Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Neglect of duty," Corporal Boshok said matter-of-factly. "Now quit arguing and throw down those weapons!"

"You're not taking me without a fight!" snapped Durburz as he drew his scimitar and rushed towards Boshok. The corporal had seen the menace in the other orc's eyes. Quickly jumping out of the way, he drew his own weapon as the draught-slowed Durburz charged by. He landed a light cut to the back of Durburz's neck, who roared at the sudden pain and then turned to face his assailant. While some of the orcs howled in excitement at the smell of fresh blood, others placed bets on which would kill the other, with the betting favoring Durburz as the winner. Saakaf, not a gambler, seldom placed bets.

As their scimitars clashed together, Corporal Boshok let the heavier orc drive him back, occasionally landing a blow to exposed skin. The draught had made Durburz clumsy and slow, and he soon began to show signs of fatigue. Those who had placed bets upon Durburz began to mutter.

"Too flatulent to fight, eh, Durburz?" Corporal Boshok taunted him.

"You will see!" screamed Durburz as he came charging and swinging his weapon at Boshok. Ducking as the enraged orc swung his scimitar over his head, Corporal Boshok brought his own blade up and sliced across Durburz' throat. Gurgling blood from his mouth and neck, Durburz fell to the ground, his limbs thrashing. Boshok finished him off with a piercing blow to the heart.

"All right, matey, you owe me a bundle," smirked an orc who had bet on Corporal Boshok. The orc beside him glared.

"I don't remember making that bet," the other snapped.

"You liar! You bet me half a month's pay that Durburz would disembowel the Corporal before the fight had gone ten minutes! You lost! Now pay me!"

"You filthy reneger!" came the angry voice of a nearby orc. "You're trying to cheat my brother! I heard you make that bet with him! Now give him his money or I'll cut out your guts!"

The dispute among the three orcs grew more threatening, and other orcs became caught up with it, with each one taking a side. In the ensuing tumult, Private Saakaf slipped away into the trees and watched from a safe distance.

When the fight was over, six orcs lay dead under the trees, while three were wounded, one seriously. Corporal Boshok had a wicked gash over his right eyebrow, and oozing cuts to his arms and legs.

"Let's get out of here," the corporal ordered.

"What about the dead? Are we going to salvage the bodies? Don't we have it coming to us?"

"Take what possessions of the dead you want and hack off any of the remains that appeal, but be quick. You never know who might have heard the screaming and moaning," Corporal Boshok ordered as he wrapped a rag about his bloody arm. "And Saakaf, cut off his head! I want it for a trophy! You others who aren't injured, whack off Durburz' prime cuts! We feast tonight!"

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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, morning of November 5, 1347
Written by Gordis
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When Gimilbeth and her entourage set out for the Last Bridge, it became apparent that their previous luck with weather had run out. The morning turned out to be one quite usual for the month of Hithui - wet, miserable, and chilly, with thick mist filling the roadbed to the brink. The horses had difficulty picking their way in this milky substance, but the old road built by High Numenoreans in ages past was well beaten and even, so Gimilbeth's party advanced without accident.

The previous evening they had reached the Great Road and taken shelter in a rundown watchtower near the crossroads. Gimilbeth sent everyone to camp outside as best they could and took possession of the only decent chamber the old tower had to offer - the quarters of the Warden. The man, however, did not seem to mind, awed by the presence of royalty and cowed by Gimilbeth's rather intimidating personality.

So Gimilbeth had a decent supper, a bath and a good night's rest in relative comfort, including her customary nightly green mask. Now, despite the weather, she felt fresh and cheerful. Also, last night she had an opportunity to take out her green velvet dress and try Tarniel's emerald necklace on with it. As she had hoped, it fitted perfectly - which cheered Gimilbeth considerably.

She nudged her horse closer to Gwindor's and asked playfully, "Tell me, Gwindor, do you have any idea why Merendil seemed so grim yestermorn? And, for that matter, why did he send additional guards with us? I guess the gruff Captain being both preoccupied and unusually nice bodes no good."

Gwindor smiled and shook his head. "Do not bother with it, my fair Lady, there is nothing to worry about. While we were approaching Brochenridge, Merendil imagined he smelled orcs. Can you believe it - orcs that far south?" Gwindor laughed merrily, more for Gimilbeth's sake than his own. "I bet the Captain is getting paranoid with too much campaigning."

Gimilbeth frowned slightly. She suddenly remembered Belzagar's pigeon and the vision of orcs she got when she tried to trace the letter with her magic. "I think it is not unusual to find orcs and even trolls in the Trollshaws. But hopefully, we are well past this place now."

"Quite so, my Lady," nodded Gwindor. "Anyway, we are strong enough to discourage any attackers." He guided his black horse closer to Gimilbeth's bay, took her left hand and kissed her gloved fingers, adding in a hot, husky whisper, "I wish most fervently for someone to attack us - then I will be able to prove myself to my Princess in battle!"

