûk guffawed, and the smaller orc beside him, Private Ulkûrz, joined him in laughter, adding, "Just like yellow snow!"

Not appreciating the joke, Durbûrz feinted at Ulkûrz' face with his huge, hairy fist, but the other orc dodged aside with a laugh.

"Harmless fun," laughed Sergeant Ashûk to himself. "The lads need something to keep them from thinking too much about the mates that they left behind and concentrate on our purpose for being here." The company had learned to respect his leadership, his savagery in battle, and his zest for torturing prisoners. There were several things uniting them - their respect and fear for Sergeant Ashûrk, and the fact that they shared ties of blood, all being members of the same clan and sharing a common patriarch.

"If you louts are through clowning around, I want to mention that we are not here on a leisurely tour." From the tone in his voice, the men knew that Sergeant Ashûk was ready to get down to serious business, and so they fell into an attentive silence.

"Men, all is going according to plans, based on the orders I received before leaving Carn Dum. His Majesty's thrall in Rhudaur--" the low chuckles of some of his men interrupted his words but were quickly hushed when the Sergeant snarled at them, showing his formidable tushes "--knows when we are here. I expect that one of his couriers will meet us sometime tonight or in the morning. If there have been any changes in orders, Broggha will know."


Chapter 21 - The Funeral of the Undead

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Cameth Brin Palace, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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"Odare!" came a shocked voice behind her ear, "Why are you wearing these jewels? You look like you're going to someone's wedding, not a funeral!"

Odare pouted, and reluctantly allowed Tarniel to pull off the small chain of amethysts adorning her neck. She protested half-heartedly, "I hate wearing no jewellery, I feel so... bare!" She lovingly pulled the amethyst chain back again, and turned to Tarniel, half-pleading, "Look at it, don't I look... well, almost pretty when I wear them? Besides, it's not like," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "it's not like Nauremir is really dead!"

They heard soft footsteps near the door, and Tarniel took it away again. "You know it's a secret! Don't ever mention it, that's what father said to us. Not a murmur of this must reach the Hillman, so you'd better just forget the fact that he's not dead!" she whispered vehemently.

Behind them the door opened. It was the Elven-tutor, Arinya, come to fetch them. Tarniel hid the amethysts in a fold of her dress while replying composedly that they would be ready soon.

When Arinya left them, she said, "Come on, Odare, just put on that onyx brooch over there, you'll look fine. Even Mother does not know of the secret, Father said the only way to keep it safe was to have the least number of people in the know, and already too many people know. We have to put up a good show of grief, emulate Gimilbeth, and you can not do it with purple gems on your neck. Are you listening to me, Odare?"

For Odaragariel was looking down at the onyx brooch in Tarniel's hand, unmoving, almost hypnotised. She started, gave herself a small shake, and said mechanically, "Of course."

She took the small brooch, and began to pin it up, but her thoughts had strayed years back. She could remember that brooch so well... the last time she had worn it had been, perhaps, the worst day of her young life. She could remember so clearly her father, stern as he always had been, but almost cheerful that day, taking her two brothers for a great boar-hunt. She had been only seven, and her father had deemed her much too young to be going, and besides, "You're going to be a little lady, my girl, and you could not possibly go hunting in your pearls and satin."

She had not even said goodbye to them. Sulking and locked in her room, she had watched with jealous eyes from her window, as a large company headed by her father, tall and proud on his horse, set off. They were to be gone only a day or two... when a week later, they hadn't returned, a search party was sent out. They brought back the dead body of her elder brother, and her mangled but still alive younger brother. She remembered the grisly sight well... and she had been almost relieved when he finally died, because he had been in so much pain... Her nurse had pinned this brooch to her when she went to witness their burials...

As for her father, his body had never been found - only bits and pieces, scraps of his clothing, jewelery that was on his person. No one stated the obvious, but Odare knew all too well that what had attacked them had been the trolls that frequented the Ettenmoors. And if her father's body had not been found, that meant he had not just been killed, but eaten. She remembered how as a child, her nurse had frightened her with tales of how trolls would spent hours arguing over how best to eat their prey - boil them, or roast them, or turn them into jelly - and she even used to sing some nonsense rhyme about trolls and their eating habits. She did not need anyone to tell her what had happened to her father - her imagination had painted the picture too harshly for her.

Suddenly sobered by the memory, she did not find it hard to 'put up a good show of grief' as she went downstairs with Tarniel. Tears were already welling up somewhere inside, and she felt a lump in her throat. She thought idly that perhaps... she might even out-perform Gimilbeth for once.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An inner chamber in the Fortress of Carn Dum, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The King held the long, dark hair between thumb and forefinger as he chanted a low incantation. Then, clasping the strand in the kindred fingers of his other hand, he slid his digits down the line. Winding the strand about his right forefinger where lay the Ring, he smiled.

"Weak mortal, how foolish you were to oppose my will! How you have flattered yourself to think you could circumvent my designs! Did you not know what mischief could be wrought by the possession of only a single strand of your hair? I perceive that you feel now the effects of the bewitchment I put upon you, but you have no discernment yet what is the cause of your distress."

It was at these times that all the infirmities, all the suffering, the indignities that he had endured, did not seem to matter quite so much. Was it not a gift that he possessed - a gift so powerful that he could slay the unfortunate wretches with his mere proximity and sometimes only a thought? How she must suffer, he pondered, as she slid into the total abandonment of all hopes, all dreams, all aspirations, to die so lonely... so cold and lonely.

However, the king did not wish her death, for nothing would be served by it. He could be generous when the occasion demanded, and sometimes if the Ring upon his finger did not protest, he could be kind. He chose now to be kind and so he withdrew the spell of the icy cold chill of gloom.

"Princess Gimilbeth, how naive you remain! Could you ever grasp how merciful I am being to you? Even if you did, would you be appreciative?" He smiled again. "We shall see."

"My dear lady, though you neither know it or wish it, you could be quite useful to me, but to exert this much of my will upon you requires strong spellcraft and concentration. Now I shall strive to pull you closer to me, but not yet to bind you."

The icy blue flames licked over the single dark hair and quickly reduced its component elements to ashes. When sufficiently cool, they were mixed with a single drop of blood whose arcane powers were more valuable than would be any amount of gold. Placed in a silver phial, the ashes were then housed in a secret chamber. The door of the chamber had been artfully designed to appear as nothing more than part of the wall, but its delicate mechanism could be quickly opened by only a thought from the king's mind.

The king held the minute substance between a thumb and a forefinger. "Now, Princess Gimilbeth, you will find that your exploration into the occult was not wise, for you have gained what you never would have sought - my attention. Many a more powerful spirit than you has rued the day that this bane has befallen him."

"Perhaps we shall meet soon, Princess..." If any could have seen his face, they could have seen that the king was smiling sardonically.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Palace, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis, Elfhild, Angmar and Serenoli
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Dressed in an elegant black gown adorned with tiny droplets of diamonds, Gimilbeth stood alongside her family near the open coffin. Nauremir lay pale and lifeless, his hands resting on the jeweled hilt of the sword that was placed upon his body. The Hall was crammed with nobles and servants, come to say their farewells to the popular young man. More people from Cameth and Tanoth Brin, attracted by the sumptuous event, were allowed in to pass by the coffin, to gawk at the Royal family in mourning and to exit by the rear door.

Seneschal Curugil was half-reading, half-chanting the customary funeral service, endlessly long and made in the language so ancient, Adunaic not Westron, that most of the audience could only understand a few words here and there. Gimilbeth was fluent in Adunaic, but still she felt her attention waver. She had heard this service so many times… far too often indeed.

Gimilbeth took out a lace kerchief and wiped away a pearly tear from the corner of her eye. She turned her head to look at the royal family. There were the King and the Queen, the latter crying softly and so very naturally… Hmm, likely the King had not told her the truth yet.

The faces of the two princes and Tarniel were carefully blank, the latter seemed slightly uneasy, though. But Odare played her role to perfection. There was such a real unfeigned sorrow on her face that Gimilbeth felt a grudging admiration. Odaragariel of Mitheithel was a promising young lady!

Making a mental note not to underestimate her in the future, Gimilbeth turned back to look at the coffin and shivered. It was so cold in the Hall… cold and dark… Why were the candles dimmed?

Gimilbeth felt icy darkness well up and pool upon the floor. The darkness was not a mere absence of light, but a living thing, cruel and suffocating, cutting away all sounds. She could not see or hear the others, she was alone in a cold stone tomb… being buried here alive… buried forever… to die so lonely... so cold and lonely.

After what seemed as an eternity had passed, a sound finally cut through the veil of icy darkness. Someone was weeping … Was it herself?

Gimilbeth felt hands on her shoulders. There were people milling around and asking questions. Then her father’s face came into focus. There was concern in Tarnendur’s eyes.

"You are unwell, my daughter. This grief proved too much for you. Sarador here will take you to your rooms. Go and rest."

***

"The fit of despair was a good touch," Tarniel thought to herself, impressed by Gimilbeth's show. "I had no idea she cared so much about Nauremir, but what she is doing is truly noble!" Perhaps her half-sister still had a good heart, underneath all the wrappings of black magic and wickedness.

