The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, around noon of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar, Gordis and Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


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.