Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, early evening of November 7, 1347
Written by Angmar and Elfhild
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Inside Hyarion's bed chamber, a small drama was taking place. Elína, the Lossoth girl, held a stick of firewood clutched firmly in her small hand. When any of the other women approached her, she would lunge forward, threatening them with the weapon, coming uncomfortably close to two of the chambermaids' faces on several occasions.

"My dear, why are you so frightened?" asked Muinadaneth, the inn-keeper's wife, as she looked at her kindly. "No one is going to hurt you. All we want to do is help you take a bath. Would you not like that? A nice, warm bath?"

"No!" the girl wailed, answering back in Westron. "Too cold to take bath in winter!"

"But, my dear, Lord Hyarion, your new own-- new guardian, insists that you have a bath. Look at all the soap and fragrances he has provided. He is thinking of your welfare." Muinadaneth was trying to spare the girl's feelings by not telling her that everyone thought that she stank. Muinadaneth herself could hardly stand to be in the same room with her, and only by smelling the lavender-scented handkerchief that she kept in her bosom could she tolerate the stench.

"I care not how much soap there be! No take bath!" With a wild look in her eyes, she moved forward a step and shook the log at Muinadaneth.

"Well, I do not know what to do," Muinadaneth sighed in resignation. "I suppose that we will just have to ask for Lord Hyarion to come in here and reason with you."

One of the servant girls leaned over and whispered into Muinadaneth's ear loud enough for Elína to hear, "Maybe m'lord Hyarion will give her a bath if she will not allow us. I wonder how she would like that?"

The Lossoth maid's frightened eyes darted between Muinadaneth and the servant girl. "No!" the girl shouted. Dropping the piece of wood, she began to tug off her fur and leather clothing and drop it in the floor.

"Here, dear, let us help you with that," Muinadaneth said solicitously.

"No! Tark woman, stay away from Elína!" the now nude girl wailed as she jumped into the tub, sending water splashing over the four women and the room. Elína began to rub water wildly over her face and hair. "There, I done!"

"No, my dear." Muinadaneth's motherly heart had opened to this poor, lost waif. "Girls, show her how," she said kindly as she stepped back from the tub. The three girls soon were lathering the protesting girl's long, lustrous black hair as she screamed and cried. A bucket of rinsing water over her head had her crying even more frantically. Efficiently, the girls worked on with determination, and soon, even though the dresses of all of them were soaked to the skin, Elína's hair and skin were glowing.

"What about these, mistress?" One of the girls held her thumb and finger over her nose as she pointed to the pile of furs and leather garments which reeked of fish oil and sweat.

"Slip a stick under the bunch of them, take them out to the courtyard and burn them," Muinadaneth replied. "Ewww!" she wrinkled her nose. "They do smell!"

"But what Elína to wear?" The tears were pouring down Elína's cheeks and she gasped and choked upon them.

"Why, dear, don't think anything about it," answered Muinadaneth. "My youngest daughter has some dresses which she has outgrown. I have brought them along. I think you will find some which suit you. Now let me see," she stood back and surveyed her. "What can we do with your hair?"

Elína looked up at her uncertainly as the older woman began combing and brushing her wet tresses. Within an hour after the four women had entered Hyarion's chambers, Elína was gowned in a dark blue dress, her hair braided and wrapped around either side of her head in twin buns. The girl smiled as the others complimented her.

"Beautiful," Muinadaneth sighed as she took her by the hand and led her into the sitting room, where she seated her at the end of the table across from Lieutenant Hyarion. "Exquisite, is she not, my lord?" she asked, pleased with the transformation she had effected in the girl's appearance.

"Yes, delightful," he replied, looking boldly at the girl. Reaching over to a small ebony box on the table, he took out a purse and put it in Muinadaneth's hands. "A little something for your efforts."

She weighed the purse in her hand. "My lord is most generous."

Excusing herself quietly, Muinadaneth left to help the chambermaids in ordering the Southron's room. Soon the four of them took their leave, departing into the hall where they passed the servants bearing Lord Hyarion's supper.

Too frightened and upset to do more than stare at her food, Elína waited until the servants finished setting the plates and platters down before looking over at him. What she saw was the Southron staring intently at her, his chin resting upon his hands.

"Eat, my dear," his voice was deep and heavily accented. "The beef is very good.

"Yes, my lord," she stammered, grabbing a handful of meat from a platter and tearing it into pieces, stuffing several pieces into her mouth at one time .

"No, no, my dear! That is not the way it is at all! You must learn proper table manners." He shook his head. "Let me help you." Rising to his feet, he made his way over to her, took her knife and showed her how to slice the meat into pieces and then spear them with the point. Moving the knife tip to his mouth, he slid a piece into his mouth. "See how it is done, my dear?" He put his arm around her shoulder. "Now you try it."