Gimilbeth was doing a great job of acting, so much so that it almost seemed real. Or was it real? The King certainly seemed to think so. Or was that all part of the act? Tarniel was confused. However, everyone who knew the truth about Nauremir had to do a good job of feigning grief, for if anyone ever suspected that Nauremir was not really dead, then the young man was doomed. She glanced over to Odaragariel, who was weeping profusely. Tarniel looked down and bit the inside of her cheek. Those who knew that Nauremir was not really dead were making such a big show, and those who did not were overcome with true grief. Concentrating on thinking about something sad, Tarniel forced tears to rise up, and then, blinking, she sent a few sliding slowly down her face. Bringing her handkerchief up to her face, she cried softly, joining in the drama of mourning for the bewitched Nauremir.

***

A watchman on the tower was the first to see Lord Broggha's procession winding its way up the hill. Soon the King and all the palace were aware that Broggha was on his way. After housing their mounts in the palace stables, the Hillman and his followers went to pay their last respects to the deceased Nauremir. Alert that Lord Broggha's arrival might cause trouble, the guards were wary as he entered the room of sorrow.

The other mourners nervously greeted the Jarl, and more than a few raised their eyebrows at the sight of the long-haired, grimy old man who walked beside Broggha. It was Hrani, the shaman of the hillmen. Silently the old man shuffled up to the bier and peered down to the "dead" Nauremir. Softly cackling to himself, Hrani lay his ear on the man's chest. Then the old shaman did what the Tarks considered an extraordinary thing. He suddenly let out a howl, leaped into the air, and began chanting and muttering to himself, shaking his hands and stamping his feet each time he landed back to the floor.

With a supercillious smirk upon his face, Broggha announced, "The shaman is calling upon the Spirit of the Bear to help guide the departed to the happiness of the other world."

Continuously chanting, the shaman pulled a polished bear bone and a gourd shaker from his soiled and ragged robe. Then he twirled the bear claw around three times, hissing and shrieking. As he shook the gourd in one hand, he placed the tip of the bone on Nauremir's closed eyelids. Never having seen anything like this before, the shocked mourners were speechless at this strange display and muttered louder.

Hrani turned to Broggha and tapped on the large man's shoulder. Broggha bent his ear to listen to what Hrani said, and as the man talked to him, Broggha's face lit up with a cunning smile. Raising his hands for silence, Broggha announced in a loud voice, "The shaman of my people informs me that a terrible mistake has been made. Some essence of the deceased's spirit is trapped within his body, and longs to be free! It would be a horrible mistake to inter him while life still remains! Hrani will now perform a ceremony which will release the remainder of young Nauremir. Lest any of you be afraid that the body will be damaged by this ritual, be relieved to know that only small holes are required."

To the incredulous gasps of the mourners, Hrani drew a needle from the small case that he clutched in his hand. Smiling to Broggha, the old man grasped the needle between his fingers and prepared to plunge it into Nauremir's heart...

Five urgent voices shouted out "Stop!" in unison, and Daurendil, always the man of action, jumped straight at Hrani to knock the needle out of his hand. Broggha, suddenly angry, and at the same time triumphant at having caught them out, said, spitting his words out with difficulty, "Now what kind of man would protest at a chance of restoring his best friend's soul? Unless there is more here than meets the eye, and your Nauremir is not really dead, and you're just -"

Daurendil had thrown the needle under his foot and was grinding it, unable to properly articulate any reply. Broggha was interrupted, not by the over-wrought prince, but by a much colder voice, every syllable uttered frigidly, "What are you and your Shaman suggesting? That I have embalmed a still-alive person?" It was Sarador, looking more vulture-like than ever, more affronted than ever before.

"Why don't we make sure?" said Broggha, with a truly evil smile, and pulled out a knife. "After all, a dead man will feel no pain."

"Stop!" Odare shouted, "I won't let you desecrate his body!"

Hrani said, pushing past the prince, slowly rising to his feet, "But it's not really desecration, we're only freeing his spirit!"

"And what proof have we of that? You may believe in this tinkering fool, and his Spirit of the Bear, but I do not! I will not have Nauremir be sacrificed to your heathenish ways!" Daurendil had finally found his voice, and he had struck the right chord with the stunned mourners.

A murmuring had started, which became louder every minute. They were suddenly reminded that this Hillman was instrumental in Nauremir's death; and now he had the affontery to show up and disturb the sacred rituals of burial - and for a Dunedain, burial rituals were highly traditional, and highly sacred - and all of a sudden, Broggha and Hrani found themselves being pushed slowly but inexorably backwards by an eeriely quiet crowd of people. Inch by inch they felt themselves being pushed backwards, and somewhere along the way, Broggha lost his knife. They were over the doorstop now, and with a resounding bang, the door closed shut in their faces. But not before someone had thrown a spare egg at the Hillman.

It was said in later songs, that the egg, once broken, had immediately fried on Broggha's red, hot angry face; in fact that Hrani ate it, too, with every appearance of enjoyment. This fact has not yet been strictly verified, and should be taken with a pinch of salt; as should the omelette.

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Broggha’s estate near Cameth Brin, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Literally expelled from the funereal chamber by a deadly silent group of mourners, Broggha and Hrani found themselves out in the hall, where Broggha's bodyguard was waiting. One look at Broggha's livid, ruddy face told his men that something had gone wrong and the Jarl was enraged. All hoped that they had done nothing to be the recipient of the Jarl's ire.

"My lord," Griss asked with concern, "what has happened?"

Turning on his captain, Broggha roared, "You fool! Your assumption that Nauremir was dead was unfounded! The man is as alive as you are!"

Hrani had a smug expression on his face. "The old magic is the best magic!" he cackled.

Griss was becoming increasingly nervous. "My lord, from all indications, Nauremir appeared to be dead!"

"That shows what you know!" Hrani howled in delight at the other man's distress, while Griss' face paled. He was terrified of the old shaman, as were most of the other hillmen. It was said that whoever was foolish enough to incur the shaman's wrath was doomed to suffer nothing but ill fortune. Only last month, one of the men had accidentally bumped into old Hrani as he was passing by. The next day, the poor fellow was covered from head to toe by horrible puss-exuding boils.

The soldier had suffered horribly, unable to sleep for the intense pain, until his brother had brought Hrani the dressed meat of a large buck which he had killed. In addition to the venison, it took three kegs of mead and a bit of silver before the old shaman was fully pacified. The next day after the delivery of the gifts, the soldier's skin was almost free of the evil-looking pustules.

"There is nothing gained by staying here," Broggha growled. "We will return to my keep."

Around the great table in Broggha's hall, his men were subdued. The presence of Hrani made them all nervous. At the head of the table, the Jarl was silent as he drank his tankard of mead. The eyes of all the men were on Hrani. The old shaman watched the fire in the great hearth. The old man's eyes were closed as he softly chanted, clutching the bear claw amulet that he stroked and rattling the gourd shaker. Then from the leather pouch at his belt, the old man pulled out a handful of something that looked like sand. Holding the amulet aloft, he howled and threw it into the fire.

Evil-looking green flames belched from the fireplace, filling the room with flames and a reeking stench. Shrieking in terror, all the men except Broggha jumped back, knocking over their chairs as they rushed towards the doorway. The Jarl sat nonplused, drinking his ale, as he listened to the shaman's chanting wails fade to nothing.

"What evil witchery is this?" Griss exclaimed in fear and bewilderment as he saw flames twisting around the form of the wildly jumping and dancing Hrani.

"A spell, you fools!" Hrani's ancient voice crackled in delight. "Resume your seats and no harm will come to you! Only Nauremir and his friends will suffer!"

Looking at each other fearfully, the men made their way back to the table, which they found was unharmed, untouched by even the slightest trace of soot. The only evidence that anything at all had transpired was a lingering greenish haze and a hint of sulfur.


Chapter 22 - Shaman’s Curse

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Cameth Brin Palace, night of October 23 - morning of October 24, 1347
Written by Gordis, Elfhild, Serenoli, Earniel and Rian
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Gimilbeth slept little this night. At first the cold dread she kept feeling after her vision at the funeral feast banished sleep away. She lay on her sweat-soaked pillows, musing on her predicament. It was evident that she had managed to attract the unwanted attention of some powerful magician. Gimilbeth started shaking when she fathomed what dreadful power was needed to send her the nightly dreams and even the horrible waking vision she experienced recently. And the knife spell that went wrong and rebounded on her... She had no doubt that she faced a Black Numenorean, who appealed to the same Powers of Darkness she just started to use. A Black Numenorean on Broggha's side? There was none in Broggha's train when the Hillman passed through Tanoth Brin or at the feast, of that she was certain. Was the Sorcerer away, acting from a distance? Could he be in Angmar? It was unlikely, this land was too far away... She remembered again the Black horseman on a forest path. Perhaps he still camped near, a day's ride from Cameth Brin, to give magical help to the Hillman puppet. If so, he should be driven away. Gimilbeth decided to send Rangers to search the woods to the north of Cameth Brin on some pretext. Recently when reading Star Charts she was warned about a possible orc attack. It was a good excuse to send troops out. Nobody was bound to question her word - wasn't she named "the Star-Sayer?"

