The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

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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!"


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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.

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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.


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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."