A knock at the door interrupted Hyarion's pleasant interlude. A cavalryman, his dark face ruddy from the cold, stepped into the room, closed the door and bowed. "My lord, a word with you... in private, please." The trooper looked over to the girl.

"Speak in our own language," Hyarion hissed to the man.

"Yes, my lord, yes," he nodded humbly.

"What news?"

"My lord, Sergeant Tishur and two troopers you sent to find another girl have returned...empty-handed and in a sorry state, teeth missing, ribs broken. It seems the girl they chose to kidnap had four brothers - native Angmarians and stout fellows. They beat our men almost senseless so they hardly made it back. There might be more trouble if the girl's relatives followed their trail here."

"They will present no problems. Our contingent outnumbers any we would meet in this remote place. But is it possible to find another girl?"

"I don't think so, my Lieutenant. News travel fast. All the neighbourhood must be on the alert by now, men armed and waiting for robbers."

Hyarion sighed. Much as he wanted to find another virgin to spare Elina, his attempts came to naught. He turned to the trooper. "Now you are excused. Go down to the cellar and inform the prisoner's guard that he is to bring him here in an hour. I am inviting him for a late supper," Hyarion chuckled grimly as the soldier saluted and departed from the room. He then turned back to Elína, who looked up at him with frightened eyes and poured her some strong Dorwinion wine. "Try this, my little Elina" he offered. "The vintage is quite good."

The girl took the goblet, sniffed at the red wine and sipped it hesitantly. "No drink wine" she explained. "First time now." She swollowed more, finding the sweet fruity taste pleasant. Soon the goblet was empty and Hyarion poured her more.

"Well," Hyarion thought, "I hope she gets drunk as not to feel too frightened. But Silmadan is just going to have to be satisfied with carrying out only part of the ritual. I do not intend to let him take it to full course and drain her of every last drop of blood. Seldom have I seen such a comely maid in the north, and I have developed a fancy for her. I have devised other plans for her... very pleasant plans." Hyarion felt his blood growing hot at such thoughts. The girl must not die! If there were no secret of the blade, or if Silmadan balked and refused to tell him, Hyarion would have him tortured. Fifty lashes on his back could be very persuasive.


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Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, night of November 7, 1347
Written by Gordis, the Black Speech spell by Angmar.
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Meanwhile, down in the cellar, Agannalo was awaiting Hyarion’s summons. Mad from impatience and thirst, the nazgul started pacing back and fourth like a caged animal, his mood turning to outright murderous. Like a cloud of darkness his feelings must have reached beyond the heavy door, as the guards stopped their merry game and huddled near the fire, silent and uneasy.

It was well past midnight when at last Agannalo heard footsteps on the narrow stair and a rusty key turning in the cellar’s lock. Four heavily armed guards entered, manacled the prisoner’s wrists behind his back, and took him upstairs to Hyarion’s rooms on the first floor.

Hyarion seemed grim and preoccupied. He paid no heed to Agannalo’s murderous stare and without a word of greeting ordered the guards to free the prisoner’s hands and to leave them alone together.

“Are you sure, my Lieutenant?” one of the guards ventured hesitantly. “He is quite dangerous and with his hands free, he might try to escape.”

Hyarion shook his head. “There is no escape here. The shutters on the windows are barred and locked for the night. The only door is this one, and you four will be guarding it. Stay here and wait till I call you. I don’t want to be disturbed whatever happens.”

The guards saluted and remained at the landing. Hyarion closed the door and locked it carefully from inside.

Smirking at such precautions, Agannalo walked nonchalantly to the table. There were two half-empty plates with meat and an almost empty flagon of wine.

“Do you want a drink, Silmadan?” Hyarion asked, cold hatred plain in his voice.

“Thank you for the offer, o illustrious Lieutenant.” Agannalo replied with a mock bow. “So very generous of you to think about my needs... at last. But I humbly have to decline. If you are finally done cuddling the Lossoth girl, I would like to start the ritual straight away. Where is she?”

“She is in the bedroom, this way,” Hyarion made for the door to the adjoining room but then stopped abruptly at the threshold, turned and gripped Agannalo’s shoulder.

“Look here, you, rascal” Hyarion hissed looking up into Agannalo’s face. “I will go along with your plan, but only as long as the girl is safe. I will not let you kill her!”

Agannalo stared at him incredulously. The stupidity of this mortal was really unfathomable! “But why wouldn’t you kill her? You have bought the girl just for this, didn’t you? What has changed since?”