At last, after drinking a big cup of mead laced with poppy, Gimilbeth slept. But her dreams were wild. She was again shut in a coffin in her family crypt. She heard the faint echoes of the funeral service, but couldn't move or make a sound. The coffin was tight and suffocating. the little air there was strangely smelled of sulfur. She felt grave worms crawling over her body... No wonder, she herself had foolishly prevented Sarador to embalm her properly... Now the disgusting white larvae were feeding on her cold flesh...

She awoke with a cry, sending her cats flying from her bed with offended hisses. But the worms were still there... She felt them crawling over her arms and bosom, along her legs...All her body itched.
Frantically, Gimilbeth ran to the chimney, stirred the fire and added some fresh wood to have more light. She tore away her lace nightdress and flung it into a corner. The flickering glow revealed the rush of angry red pustules on her arms and legs as well as on her breasts and stomach. Thoroughly frightened now, Gimilbeth scratched the boils with her long nails, but only made matters worse, drawing fresh blood. Striving not to wail in dismay, but to think clearly, Gimilbeth dipped her finger in the blood and hastily drew on her left thigh the Five Runes of Protection, common on many a Dunedain shield. This simple ancient spell against Evil she knew all her life as most of the other Dunedain did, so it came to her mind first.

She doubted that so simple a spell could counter so powerful magick, but surprisingly it did. Even as she watched, the angry red boils paled and vanished altogether, without a trace, not only from her thigh, but from other places as well. Only the scratches of her long nails remained on her arm.

Gimilbeth sank to the floor thinking. Perhaps she over-estimated the powers of her adversary. Maybe it was a simple shaman's magick used by Hillmen, not Dark Sorcery she had been facing. If so, she knew what to do. She fetched an old golden charm from her trunk - a gift from Serinde - and clasped the thin chain around her neck, berating herself for not wearing it always, as she had been told.

The rest of the night passed in frantic activity. Gimilbeth donned an old gown and fetched paintbrushes and silver and golden paint from her still room in the Palace basement. By dawn her room was re-decorated, elaborate runes of protection adorning the walls, the floor and even the ceiling. This time she used not the Five runes of the Faithful, but the Nine Runes of Downfallen Numenor, able to counter the most powerful Black Magick as well as most Elven spells. Finally satisfied, Gimilbeth smiled. Now her adversary would have a hard time getting to her. She doubted she would ever have to bother about the hapless sorcerer again.

Feeling new confidence, Gimilbeth called Nimraen and ordered a bath. She had to repeat her orders twice, as the bewildered maid stood gaping at the golden and silver runes that appeared magically on the walls in one night. Her mistress had no illusions about the gossip this happening would entail, but she knew from bitter experience that no threats could prevent maids from talking.

Gimilbeth took her time bathing and making herself beautiful again. Finally, dressed in elaborate morning gown, she went to visit the King, to tell him about her astrological revelations and to ask him to send Rangers to search the woods to the North.

***

A loud, resounding shriek broke the quiet peace of the morning, causing everyone in that wing of the palace to start and look around in alarm. The dreadful scream had come from Tarniel's room! Brandishing their weapons, the guards rushed into the chamber, expecting to see a host of hillmen attempting to kidnap the princess. Instead, they saw that Tarniel was alone and unharmed, and not an enemy was in sight. The girl was on her knees before a mirror, her hands clasping her face. Wailing sobs shook her shoulders.

"My lady, what is the matter?" asked one of the guards, concern in his voice.

"Go away!" she sobbed, not taking her hands from her face. "Please just go away!"

At that moment, Odaragariel came rushing in the room, just as the bewildered guards were shuffling out.

"Tarniel, what is wrong?" she asked as she knelt beside the other girl.

"Oh, it is just horrible!" Tarniel wailed. "When I looked in the mirror, I almost fainted! Never before has anything like this happened to me!"

"What happened?" asked Odaragariel. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Tarniel shook her head. "At least not... physically." Slowly, she lowered her hands from her face, which was a shade of angry red from crying, and also from the swarm of livid pimples which dotted her once-smooth skin like a hideous rash. "I... I do not know what is wrong! Never have I been so afflicted with these malignant blemishes in all my life!"

"I know who is behind all this," Odaragariel stated grimly. "All of the servants are talking about it. Gimilbeth the witch has turned her chamber into a sorceress' lair, with arcane runes covering the walls, ceiling and floor! She probably cursed you with this malady!"

"Oh, no!" Tarniel wailed, feeling utterly despondent. And just the day before, she had actually had a good thought about her evil half-sister!

"Come on!" said Odaragariel, shaking her head imperiuosly, "we'll get that witch and force-" and she stopped suddenly.

For as she shook her head, a whole clump of hair had fallen out - just like that! - and lay in a yellow mass at her feet. She lifted her hand, felt around on her scalp, her face dangerously still, and when she removed it, clinging to her hand were pathetic tendrils of her own hair.

She felt the anger rise until it was a foul taste in her mouth - so it wasn't the best hair in the world, so she had envied Gimilbeth's lovely mass of shiny black hair - but it was her hair! And no one messed with her hair, she messed it enough on her own!

She tried to frame some words, and failed. Tarniel was saying, "uh-oh" under her breath. They exchanged looks, and as one, they rushed to Gimilbeth's room.

They crashed her door open, and began screaming at once, their voices mingling into each other, both taking the worst words their little princess vocabularies had (Tarniel in particular, highly skilled at taking innocent words and making them sound foul) and hurling them at Gimilbeth, and both ending with twin threats of "Fix it, or else!" Although, Odare was thinking, "Fix it AND else!!"

The effect of all this eloquence fell rather flat when they realized they had been shouting at an empty room, completely devoid of the evil half-witch Gimilbeth in all respects.

***

Before Wilwarin had decided what she was supposed to do, both princesses had rushed out, determined to face the perceived perpetrator of their curious maladies. The guards, also unsure and baffled into silence, let the girls pass unhindered as well.

The guards looked at Wilwarin. Wilwarin looked back, equally bewildered.

“Shouldn’t we, er, follow them?” one of the guards asked Wilwarin after a moment of silence.

“No,” Wilwarin said slowly, “I don’t think we should … unless you want to get between them and Lady Gimilbeth at the moment.”

The guards looked indecisive.

“It would not be a good idea,” Wilwarin stressed knowingly.

By now, angry screams could be heard from the opposite end of the floor. The guards looked at one another. Job security finally won and an unanimous decision was reached.

“We’ll.. em.. return to our post then.”

With a nod to Wilwarin the guards left the princesses’ wing and went back to their stations.

Wilwarin let her breath escape with a hiss. She scratched her head and surveyed the now empty room. Well, that had been an unexpected ‘attack’. She realized she still had her blade drawn and put it back in the sheath. She decided this seemed like the best time to consider her guarding duty for the night as fullfilled.

She walked over to the door and removed the remainder of the silk thread with bells that had been torn by the hasty entrance of the guards. At least this had proven the guards would arrive quickly in case of a real emergency.

Tarniel’s and Odaragariel’s maids came in to clean up their mistresses’ rooms as Wilwarin habitually withdrew to her own small room. While she unbuckled her belt and prepared to go to sleep, she couldn’t help but shake her head. The way things were looking right now, an assault by Hill Men seemed to be the least of the royal troubles. With a sigh, she briefly wondered whether she – or anyone else for that matter - had the required capacity for this bodyguard duty. The king had definitely failed to mention bears, boils, spontaneous hair loss and witch-sisters as daily dangers in a princess’s life…

Wilwarin lay down on the small bed, but she doubted she’d get much sleep that day.


***

Gimilbeth's sitting room was empty and silent, dimly lit by the weak morning light filtering through the high arched windows with diamond panes and a softer glow from the chimney in the corner. The air smelt of alien, exotic flowers and fruit. Shadows dwelt in dark corners and everywhere - on the walls, floor and ceiling - there were large ominous runes in silver and gold. The girls, now subdued and silent, stood looking around in awe and wonder.

Tarniel jumped and cried out when she felt something brush her hand. It was a big black furry cat now sitting atop an armchair and looking at her with sly green eyes. The girls noticed that a number of other cats filed silently into the room. Holding each other's hands, Tarniel and Odare turned to face the door, knowing already what to expect. And indeed Gimilbeth was standing in the doorframe, a warm smile on her face and ice in her eyes.

"What a pleasant surprise to see you here, dearest sister! And you, Odaragariel," said Gimilbeth in her rich musical voice, with just a trace of mockery in it. "I heard you shouting... What is amiss?"

Tarniel was too frightened to reply, while Odare was seething with rage which rendered her equally mute. So she made an eloquent gesture with her hand indicating Tarniel's face. In shame, Tarniel covered her cheeks with her hands again.

"Let me see..." Gimilbeth took Tarniel's arm in a iron grip and half-led, half-dragged her sister to one of the windows.

"Why, pimples!" she exclaimed. "Pimples! My dear child, there is nothing unusual about it. You have grown up, dear child, you are becoming a woman, so it is natural that your skin suffers. You have to watch what you eat, avoid sweets and Khandian coffee and try to eat more oats and raw yeast. You can also apply some yeast to your face, it might help. Anyway, in a decade or so it will pass..."

"But it is awful!" cried Tarniel, finding her voice. "No one of my friends had this illness! Why me?"