"A bad omen!" Gimilbeth's stomach suddenly went cold. "How stupid of him to call misfortune upon us," she thought.

As if to prove her true, one of the scouts suddenly materialized out of the thick mist in front of them.

"There is trouble ahead!" he reported. "A company of armed Dwarves bars our way. They seem unfriendly and ready to fight".

"Stay here, my Lady" - Gwindor instantly became stern and businesslike. "Make the standard-bearer advance. Let them see the Royal colors of Rhudaur."

Followed by the standard-bearer and two score of fighting men, Gwindor disappeared in the heavy mist.


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On the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, November 5, 1347
Written by Serenoli and Gordis
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Almost all the dwarves had soon forgiven the two elves for the cold reception handed out to them by Agannalo. After all, they had more than made up for any prejudices by dangling their long legs all over the ground from that morning till now... without grumbling. Gere had confided to Truin alone her conversation with Alagos, and he had decided they were interesting enough to talk with. And as he led the fashions of their little company, and as he had already been preceeded by his father, it was soon common enough to nudge one's pony near to theirs and engage them in conversation. It certainly lightened up a dull journey.

This morning, they found a new use for the elves. They had barely started the day's journey after a hearty breakfast when they found the elves looking worried beside their new ponies.

Truin told them confidentially, "If you fear riding them for another day, maybe we can excuse you. After yesterday," he paused to allow himself a grin at the recollection, "you would not be considered rude for doing that."

"I appreciate it, but something else troubles us." Alagos replied, his bright eyes on the road behind them, but surely even his eyes could not penetrate the thick mist that had settled down that morning. "Someone... well, a lot of someones.. are on the road behind us. They will be catching up to us soon."

Hroim, listening to their conversation, said, "Well, it could be nothing, or it could be anything. We'd best be prepared."

It was the sign for them to draw their weapons and to pull their ponies and wagons back to the side of the road. They waited, anxiously, ready for anything. The one consolation - no one smelled orc.

A noise of horses and silver armour came through first, and then the fog parted to let through around twenty men, led by a proud-looking man. The royal standard of Rhuadar hung upon itself with no wind to blow it up.

"Halt, dwarf. State your name and business."

Of course that is hardly the way to speak to a dwarf with thirty others standing ready behind him, but Gwindor's blood was running hot today. Hroim looked him up and down and took his time answering. "We are travelling to Tharbad. My name is Hroim, and I am the leader of this tribe."

Gwindor could hardly take offense at this, so he tried another tack. "The Lady Gimilbeth - daughter of the King of Rhuadar -" and a few other titles that quite slid past the dwarves, but which obviously proclaimed her importance, "is travelling this road today. You and your company will kindly move yourself to one side while we pass. She is in no mood to wait for the slow plodding of a dwarf, anyway." The last sentence was meant to be a mutter, but of course he made sure it was the kind of mutter that reached everyone's ears.

Hroim's face darkened. Before he could say anything, Truin spoke up, "What if we're not in the mood to wait out the slow regal tread of your lady?"

Gwindor paused for a second, trying to select the best of three replies that had occured to him. He had just rejected one as too obvious and the other as too subtle, when hooves behind him announced the presence of Gimilbeth herself.

"My lady, maybe you should turn back," he started to say. He was, of course, looking forward to the upcoming fight with the dwarves, just as soon as he managed to let off that very witty reply that he had decided on, and he did not want it complicated by having to look after Gimilbeth. Though a part of him reflected, that would be much more romantic, him slashing away with her at his back... and then she could see him in action, not just hear about it.

Gimilbeth’s voice cut Gwindor short, however. She pushed her bay stallion forward and addressed the angry Dwarves herself.

“Then, good Dwarves, perhaps you would care to join your slow plodding to our slow regal tread - so we could share our road?“ she asked with a pleasant smile. “There has always been friendship between the Dunedain of Rhudaur and the Longbeards of Gundabad. There is no need to change this now. I am Princess Gimilbeth - at your service and that of your family.” She bowed slightly in the saddle, her right hand on her breast as she had learned to do when dealing with Dwarves.

She has seen quite a few of them since she came North. Recently driven from their ancient stronghold of Gundabad, the homeless and impoverished Dwarves spread far and wide through the northern lands, seeking work and shelter. There were some who worked in Fornost, and twenty years ago a whole company of fifty came to labor in Cameth Brin on the construction of the New Palace. Gimilbeth had to admit that, despite their low numbers and diminutive stature, the Dwarves were outstanding masons, every bit as good as their reputation. She was ready to believe that their fabled prowess and resilience in battle were no mere tales either.

Hroim’s frown slowly disappeared, giving way to an uncertain smile. He took off his funny russet hood, bowed from the waist and introduced himself again.