But Hyarion was not in the mood to give any explanations to this weird cold-blooded killer. “You will do as I say, Silmadan. I will cut not her throat, but her wrist, and pour only a little blood – just enough for the spell, no more. And then I will quench the blood flow and the girl will soon recover.”

Agannalo threw back his head and laughed. Melkor forbid, the silly mortal became enamored of the filthy little wench! “And you think the spell would work?” he asked the Southron sarcastically. “I think not. One life should be taken to prolong another – that is the whole point, as I see it.”

“You should pray that the spell works, Silmadan”, Hyarion replied stubbornly, his hands clenching into fists, “for if it doesn’t , I will order you lashed until there is no skin left on your back. I would love to see you smirking after that!”

Agannalo inhaled the air deeply and slowly let it out to calm down. He could smell the girl’s blood – so very near - just beyond the door. Now her scent was mixed not with fish oil, but with the sweet flagrance of exotic flowers. The want for blood almost made him faint. “Well, Hyarion” he said at last. I agree to your terms. Lead me to the girl.”

“That is not all,” the Southron pressed his advantage. “Once you have chanted the incantation and I have drunk the blood, you should leave. I don’t want you to witness how I… complete the spell.”

“I perfectly understand.” Agannalo couldn’t resist smirking again.

Hyarion briefly nodded and led the way into the other room. There stood a large four-poster bed and on it the girl lay, small and dainty in her thin white chemise. She turned her head to look at the men, but her eyes were unfocussed, uncomprehending.

“Drugged, or simply drunk?” Agannalo asked Hyarion, much like a physician inquires about the health of a patient.

“Both”, replied Hyarion grimly. “I did give her some hashish as a dessert, but I think I should better tie her to the bed, in case she returns to consciousness.”

The mention of hashish made Agannalo’s mouth water. Barring blood, it was a thing he enjoyed most. He crossed his arms at his chest.

“So you have hashish…” he drawled. “I won’t do anything before you give me at least a few ounces. It will make my nights in various cold cellars so much more enjoyable.”

Cursing in Haradic, Hyarion strode to a wall cabinet, took a small mahogany box inlaid with ivory and threw it to Agannalo. “Take it, blasted scoundrel! I am in no mood to haggle with you!” Agannalo pocketed the box without argument.

Hyarion meanwhile sat on the edge of the bed and was whispering something soothing to the girl, something not meant for Agannalo’s ears. The nazgul, however, had no difficulty to catch most of his words.

“It is our marriage custom” Hyarion was explaining to a befuddled girl. “Do not be afraid. In my homeland the groom drinks a few drops of the bride’s blood during the ceremony and then the marriage is completed.” The girl muttered something unintelligible and moaned softly.

“Now, Silmadan, come here and hold this silver chalice.” Hyarion ordered with more assurance than he actually felt. He unsheathed the Morgul knife and put the girl’s limp arm on his knees.

“So small a vial?” asked Agannalo petulantly. “Half of the blood will be lost on the floor.”

Hyarion shot him a murderous glance and slowly, hesitantly started to cut the girl’s wrist.

The pain instantly brought the girl out of her stupor. She jerked her arm away from Hyarion and wailed in fright. The nervous Southron dropped the pale blade, nearly hitting his own foot.

“Take care, you fool!” Agannalo growled and scooped the knife from the carpet in one fluid motion. Quick as lightning, he caught the girl’s flailing arm in an iron grip and deftly made a deep cut across her wrist. The blood poured out in torrent, right into the silver chalice that Agannalo held.

“What are you doing?” screamed the Southron. “I told you not to hurt her! Stop it, you, monster!” He managed to push Agannalo away, but not before the nazgul filled the silver vial. Hyarion reached frantically for dressing materials he had prepared beforehand, put a tourniquet above the girl’s elbow, and dressed her wounded wrist.

Agannalo stood observing the Southron sarcastically, the vial of blood in one hand, the Morgul knife in the other. “I will leave you soon, Hyarion” he said “and this I must tell you before our ways part. I didn’t enjoy your company one bit. You are a dull chicken-hearted scoundrel. You will never rise higher than a commander of a remote fortress, be it in Angmar or elsewhere.”

“What?” asked Hyarion, not believing his ears. Now the knave was offending him!

“I am tired of you, Hyarion. Are you still interested in the spell or did the wench steal all your reason? Now listen to me - for I will not repeat twice."

The flow of curses and threats that Hyarion was about to utter in reply froze on his lips when he noticed that the magic blade that Agannalo now rose skywards started to glow with its own light. The pale greenish glow intensified and the candles in the room dimmed. Soon the room was full of pulsing evil light that somehow drained the things around of all color – everything now appeared a mixture of stark whites and velvety blacks with gray shades in between. Agannalo’s face seemed white as bone, with dark shadows around the sunken eyes, much like a grinning skull. Hyarion’s skin crawled.