"It is an affliction quite common for young maidens," replied Gimilbeth with false kindness. "Those of pure Numenorean blood do not suffer from it, but, unfortunately, your mother's blood is not as pure as that of our father. Everybody knows that your great-grandfather, Lord of Nothwa Rhaglaw, had married a half-Hillmen maid. Now you have to face the consequences."

It was more than Odare could stand. "You... you... you evil witch!" she screamed. "It is all your doing! Look at my hair! It is falling out! And it has happened to us on the very same night when you painted your accursed runes on all the walls!"

Gimilbeth dropped her hand from Tarniel's arm and glided to a low Khandian divan. Adjusting the skirts of her magnificent yellow gown, she reclined gracefully amidst embroidered feather cushions.

"Don't make hasty judgements, Odaragariel," she replied at last, the mockery in her voice now unmistakable. "And don't get so upset, darling. Your hair is so poor anyway that you will do better with a wig."

"A wig!" squeaked Odare, stomping her foot, her eyes ablaze.

Gimilbeth was thoroughly enjoying herself and the situation. Her smile became even sweeter. "You must have caught some contagious disease, child. Cats sometimes suffer from it. I can give you a fine remedy made of bear's grease mixed with boiled urine. You will have to rub it onto the skin of your skull thrice a day and in about a month..."

Odare went wild. Breathing heavily, she snatched a delicate porcelain pot from the table and smashed it against the wall to emphasize her point. But nobody had the opportunity to learn what her point was to be, as at this moment someone banged on the door and rushed into the room without waiting for Gimilbeth's permission. It was one of Sarador's apprentices, a somberly dressed scholarly young man, visibly distressed. He addressed Gimilbeth even before he had time to bow to the assembled highborn ladies.

"My Lady, Master Sarador bids you to come down into the vault at your earliest convenience. A most unusual thing has happened overnight! The dead body of Master Nauremir got covered with boils!"

Gimilbeth fell back onto the pillows and laughed.

They all regarded her in silence, the assistant much too bewildered at her reaction to what he considered a not-very-funny situation, while the two girls were pondering the depths of evil to which Gimilbeth had sunk to. Actually defacing a helpless invalid (whom she made invalid with her little poisons in the first place) and then laughing... that settled it, Odare told herself, if Gimilbeth was laughing, that proved she had played this mean trick on all of them, and as was quite evident, was enjoying it immensely.

She turned to the stunned assisstant and ordered, "Leave now, right now!" As soon as he was gone, she turned to Gimilbeth, who was still chuckling to herself, and said, "Shut up! Shut up right this moment, or I shall-"

"Do what? Shout at me? Break more of my possessions?" She had gone from laughing to dangerous in less than a second, although her lips gave a small twitch every now and then, as if the laughter was fighting to escape. She got up like a lazy cat, and came closer, to say to her in almost a whisper, "If I had chosen to use my magic on you, darling, you wouldn't just be losing your hair."

"You're right. It wasn't you. You wouldn't dare! Because if it was once proven against you, if your witchcraft could just once be proved against you, you'd have to answer for it. The king has tolerated you for this long, but if he decided not to anymore, where would you go then, Gimilbeth? All your little herbs," she picked up another pot from the table and sniffed it delicately, and went on recklessly, even as Tarniel's face grew white underneath the reddish pimples, "and all your magic have never yet suceeded in catching you a husband in all this time ... it's been what, a hundred years? I may not have your beautiful hair, but I have my own land to go to and -"

Her voice was drowned out by a shrill cacophony of meaows and hisses. All the cats in the room were slowly backing away, creating a nice empty circle around Gimilbeth and Odaragariel, as if they could sense their mistress' anger and wanted to be far, far away from it, and indeed, it took no genius to read Gimilbeth's face right then. If she were a cat, her hair would have been on end, and her claws would have been out, and she would have been hissing and spitting like a snake. As it was, perhaps the timely entrance of Arinya, sent this way by Sarador's frightened assisstant, was... fortunate. For Odare, at least.


***

Arinya walked quickly down the corridor towards Gimilbeth's room, where she had been directed by the agitated assistant. Her sensitive ears picked up a bewildering variety of noises: loud, racous laughing, voices high and strained with anger, the sharp crash of something breaking, and oddest of all - hissing cats?

Coming up to the door, which had been left slightly ajar by the departure of the flustered servant, she paused and tried to listened briefly to assess the situation, but all she could hear were the cats, until ...

"Why don't you come in, Arinya? I imagine you could hear better from in here!" Gimilbeth's voice was colored with its usual cold, superior politeness, and her words held their usual veiled sting.

Ignoring the insult, she walked through the door. Her eyes opened wide as she beheld the disarray, and she blinked her eyes to make sure she was seeing straight as her gaze fell upon her charges and their afflicted faces. The girls, seeing her expression, self-consciously looked down for a moment, then looked back up defiantly.

Arinya looked over to Gimilbeth, who was gazing at her with a curious expression, not unlike the hissing cats that surrounded her. She said quietly, "I was looking for the young ladies, as it is time for their lessons. Sarador's assistant directed me this way. Hearing unusual noises as I came, I naturally paused to assess the situation in case of danger - you know that we have all been enjoined to be cautious these days..."

"Oh, naturally you would do that - I imagine you do it all the time," responded Gimilbeth. "For safety's sake, of course, I mean," she added, enjoying exploring the tutor's reactions. She had not bothered with her much before.

"Well, since all is well," continued Arinya with a raised eyebrow, "I will ask the young ladies to join me." She held out a hand to each of the girls. They hesitated, conflicting emotions fleeting across their faces, and then took her hand. Arinya could feel Odare trembling, and Tarniel was biting her lip nervously.

Holding their hands firmly, Arinya nodded graciously to Gimilbeth, who was now reclining on a sofa stroking one of her cats, and left the room with the two girls.


***

Odare, always the more vocal person, glared up at the tall Arinya, and demanded, "And how exactly were you planning on curing us without forcing that WITCH to undo her spells?" At this point, her anger became a bit too much for her, and she burst into tears.

Tarniel, still hiding her face, gaped in astonishment, as Odare, angry at herself now for the tears, sobbed even harder, and in little gasps, said things like, "My hair... and Tanriel's face... oooooooh, she's so so eviiiil....." She was breathing in heavy gasps, and stopped talking, deciding that that was the best way to stop the tears.

Arinya, bewildered and non-plussed, turned to Tarniel, who began to explain, interrupted every now and then by angry sobs from Odare about just how she would enjoy roasting Gimilbeth alive, or rending her to pieces, or even cutting off that fantastically thick hair of hers.

"But, if I remember correctly, the runes you saw drawn around her room... some of them looked like the Five Runes of Protection to me... are you girls sure Gimilbeth is the one who did this to you?"

"Who else could be so MEAN?" screamed Odare.

"Odare, control yourself! You are no longer a child, and there is no need to wail like one!" snapped Arinya, her patience sorely tried.

Odare subsided into sullen mutterings, and apart from an agonized, "I'm NOT crying, I was... coughing!" she remained silent.

"Maybe Gimilbeth was simply protecting herself from the same spell that has afflicted you two. At any rate, it can not hurt to try them on you."

Tarniel looked up, blinking. "Who would cast a spell upon the witch of Cameth Brin?"

"I do not know," Arinya shook her head, "but obviously whoever it was also cast spells upon others, including you."

"Well, give it a try then," demanded a very upset Odaragariel. "I do not want to be bald!"

"And I do not want to be pock-marked for the rest of my life!" wailed Tarniel.

Intoning a low chant in Elvish, Arinya drew the runes with her fingertip upon the top of Odaragariel's head and upon Tarniel's face. Rushing to the closest mirror, the three waited breathlessly to see what would happen next. After a few moments, the red blotches on Tarniel's face began to fade and the loosening hairs on Odaragariel's head rooted themselves into her scalp once again.

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" the girls cried joyfully, weeping tears of relief as they embraced the elf woman.

Smiling, Arinya laughed and said, "See, you worried for naught and, in your panic, blamed the wrong person for your maladies." A troubled look then crossed her face. "But now I must wonder who DID cast this spell."

"Perhaps Gimilbeth has found an enemy," Tarniel spoke up, her eyes widening in alarm. "Only evil comes to those who dabble in sorcery!"


Chapter 23 - The Mail Pigeon

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Belzagar’s modest townhouse in Cameth Brin, morning of October 24, 1347
Written by Angmar
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"Have a seat, Authon." Belzagar rose to greet his assistant. "The servants will soon bring something to take the chill from your bones."

"Thank you, my lord," Authon bowed his head and took a seat in Belzagar's sitting room.

"What news do you have for me this morning?" Belzagar asked as he rifled through a sheaf of manuscripts while he took an occasional sip from a tankard of warm mead.

"My lord, you already know about the spectacle at the palace last night when Broggha made an ass of himself at Nauremir's funeral."

"Ah, yes, a most unfortunate event," Belzagar looked up from a document which he had been skimming and turned to Authon. "While I realize the man is little more than a barbarian, one would think he could exercise enough control over himself that he would not let his temper get the best of him. However, he has the devotion of his people, which makes him - if not the best for the position - the only available candidate for the work. What did your spies in his hall tell you this morning?"

"His shaman, Hrani, has been displaying his limited powers of magic, impressing Broggha's men and causing quite a stir. The word is that the old man has tossed out a few simple spells which will do little more than bring distress and embarassment to Nauremir and his friends."