“I am Hroim, the leader of this tribe of Gundabad Dwarves, at your service, my Lady, and at the service of the Royal family. We are now traveling from the Grey Mountains to Cardolan.” The other dwarves gradually let their hands fall from the axes at their waists and bowed, sweeping the ground with their hoods – blues, reds, greens, yellows and whites.

Gritting his teeth, Gwindor made a stiff bow. Inwardly he boiled. Why did women always try to spoil a nice budding fight? Oh, how he wished to hack these poor excuses for a human to tiny pieces!

Meanwhile Gimilbeth continued. “I am glad to meet a compatriot of Master Narvin who built the new Palace at Cameth Brin for us. He looked much like you, and he also had a russet hood – perhaps he was your kinsman?”

“Narvin is my great-uncle,” Hroim replied proudly. “He was one of the best masons of Gundabad. But he went to Khazad Dum about ten years ago and I haven’t seen him since.”

“If you meet him, please offer him my greetings and best wishes!” smiled Gimilbeth. “I repeat my invitation to join our forces, Master Hroim,” she continued pleasantly. “Forgive Lord Gwindor his gruffness – he was worried about our safety. There were reports of Orcs in the vicinity, so your company is welcome indeed if it comes to trouble. And even if there is no trouble, you are still welcome.”

Hroim muttered an excuse and stepped a few paces away to exchange words in his incomprehensible language with the other dwarves. Gimilbeth patiently waited. Her gaze wandered around the company – unlike among the team at Cameth Brin, here there were a few obviously very young Dwarves, with short, soft stubble at their chins instead of full beards. Excluded from the conversation their elders were having between themselves, all of the youngsters were staring at Gimilbeth with wide, curious eyes. Still there were no women or babies among the dwarves. “Do they even have them?” – Gimilbeth was uncertain about the answer.

At that moment, she noticed two tall figures, incongruous among the Children of Aule. Gimilbeth’s heart skipped a beat. Elves! Curse them! As if it were not enough to have to put up with Arinya’s eternal perfection and her nosiness back in Cameth Brin, here there were two male ones! She gritted her teeth and willed herself to remain polite.

The Elves came up and greeted her courteously, and after some brief civilities on both sides, disappeared again in the thick mist.

Tyaron and Alagos... that were their names. Noldor, both of them, and ancient too, if she were any judge. They said they hailed from Rivendell and were now going to visit Emyn Uial, beyond Fornost. It looked like she was going to have their unwelcome company for the whole journey. Ugh!

Meanwhile, Hroim returned and informed Gimilbeth that her kind proposal to share the road had been accepted.

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High hill above the Great Road east of the Last Bridge, afternoon of November 5, 1347
Written by Angmar
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High atop a hill above the Great Road, a scouting party of five orcs surveyed the road below them. Corporal Boshok, though still in pain from his wounds of a few days previously, had been put in charge of the patrol by Captain Ashuk. Boshok was lucky in that his wounds were not too serious. Unless a man were fortunate enough to be related by clan to an officer, he might be killed if he could not carry his weight in the company. Even nepotism was not always a guarantee of survival.

The men were under strict orders not to partake of any draught, for they needed their senses to be clear. Other orders called for them to build no fires, but that edict had been in effect ever since they had arrived in the south. Alert and watchful, they kept their eyes fixed upon the road. Any mistake, any slip up, and the whole mission would fail, and no one wanted to return to the north with that stigma.

Corporal Boshok's voice was quiet as he talked to them. Even though they were far above the road, sounds sometimes did strange things. It was always possible that the wind might play tricks and some enemy below hear them talking. Private Saakaf had heard about battles which had been fought just across a hill, but the men on the other side heard nothing, totally unaware that a battle raged close by. When Saakaf had been in training in the north, the Instructing Officer had a fancy word for this phenomenon, "Acoustic shadow."
Once when the officer had been lecturing, he explained. "Years ago, there was a great battle in progress, but a westerly wind kept the general commanding from knowing that his forces were heavily invested. Being in ignorance of the need of his troops, the general did not send reinforcements in time and the battle was lost." Saakaf had not completely understood this concept but he did understand enough to know that wind currents or topographical obstructions such as hills could play havoc sometime with sounds. However, Saakaf was merely a private and did not have to worry about such things. Officers did. What he needed to concentrate upon was the road below him, and the mission that had been given to him.

"Remember, Saakaf, that should any enemy forces be observed on the Great Road marching towards the west, you are to send one of the magic candles blazing skyward. Our other scouting post to the west will observe it and send word to Captain Ashuk and his company down near the bridge. Since you have had training with these amazing devices, you are entrusted with this duty."

Private Saakaf's chest filled with pride as he smiled. He and two others were the only ones in the company who knew how to deal with these strange fiery projectiles. Many thought the candles were pure "magic," one of the strange devices that the Sorcerer King in the north had developed. Saakaf knew better; the flares were nothing more than a form of fire that could be directed on a preset course. Saakaf did not have anything to be concerned about the flares yet, though. Everything was quiet on the road below.