Then Agannalo turned the blade downwards, holding it above the chalice with Elina’s blood. As if drawn by a magnet, the surface of the red viscous liquid stirred and curved, following the circular motion of the blade. Stirring the liquid with the knife, but never touching the surface, Agannalo started to chant the spell. Its words, in the High Tongue of ancient Mordor, were comprehensible to the learned Southron who listened open-mouthed, striving to memorize every word.

Pardahûn-zan ronku-ob ghaashug, muzûrz ghaamp-ob,
Burzum-zan ukû -- gothûrzûk, levûk --
Gaakh matum skaat nar akral-u grish-ob za!
Gaakh ash amirz akr grish pash slaiug ukû,
Durbûrz ukû, agh gothûrzukû!
Bugd-izgu Lat, Ai Melkor, Goth-ob Pardahûnûk!

In Westron that meant:

In the name of the power of the hot, burning depths of the earth,
By the everlasting darkness - all powerful, all encompassing -
May death not come to the drinker of this blood.
Let the one who drinks the blood be forever living,
Forever strong and forever powerful.
We beseech thee, O Melkor, Master of all Power!

“It seems that Silmadan’s tale about the wizard was true, after all,” Hyarion thought, much impressed. “It is impossible that the knave could invent such a spell himself, especially considering that it is composed in the Sacred language. The powers of the blade became unlocked. The spell clearly works!”

At the invocation of the Dark God’s name, the blade’s glow became unbearably bright. Hyarion averted his eyes in awe and looked back only when the glow gradually vanished. Agannalo stood looking down at the now smooth surface of the blood.

“And so be it!” he smiled at Hyarion. “Let the one who drinks the blood be forever living. But that will be I, not you.”

With that he lifted the chalice and took one long swallow.

For a moment Hyarion was speechless. He struggled to his feet and walked on unsteady feet to his treacherous accomplice. With a placid smile on his blood-smeared lips Agannalo proffered him the now empty vial. Hyarion looked down at the last drops of Elina’s blood obtained with such pains. It seemed to him that these drops grew to fill all his vision. He saw red.

With a wordless animal growl, ready to tear the accursed strawhead to pieces with his bare hands, Hyarion rushed forward...

And stopped dead. Silmadan, who just a moment ago stood facing him, has disappeared. Hyarion looked wildly around. The room was well lit, but the weird strawhead was nowhere to be seen. Then the Southron thought he heard a low chuckle. Yes, he was not mistaken. The quiet laugher was coming seemingly from all sides at once – or was it only in his own mind? The volume of the sound grew, and soon Hyarion’s head resonated with the horrible diabolical laugher. He clutched his head and sank to the floor, feeling more frightened than ever in his life.

At this moment beyond the drawn curtains and locked shutters, in the backyard of the inn, an old rooster flew to the top of the fence, tossed his red crest and started his morning chant. The clear sound cut through the shadowy nets of wizardry like a knife through butter. The laugher abruptly stopped and Hyarion slowly regained his wits. He told himself “I am an officer of Angmarian Army, His Majesty’s Lieutenant, I will not cower on the floor like a beaten slave.” Dwimmercraft or not, he had to find the prisoner.

“Guards, to me! The prisoner has escaped!” he cried, forgetting that he had locked the door on the inside. The soldiers hearing the urgency in the Lieutenant’s call, made short work of the door and rushed in. “Search the room”, Hyarion ordered. He himself went to check the windows. All were duly locked.

For some time the guards occupied themselves looking under the tables and behind the sofas. The area around the bed had been searched most thoroughly, as the men enjoyed the occasion to gawk at the half-naked unconscious Elins, before Hyarion had remembered to cover the girl.

Suddenly they heard frantic cries from the court and the sound of galloping hooves. Hyarion, knowing already in his heart what to expect went out to investigate.

“So, the strawhead has stolen his horse, didn’t he?” he asked a soldier with a measure of resignation.

“It is much worse, my Lord”, the soldier replied. “All the horses bolted as if Njamo himself was after them. Broken their stalls and bolted away, they did. Not a single one left. We are stranded”.

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LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE BLACK SPEECH SPELL

Power-innameof depthsof burninghot earthof,
Darkness-bythe eternal -- powerfulall, surroundingall --
May death come not drinkerto bloodof this!
May one who drink blood beabletobe living eternal,
Strong eternal, and powerful eternal!
Call-we You, O Melkor, Master-of Powerall!