A dark shadow crossed Belzagar's aristocratic face. "Broggha's idea of personal revenge. The man oversteps his bounds continuously, and the North will not be pleased at his latest follies. Broggha must be impressed to exercise more discretion, more caution, more self-control. All these things do little more than alert King Malvegil that unusual things happen in Rhudaur - as if he did not know that already! When old Tarnendur receives word of what happened last night - and you can be sure he will - he will be at Weathertop in conference with King Rómendacil. There is no point in announcing our presence here!"

"Yes, my lord," Authon replied gravely.

Belzagar smiled and put his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Do not look so glum, my friend. Things go remarkably well in spite of the blunders of Broggha. Now tell me - how did Pizbūr Ashūk over at the Trollshaws take to the arrival of the crates of the new messengers? The brute did not want to eat them, did he?" he chuckled.

"No, my lord," Authon smiled slightly and then looked back to Belzagar. "I have no doubts that he would have found the lot of them tempting morsels, but when he was impressed with the severity of such an action and its attendent penalties, he was quite tractable."

"Deceiving, are they not, those gentle, innocent birds? Who would believe that His Majesty would think of using such an innocuous device as a pigeon to relay dispatches between us and the orcs! No one will ever suspect!"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
North-East of Cameth Brin, morning – late afternoon of October 24, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Once the princesses and their tutor were out of the way, Gimilbeth hurried downstairs to have a look at Nauremir. There in the vault a fit of giggles overcame her again, much to Sarador's indignation. To appease the old surgeon, whose mood was even worse than usual because his old joints were exceptionally painful this morning, Gimilbeth quickly chanted an incantation and drew the five runes of power on the lid of the coffin. The boils that covered Nauremir's face magically disappeared.

"What in Ungoliant??!!! How is that possible?" exclaimed Sarador. His province was potions and drugs, and everything supernatural left him flabbergasted. Moreover, his own joints stopped aching as well, though he forbore to mention it to Gimilbeth.

"Everyone has his own methods," Gimilbeth replied matter-of-factly. "Have you heard how Masters Daurendil and Amantir are faring this morning?"

Sarador looked at her suspiciously. "I heard Amantir has fallen ill. He has a fever and all his body is covered with an angry rash. I was going to check on him when I was called here. As for Daurendil, he seemed fine. He was here at dawn to visit Nauremir. He was the first to notice Nauremir's condition and called me to help."

"Ah, so..." drawled Gimilbeth. She was thinking furiously. It seemed that it was a collective curse affecting Nauremir and all who helped him. Or just all the Royal family? Anyway it was strange that Daurendil and the King did not suffer from it...

Gimilbeth took a piece of parchment and drew the five runes that proved so helpful against the night's spell. Proffering the piece to Sarador she said, "Put it on Amantir's chest and he will be fine."

Amantir was the one of her siblings whom she disliked the least. He was a quiet, bookish boy, very much in awe of his oldest sister.

She was climbing the stairs when the thought hit her. Both the King's and Daurendil's rooms were full of weapons - walls decorated with old swords, axes and shields. No wonder that at least one of the items had the protective runes engraved on it!

Once the riddle had been solved, Gimilbeth's mood brightened considerably. Humming a tune, she went to change into her new stylish riding outfit. The day was splendid and she decided to go falconing.

This type of noble entertainment was another of the Southern customs recently introduced to Rhudaur. Tarnendur looked at it benevolently, as he himself became addicted to this sport during his time in Gondor. The princes, however, as well as most Rhudaurian Dunedain, preferred traditional bear, boar and moose hunts with dogs.

Soon a merry company of knights and pages led by Gimilbeth left the castle. Leaving the protection of the walls, the cavalcade turned North-East to a large plateau almost level with the fortress. This stretch of sparsely wooded highland was delimited on all sides by dangerous precipices and accessible only by the King's road leading to Cameth Brin and from the city itself. King Tarnendur declared it the King's private hunting ground, forbidden to commoners.

Autumn is a good season for hunting. Migrating geese and ducks were flying overhead, heading South for the winter. There were also fat partridges, hiding in the bushes. Zimra, Gimilbeth's favorite female peregrine, was doing wonders. Gimilbeth was already considering heading back home when she spotted a speck in the sky. She watched it idly for some time, half distracted by the beauty of the sun setting over the foam of the High Waterfall.

The speck came closer. It was a mail-pigeon, exhausted by a long flight from the South. It was coming down purposefully, obviously heading straight for the City.

Gimilbeth never could tell what made her do such a thing... Everybody knew that some people used mail pigeons; nothing unusual about it. But she had an odd feeling - she knew that this bird was important. She removed the cap from Zimra's head, allowed the bird to notice the lonely prey and urged her up.

Lazily, just to oblige her mistress, as the peregrine had already eaten her fill, Zimra started to ascend in wide circles. If the pigeon were not so tired, or not burdened by its message, it could have evaded the falcon easily. But the mail pigeon was so concentrated on its goal that was already in sight that it noticed the bird of prey too late. The pigeon descended almost to the ground and changed direction trying to reach the thick bushes at the rim of the precipice. Zimra was too well-trained for this clumsy maneuvering to deter her. She dropped down like a stone from the great height and hit the pigeon with her clawed talons. A little heap of bloody feathers fell to the ground and Zimra let out a triumphant squeak.

Gimilbeth rode to the spot, dismounted and took the remnants of the bird to examine it. There was a silver cylinder tied under one wing. Leaving the pigeon for Zimra to eat, Gimilbeth opened the tiny tube and glanced at the papers. Her heart started to beat faster, when she saw that they were in some code, impossible to read. It was a spy message from the North, now she was certain.

"But my lady, wasn't it a mail pigeon?" asked Gwindor uncertainly. The knight was staying nearby looking at the papers in Gimilbeth's hands.

"I am afraid you are right, Gwindor," Gimilbeth replied with a sigh. "I am so sorry I mistook it for a duck. But I shall deliver the message to its owner with my apologies and I shall pay for the pigeon."

She sent Gwindor away, to tell the others that the hunt ended, then took one of the three thin sheets and put it back into the tube. Two other sheets she pushed deep into the bodice of her gown. The cavalcade turned back home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The road to Penmorva, west of Cameth-Brin, afternoon of October 24, 1347
Written by Angmar
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It was a splendid day for a ride. The sun was out and the weather was cold and invigorating. The spirited horse pranced merrily, its breath turning to steam in the frosty air. With the explanation to his chamberlain that he would be trying out his recently purchased new stallion that afternoon, Lord Belzagar had ridden away from his home in the lower city. Riding across the bridge over the moat, Belzagar had reined his horse right and turned northeastward on the road to Pennmorva.

A few miles upstream, he halted his horse on the bridge that spanned over the tributary that fed into the Hoarwell. He had always liked this spot where he and his mount were suspended on the bridge. To the Southeastward, he could see the Long Waterfall where it plunged over the chasm and fell to find a gentler course to enter the Hoarwell to the northwest. It was impossible to carry on a conversation on the bridge, for the water was so loud in its descent that it drowned out all else. Strangely enough, Lord Belzagar was able to find a certain peace when he watched the turbulent water.

He feasted his eyes on the scene of the water as it was buffeted and churned into a white, foaming fury, falling into spray and mist as it dropped into the basin at the foot of the falls. There, it boiled and tumbled, trapped in a whirlpool, before breaking free to find its way to the river. An object tossed into the upper reaches of the falls would plunge downward to the pool where it would be caught, dragged below the surface by the force of the water.

Legend had it - though it could never be verified by anything written in the official archives - that the falls were haunted by the spectre of a beautiful young woman. As the story went, a highborn lady had been spurned by her lover. Having no wish to live longer without him, she had cast herself from the wall to her death in the gorge. Her body had never been found.

"A tale to entertain the idle in the taverns on cold winter nights," Lord Belzagar mused. Whether there was any truth to the story of the beautiful spectre or not, Belzagar knew that there were far more likely candidates for ghosts to haunt the waterfalls. A few times, not enough to worry about, some of King Tarnendur's spies had learned too much about Belzagar's own spy network.

Belzagar had never witnessed one of these executions himself, for being pure blooded Dunedain, he thought somehow that it was below his dignity to participate in a common murder. Authon, of course, had no such compunctions, and beneath his outward exterior of pleasantness and goodwill, there beat the heart of a cold-blooded killer. Authon had always made it a point to be with his henchmen when they flung some poor wretch into the boiling cauldron of the Long Waterfall. Investigations of these unfortunate deaths had always been inconclusive, and the final judgment had always been that the victims had either died from suicide or unfortunate accidents.

Belzagar could spend no more time musing on the magnificence of the waterfall and the river. He touched his heels to his horse's flanks and took it into a trot. His fast-stepping mount soon bore him away from the rush of the waterfall. Coming to a grove of evergreens, he reined off the side of the road and let his horse rest. The horseman who was waiting there for him rode out to meet him.

"My lord Belzagar," the man inclined his head in respect, "good afternoon. How do you find your new mount?"

"A splendid animal, Authon, worth every penny I paid for him. Come, let us ride a bit and you can see his paces. I am sure you will be impressed."

