The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

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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."


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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.


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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."



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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."