As the two men rode together, Lord Belzagar would alternate his horse's gait from a walk to a trot to a canter and finally a long, mile-eating lope. Reining the horse down to a walk, Belzagar then set the animal into a gentle, rocking rhythm that was easy upon the rider.

"Well, what do you think of him, Authon?" Belzagar stroked the side of his horse's neck as the spirited animal rolled the bit in its mouth and pawed the ground.

"A truly outstanding animal, my lord." Authon was impressed. "And you say he was bred in Arthedain?"

"Aye, his dam was from the stud of the king of Arthedain. She was sired by his prized stallion, and out of a mare of the finest pedigree!"

"My lord, he should serve you well."

"Aye, Authon, I am convinced that he will. Now, what news have you brought for me?"

"My lord, an odd bit of information came to me from a lady's maid in the palace. The wench swears that it is true. It seems that the royal princess Tarniel's flawless white skin has been stricken by a rash of blemishes and the girl was despondent. Lady Odaragariel seems to be suffering from some sort of mange."

Lord Belzagar looked bored, and he turned his horse back in the direction of the waterfall. "Authon, you bring me palace gossip about trivialities? I am disappointed in you."

"But, my lord, there is more. I have it on good account that the Princess Gimilbeth has redecorated her room."

"What, Authon!" Lord Belzagar laughed without mirth. "I see little significance in the fact that the lady's tastes have changed." Lord Belzagar disdainfully arched an aristocratic eyebrow.

"If the word from the palace is true, my lord, she has warded her personal chamber with runes of great protection! Why should the royal princess do that?"

Belzagar yawned, his breath coming in vapor in the cold air. "Old news, Authon. Can you do no better?"

"Aye, my lord, I believe I can." Authon's cold eyes flickered briefly in resentment before turning from the other man's to watch a hawk circling high above them. When his gaze moved back to his master, all traces of offense had vanished. "I have also been informed by my sources that Sarador's apprentice paid a visit to the Princess Gimilbeth and her visitors this morning. The lady's maid who was passing by in the hall just happened to overhear what he said."

"Authon, I should hope that you can do better than to tell me the news of ladies' tea parties. But out with it, man! I do not have all day!" Belzagar was always irritated at the way Authon enjoyed dolling out information a piece at a time. "The man has a spiteful streak in him and derives far too much enjoyment in getting away with as much as he can without openly angering me."

"It seems the corpse of Master Nauremir was found to be covered in boils. Rather strange for a dead man, would you not say, my lord?" Authon replied smugly.

"Quite." Lord Belzagar's left hand came up to his chin, and he stroked reflectively at his well-trimmed beard. "You have done well, Authon. We will ride back now. I need to prepare this evening's dispatches for our winged messengers to take north. A draught of warm mead would do us both a wealth of good. "

As the two men trotted their horses back along the Pennmorva Road, Lord Belzagar spoke amiably of many matters with his assistant. All the while, he composed in his mind the dispatches that he would be writing later.

His Majesty must be kept apprised of the thrall, Broggha. Belzagar did not quite share His Majesty's confidence in the man. "Far too hot-headed," he thought. The business with Nauremir, of course, had at its roots Broggha's animosity with the young man. While Broggha's shaman, Hrani, was competent in simple spells, the old man was far too flamboyant and attracted too much attention. Belzagar would continue watching that situation, but there was little to fear there unless Broggha got word of the condition of the corpse and caused trouble. Perhaps a well-placed word of warning would suffice. All of these things would be noted in his letters to the North.

He would mention once more the arrogant attitude that Authon had assumed of late. The man was becoming insufferable in his pride. Lord Belzagar considered that possibly he would be the next "suicide victim" over the falls if he did not begin to assume more humility. His Majesty allowed him to use his own judgment on most occasions, but still it was better to let him know his reasons for taking action before it was absolutely imperative that he should do so.

Though he had downplayed the importance of the information that Authon had related, Belzagar had found the information about Princess Gimilbeth quite interesting. Obviously, the high-born wench had mastered the simpler forms of spellcraft and was learning the deeper ones. If she ever became a true adept of the arcane, Belzagar did not doubt she would use her abilities to aid her father. Possibly her sights were set even higher, and she had plans to employ her newfound powers in obtaining the throne herself. Her latest activities would be duly recorded in his letter, but the strong feeling came over Belzagar that His Majesty already knew.

Lord Belzagar halted his horse on the bridge over the tributary. As Authon looked into the other man's mist-gray eyes, he had the sensation that he was hurtling over the waterfall, plunging to his doom into the pool at the base of the falls. Belzagar smiled.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the Gate of Cameth Brin, late afternoon of October 24, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
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After the little incident with the mail pigeon, Gimilbeth’s company turned back home. The sun was nearing the horizon, when at the city gates they met two other riders coming up the King's Road from Tanoth Brin. Gimilbeth recognized the elegantly dressed Belzagar flanked by his servant.

"Greetings, Lady Gimilbeth", Belzagar said, bowing. "What a splendid autumn day! I see you have been hunting?"

"Good evening, Lord Belzagar." Gimilbeth smiled enticingly and urged her gray horse closer to Belzagar's beautiful new stallion to ride side by side. "We have been hunting indeed... Plenty of game on this plateau. We have had a nice day, but for one unfortunate accident."

"I am aggrieved to hear it," replied Belzagar with concern in his voice. "Is anyone hurt?"

Gimilbeth turned her head to look straight into Belzagar's eyes and asked, "Do you use mail pigeons, my Lord?"

Belzagar's voice was edged with a slight trace of perplexity as Lady Gimilbeth looked into his face. "Aye, as a matter of fact, I do, lady... strange that you should remark about that. Why do you ask?"

A totally artless smile on her face and concern in her voice, Lady Gimilbeth replied, "As I mentioned earlier, there was a most unfortunate accident while I was out falconing. Zimra, my peregrine, was a bit overeager this afternoon and brought down a mail-pigeon." Opening a small pouch at her belt, elegantly embroidered with the royal family crest, Gimilbeth extracted a silver cylinder. With apology written all over her face, she extended it to Lord Belzagar. "Does this belong to you?"

Taking it from her outstretched hand, Lord Belzagar looked down at the cylinder. "Why, yes, my lady, this does seem to be one of mine. My gratitude for returning it to me." The picture of courtly courtesy, he gave her a charming smile, nodding his head slightly as he handed the cylinder to Authon. "The witch is not telling me everything," he thought angrily to himself.

Suspicion etched in Authon's eyes, he glanced over to exchange a look with his master. Possibly reading some message revealed in Belzagar's expression, Authon's eyes darted away to pretend interest in a knife sharpener's shabby wain that was passing through the gate.

"Oh," the lady said in an enticingly sweet voice as she leaned towards him, "it was no trouble to return your property. Now I must insist upon recompensing you for the loss of your bird."

"No, my lady, I would not think of accepting anything for the bird," he replied graciously. "Accidents sometimes happen, and this one is certainly not your fault." Curse her anyway! Why did she not leave?

"Are you certain?" she asked, her voice sounding concerned.

"Of course, my lady. The bird was of little consequence, and I have many others in my mews to take its place."

Belzagar had begun to feel more than a little uncomfortable. "The blasted woman has her horse so close to mine that I am certain that she is studying my every nuance, the tone of my words, the expression on my face, trying to read something there." His face a pleasant mask, his full lips radiating a smile that did not reach his eyes, he was confident that her suspicions had not been aroused by anything which he had done.

"My lord Belzagar, how very fascinating!" she enthused. "I was unaware of your interest in mail-pigeons. Whatever do you use them for?" she asked innocently, far too innocently for him to believe that her artlessness was not contrived.

"My lady, I have many kinsmen scattered about the country. The messenger pigeons help keep me apprised of births, deaths, and such things among my many relatives in the far-flung regions of the kingdom. I have been expecting news concerning an uncle of mine, who is advanced in years. His health is not good. I am trusting that the dispatch contained in this cylinder holds news about him."

"My lord Belzagar, what an excellent way of keeping in contact, and how thoughtful of you to be so concerned about your ailing uncle!" The witch is being sarcastic, he thought.

A trace of contrived sadness now in his gray eyes, Belzagar bent his head before regaining eye contact with Lady Gimilbeth. "I was always fond of the old gentleman."

"My hopes are that his health improves. I will not keep you any longer, my lord." Lady Gimilbeth extended an elegantly gloved hand to place on his arm. "Again, I am truly sorry about the pigeon, and I hope that I haven't put you to too much inconvenience. I will keep your uncle in my thoughts. Now may you have a good evening, my lord," she exclaimed before touching her heels to her gray horse's sides.

"Authon, I think I need a stout drink of mead after that."


Chapter 24 - The Secret Code

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Cameth Brin, evening of October 24, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Back once again in his manor house, Lord Belzagar hurriedly made his way to his private meeting chambers, where he and Authon found that the servants had a fire blazing in the hearth. Giving their cloaks over to Belzagar's servant, they waited until the man had left the room. Going over to the dark oak table, Belzagar opened the message tube. Quickly skimming over the writing on the thin sheet of paper, he looked up to Authon.

"Either Sergeant Ashūk was drunk when he wrote this, or he has lost his mind."

"Why, my lord, what is it?" Authon asked in concern, moving closer to view the paper.

"The account starts out well enough... the usual information about supplies and stores. Then Sergeant Ashūk reports that his company is eager to be put to work and awaits orders... all expected comments. Nothing out of the ordinary here. That sums up the first page, until down near the bottom. There, Sergeant Ashūk begins writing that one of his scouts states that upon several occasions, he has observed an elf spying on him in the woods. No conflicts are reported... Now, blast it, Authon, that is all there is!" Belzagar clasped the paper in his hand and glared at Authon. "The sentence ends right in the middle. There should be another page. Where is it?"

"My lord, perhaps the woman knows more than she is telling, but you should not worry overly much about it. Even if she has taken the rest of the message, the only ones who can read that code are those who have been trained in the North on how to read it."

"I would not be so sure of that. Princess Gimilbeth is rumored to be a witch. Who knows of what she is capable?" Belzagar muttered as he walked to the hearth, balled up the sheet of paper and tossed it into the flames, where it quickly ignited and turned to ash.

"Lord Belzagar, what can we do if the woman has the rest of the letter?" Authon's eyes had narrowed to slits. "Should I endeavor to find a way to remove her quickly? These things can be done, you know!" Authon had suddenly become very eager, his eyes taking on a cruel expression. "In a situation like this, possibly the lady could receive a lovely gift... a jewel box of sandalwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. When the hinges are opened, a small pin is activated. The poison is deadly, and death occurs in a matter of a few minutes."

"Do not be a fool, man! That is far too dangerous, and there always might be a way to trace the box to us. I must send a message immediately to Lord Alassar. Ready the raven Honalnūt. His Majesty must be informed!"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Palace basement, night of October 24, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth threw her quill across the room and cursed in frustration. All her attempts to decipher Belzagar's message had failed. The table was littered with notes, lists of runes, cryptic signs and calculations. She had determined the frequency of every cryptic rune in the accursed message, but still couldn't find the corresponding Tengwar runes.

She tried Westron, then Sindarin. Should she try Quenia? - Hardly a good idea. Whoever had written the cryptic signs was not a cultured person, of that she was sure. The lines were scribbled by a hand more used to a sword than to a quill: the lines were uneven and identical signs were written in quite a different manner. There were also some scratches, made not by the quill, but likely by the writer's long nails. A woman? Most unlikely, considering that there were also some large greasy fingerprints on the thin paper.

The paper itself was a wonder. Nothing like the usual paper made of wood, or a parchment. This one was thin, almost transparent and practically weightless. Gimilbeth knew what it was - rice paper. Long ago, back in the Second Age, Numenorean mariners brought rice seeds from the other side of the world beyond the Gates of Morning. Now the crop was cultivated in Far Harad in an old Numenorean settlement where a great river flowed into the Sea. The crop needed warm climate and lots of water, so the attempts to grow it in other places had failed. Rice paper was a rare commodity and the price one had to pay for it would make even rich lords like Belzagar think twice.

So, who was this poorly educated person with greasy fingers and long nails who wrote on rice paper in a code impossible to decipher? There was only one other way to find the answer - sorcery - and Gimilbeth was determined to try it.

After consulting a couple of books, Gimilbeth prepared a potion that helped to reach a trance. Holding the rice paper sheets in her hands, she drank the potion and chanted a long spell in ancient Adunaic attempting to trace the one who wrote the message.

Slowly, her vision of the room blurred and she saw high, ragged cliffs, pine trees swept by the wind, a cave... There were some creatures milling around, creatures of small stature with long arms and ugly faces clad in leather jerkins and crude helmets... orcs!!! There were plenty of them!

One was larger and stronger than the others, and he had weapons of finer workmanship. He was skewering something - a rabbit or a hare, as much as Gimilbeth could tell. Choking in disgust, she watched as the creature clawed at the furry hide with its long nails and wiped its bloodied fingers on its pants.

Long nails and greasy fingers...So, noble Belzagar was in league with the orcs!

Gimilbeth had enough and broke the contact. She felt dizzy and bone-tired. She would have time to think about the implications tomorrow. She curled up on a small bed in the corner, but sleep eluded her.

It was already late at night. Gimilbeth was working in her secret study in the Palace basement, deep underground. There were no windows there and the door was locked, latched and enspelled.

As for Gimilbeth's usual rooms on the ground floor of the Palace, this night an ambush was set there as a surprise for possible night assassins. All candles were long extinguished and a dozen Dunedain guards with drawn swords were positioned in Gimilbeth's empty bedroom waiting for an intruder.

While speaking with Belzagar in the afternoon, Gimilbeth became acutely aware of the danger. The noble Lord's face had revealed nothing, but Gimilbeth was pure-blood Numenorean royalty, able to read the hearts of men. She felt Belzagar's uneasiness and fear. And much more revealing was his servant's face and the white knuckles of his hands on the horse's bridle. If Belzagar were indeed a traitor and a spy, he might well send someone to kill her this night, once he discovered that some sheets were missing from the message.

Another thing Gimilbeth had done was to send spies to watch Belzagar's mews. Now every bird coming to or going from the mews would be reported and its direction followed. Also the poorer neighbors around the area and their servants were promised a rich award for reporting any unusual activity in Belzagar's townhouse.

Gimilbeth decided not to tell King Tarnendur about her discoveries. She was unable to decipher Belzagar's message. At a trial, it would be her word against his. She had no incriminating proof - as yet. Belzagar was going to be closely watched and sooner or later, he would make a mistake. What Gimilbeth was going to do then, she has not yet decided. If her attempt to get Arthedain's or Gondor's help failed, she would need help from the North. And now she knew who could transmit her secret message to the enigmatic King of Angmar. Belzagar likely was his spy in Cameth Brin.

Unknown to Gimilbeth, the Palace was astir with gossip. The very upset Gondorean maid, Nimraen, let her tongue wag freely in the Maid's Common room upstairs. She was not well-loved by the other servants, being a foreigner, and a haughty foreigner at that, but this night almost all the servants in the Palace were there to listen.

"'They told me to leave my room and go sleep here, upstairs!" complained Nimraen. "And my Lady is closeted in her study below. Afraid of MURDERERS she is! And that in the very Palace! Never has such a thing happened before, I tell ye!" she cried, shaking her head in horror. "Royal ladies and their maids unable to sleep in their beds! and an AMBUSH set in my Lady's rooms! What are we coming to?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Belzagar's modest townhouse, Cameth Brin. Late afternoon of October 26, 1347.
Written by Angmar ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authon could see by the expression on Lord Belzagar's face that he was sorely displeased. The spymaster's chief assistant had just come into Belzagar's meeting chamber, and after being offered a chair, had sat down.

"I take it the news is not good, my lord?" Authon frowned as he took the goblet of wine offered by a servant.

"Not one pigeon has returned from the Trollshaws! It has been like this since yesterday when that witch, Princess Gimilbeth, was up to her tricks! I believe, Authon, that she and her agents are actively hunting our birds and intercepting the messages from our troops in the Trollshaws!" Lord Belzagar's face was flushed and angry as he stood warming his back by the growing fire in the great hearth.

"What can we do?" Authon asked nervously.

"Nothing!" Belzagar was close to shouting. "Not one thing!"

Authon cleared his throat uneasily. "What about messages from the North? Anything there?"

"No, and I do not expect anything. I took a chance yesterday and sent the raven Āmbal flying with a message to Lord Alassar in the North. I explained that the Princess Gimilbeth's falcon had destroyed one of our homing pigeon. And, of course, I detailed my suspicions that her agents are spying upon us. I further advised of the danger of using birds as messengers, at least for the time being."

"My lord!" Authon exclaimed. "Basically that leaves us cut off and isolated here in Cameth Brin! We can neither send nor receive dispatches by raven or pigeon!"

"Aye, Authon, and you know what is far worse than that!" Usually calm and unruffled, Lord Belzagar was far more upset about the developments than he would ever let Authon know. "The Princess' agents will be watching our every move!" His face grim, Belzagar shifted his weight uneasily by the hearth.

"Then what are we to do, my lord?" Authon asked after he had gulped down a hefty swallow of wine.

"We must rely upon our trusted dispatch riders, our couriers. Of course, considering the vast terrain, much of which is rough and without roads, the delivery of messages will be slow!"

"My lord, I still think that you should allow my men and me to dispose of the princess. We could take care of it in ways that would make it seem like an accident." Authon's cruel eyes showed the first signs of emotion that they had since he had arrived.

"No!" Lord Belzagar exclaimed angrily. "We have been over that! Any attempt to kill her now would be far too dangerous!"

His face pale, Authon finished his goblet of wine. "Then, my lord, what do we do? Sit here and wait while the Princess plots against us and tries to collect enough evidence to prove our treason?"

"She can prove nothing!" Belzagar snapped irritably. "You ask what we are to do, Authon? Why, nothing. Nothing at all! We will go about our lives as honest, upright citizens, while all the time your agents continue collecting information. In time, the Princess will grow bored with her games and find something more interesting."

Accepting another goblet of wine from a servant, Authon looked to Lord Belzagar, and then shrugging his shoulders, he said, "It might be a long winter."

A smile flickered across Lord Belzagar's face. "Interesting that you should mention the winter, Authon. We never know what tricks His Majesty might have up his sleeve."


Chapter 25 - The Witch-King’s Hunt

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Angnmarian countryside, October 25, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The day was a fair one for this far north. The weather seemed auspicious and promised an excellent opportunity for the lords of Angmar to have the excitement of a week of hunting before the cold northern winds of November blew their chilly breath and covered the land in a blanket of snow until March. Lady Gelireth, the current favorite of His Majesty, looked truly outstanding that morning in a dark green woolen riding dress; matching ermine-lined cloak; kid gloves of the finest quality lined with fur; and snug sheepskin-lined boots, designed to keep the delicate feet of which His Majesty was so fond snug and warm should the weather turn foul.

Men with tracking dogs had set out ahead of the party, and when the prey's trail was picked up, their function was to send back word to the main group. Servants, too, had been sent out to set up a hunting camp for the royal party, where the King and his guests could take brief refreshments before setting out on the ardors of the hunt.

Lady Gelireth rode beside the king, her two beloved black and brown moosehounds trotting dutifully beside her horse. Her men-at-arms came along behind at a respectful distance. At some length behind them rode the royal nobles and their entourages.

His Majesty's elkhound, a powerful, well-muscled brute, tolerated the lady's two dogs, but there was no doubt whatsoever in anyone's mind who was the leader of the three. Lady Gelireth had presented the dog to His Majesty when it was only a pup. When she had asked him what he planned to name the hound, in a mood of levity he had replied, "The beast shall be known as Gil-galad." It was certainly true that His Majesty was pleased with the hound, which had grown into a strong animal capable of long endurance and thoughly devoted to His Majesty.

"Gil-galad," His Majesty gave a quiet word to the dog, which wagged his scimitar-curved tail in recognition, "will the hunt be good today?" The animal replied with an excited bark.

"Your Majesty," said Lady Gelireth, her face flushed a charming rosy pink with the cool air, "I think that must mean the hunt will be a fantastic success!"

"Perhaps," the King replied, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

By midmorning, the party had reached the hunting camp that had been set up by the servants. After a light repast - at which some of the lords consumed far too much ale - the group was ready to set off.

Around mid-day as the sun reached her apex, an excited courier approached them on his lathered horse. After drawing up and saluting the king and his lady, the man gave his message. "The beast has been found in his lair at not too great a distance from where you are now, my lord king!"

"Well done, my good fellow!" the King thanked him.

Lady Gelireth, who loved to hunt, quivered and twitched from the top of her head to her dainty toes, warmly ensconced in the sheepskin-lined boots. Turning to the king, she laid a delicate hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. "I am so excited, my lord!" Her breathless voice came out in frosty puffs of air. "Could I not talk you into allowing me to try my hand at taking down the brute? I can wield the lance well for a woman."

"Nay, my lady love, 'tis far too dangerous a thing for you to attend, and besides that, a woman's strength is not up to wielding a lance. You may watch at a safe distance, however," came his patronizing reply. She curled out her lower lip in what he considered a very becoming pout, and gave him reason to dwell more on the adventures of the bed-chamber than it did upon the rigors of the hunt.

With an upraised hand in the air, the king signaled that the hunt was to begin. Touching his spurs to the sides of his magnificent gray stallion, he bounded away behind the courier. With a loud blaring of horns and shouts of jubilation, the lords upon their horses set out behind him in a wild gallop across the country. Some of the nobles who had more than their share of drink teetered in their saddles, but since all were excellent horsemen, righted themselves and set off with the usual dash and aplomb of the hunt.

The huge brown bear had made his den under a great, spreading ledge, which led back inside the side of a hill. The huntsmen who had gone ahead had set up piles of fallen wood on both sides of the opening of the cave to smoke out the bruin. The beast must have been far back inside the twists of the cave, for he was reluctant to come out, and so the huntsmen set the dogs inside to drive him out. A horrendous barking and yapping ensued from the mouth of the cave with several wailing yelps, signaling that some of the hounds had been injured in the contention with the bear.

The slow brush wood was by this time fully engulfed in flames and belching out a dark gray smoke, showering cinders down upon the backs of the huntsmen. Soon, though, with a great pack of dogs driving at his tail, the bear rushed out between the smoking piles and out into the open, growling and snarling his anger at his tormentors.

An eager lord, lance in hand, hurled the spear at the bear, but the beast was moving too quickly and the lance fell short. Another whose mark was far truer sent a stout missile, which caught the bear high on the back but missing the spine. Wounded, the animal bellowed in rage, and made straight for the Lady Gelireth, who, in, in her thoughtless excitement, had ridden her mount closer than her lord would have approved.

Dripping blood from his wound, the beast charged into her mount. The terrified horse reared, and the bear's claws ripped into its stomach, eviscerating the beast. Screaming, the lady was thrown over the horse's head as her mount crashed down to its knees. The bear, its great mouth open wide, turned glittering eyes upon her.

The king touched spurs to his horse's flanks, and the mount bounded forward. With an angry squeal, the horse rose on its hind legs in an oft-practiced military maneuver, its hooves flailing the air. Crashing down savagely upon the bear's back, the horse pounded the beast with its hooves, distracting the bruin from its intended victim. With a howl of rage, the bear turned away from Lady Gelireth, who crawled away on her hands and knees. The King of Angmar was quickly off his horse's back, and with a snort, the gray stallion scampered out of harm's way.

Menacingly the bear stood to its full height of nine and a half feet of angry fifteen hundred pound fury, towering above even the king. Lady Gelireth, safe for now in the arms of one of her guards, screamed hysterically, "My lord! The beast will slay you!"

The King laughed as he hefted his lance in both hands. "This is not my day to die." Lady Gelireth could not bear to look as the snarling bear lumbered on its back legs towards the King, closing in on him rapidly. Drawing back the lance, the King hurled it into the creature's chest. The beast screamed in pain, clawing at the embedded lance. Though the King had wounded the animal in the chest cavity, he had not struck the heart, and the animal, though wounded, was far from dead.

Lady Gelireth buried her head in her hands and fainted dead away in the arms of the guard who held her. Eschewing magic, the King drew his double-edged sword from the sheath. With both hands holding the sword around the hilt, the king waited. The frenzied bear, mouth agape, teeth gleaming, bore down on the King. When the bear was close enough that the king could feel the heat of its fetid breath, he rammed the steel blade home into the creature's mouth, the point emerging through the back of its skull. The bear lay at his feet, writhing and thrashing, spewing blood from its mouth, the back of its head and from the lance wound in its chest.

"'Tis dead," the King pronounced quietly. Walking over to the Lady Gelireth, he picked her prone form up, and as his horse knelt for him, he was soon in the saddle with her in his arms.

"Skin the brute. 'Twill make a fine covering for my bed this winter." With a few more instructions to his men, the King urged his horse through the parted assembly of nobles and set off on the ride home to the tower and fortress of Carn Dum. Their three hounds, their heads low in embarrassment, fell in mournfully behind his horse. With a low, melodious chant and a deep, passionate kiss, he awoke the Lady Gelireth, who looked up at him in confusion.

"My lord, I was so frightened. That beast could have been your ending," she murmured as she sat up in the saddle.

"It would take more than that to kill me. Much more, I think," he said reassuringly.

They were scarcely more than halfway home when they heard a loud squawk above them. The King halted the horse as the raven glided in and perched upon his arm.

"Open the cylinder, my lady," he instructed her.

Taking the container from the bird's leg, she extracted a thin sheet of paper, which she handed to him. "What is it, my lord? May I be so presumptuous as to ask?"

"You have always been presumptuous, my pet." He blew a teasing puff of cool air over her neck. "Belzagar and Authon have both made a botch of it, jeopardizing our entire operations in Cameth Brin and elsewhere. Apparently, he was careless enough to allow a message from our orcish warriors to fall into the hands of the Princess Gimilbeth."

"But, my lord, everything is in code. What might it matter that someone should read it? They could never understand it."

"If she can decypher the message, the Princess will be made aware of the spying activities of Lord Belzagar, and not only that, but the presence of the orcs in the Trollshaws. With this knowledge, she will doubtlessly urge her father to execute Lord Belzagar and Authon and send a force of soldiers to drive out the orcs. No doubt now 'tis no longer safe even to send the messenger birds south. I have other ways of warning the orcs, but I fear that Lord Belzagar is lost. I will, however, send a courier who might reach him, but 'twill soon be time for the winter storms to sweep over the land."

"Is there naught that can be done for Lord Belzagar and Authon? Though both are knaves and scoundrels, Lord Belzagar has always been quite devoted to you, Your Majesty. 'Tis a shame to let them die."

"Both men are exceedingly cunning, my lady. I will do everything I can for them."

They rode for some time in silence. Then the King observed quietly, "Never underestimate an ambitious woman, and the Princess Gimilbeth is that, for the Lady wants power, and will achieve it however she might. Not only is she well-versed in intrigues, but I perceive her to be on her way to becoming an accomplished sorceress. Far better would it be if her talents could be turned to other uses."

The horse trotted along, its breath steamy vapor about its nostrils. Lady Gelireth, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the horse's hoofbeats, was almost asleep when she felt the lips of the King upon her cheek.

"Oh, my ardent King," she giggled, "we are not even home, and the weather has turned cold!"

"Ah, my lady," he murmured as he nuzzled her neck, "I can make it a lot warmer..."
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