Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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In Gimilbeth's entourage, on the road to Amon Sul, November 8, 1347.
Written by Rian
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Alagos, walking next to Callon on the driver's seat of the wagon, was watching him with a concerned expression on his face. Callon's wound had been treated and bandaged well, but it was deep, and it clearly bothered the young man.

"Sure you don't want me to drive, Callon?" The handsome face of the elf, which usually wore such a light-hearted expression, showed the concern he felt.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," answered Callon. "Horses make me feel better, anyway."

Tyaron, sitting on the wagon bench on Callon's other side, smiled briefly, then went back to fine-whetting his dagger, examining it carefully for any remaining damage from the battle.

"What you could do, though, is speak some more in your language. I always liked studying languages, and having the chance to hear the language of Gondolin from a native speaker ..." Callon shook his head in amazement, still not quite used to the idea that these men were as old as all that.

"Certainly! It is always a pleasure to speak in our mother tongue, and a pleasure to come across someone who appreciates it!" Alagos cleared his throat in an exaggerated gesture, and then began to speak slowly, grandly, in a solemn but melodic tone, and with graceful hand gestures.

Callon listened for awhile, enjoying the sounds of the language and listening for similarities and differences to the languages he knew, then asked respectfully, "What is that you're saying? Is it some song of a long-ago love, or the re-telling of a famous battle?"

"No - he's questioning my manhood in the most explicit terms possible," said Tyaron with a grin for Callon and a glare for Alagos.

Callon broke out laughing. "I can see you two are old friends indeed!" he said, as Alagos said something else in Gondolic to Tyaron and ran off merrily to see if the dwarves had anything amusing going on.

"We are indeed," answered Tyaron, smiling. "We have to be, or we would have killed each other long ago!"

Callon smiled, enjoying himself despite the pain. It was so wonderful to be in the company of men, and warriors at that. He didn't have to see his sister's face and be reminded of his failure to protect her. Caelen ...

Tyaron, quick-sighted, saw the change in Callon's expression.

"What saddens you, Callon elf-friend? he asked quietly.

"My sister ... "

Tyaron waited patiently, and eventually Callon sighed and spoke again.

"Do you ... or did you ever have a sister?" he asked Tyaron.

"No," answered Tyaron. "But Alagos did ... "

The two men were silent for a while.

"Do you blame yourself for what happened?" asked Tyaron quietly after a while.

Callon didn't answer.

"You tried to get her to flee, but it was her choice to ride back to you. And after that, six against one - and you injured - are odds that no man - at least in this age - could prevail against," said Tyaron firmly. "And from what I understand, staying home was definitely dangerous. I think you made the right choice among difficult options."

Tyaron sighed, then added solemnly, "To live is to risk danger ... and there are worse things that could have happened ... "

"You must have seen many grievous things over the years," said Callon quietly.

"Yes - many, many tragic things ... and many beautiful things. And the beautiful things are the greater truths." Tyaron paused, and then chanted quietly:

"Though all to ruin fell the world and were dissolved and backward hurled unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this - the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea - that Luthien for a time should be."

Callon nodded. "I see what you're saying."

"And your sister still has you," said Tyaron. "I wish you were not away for so long ... but perhaps it is for the best ... perhaps another might come alongside her now that she is alone ..."

Callon looked quickly over at Tyaron, and then back to the road.

There was silence again for awhile.

"What happened to Alagos' sister?" asked Callon.

"We don't know," answered Tyaron quietly. "We ... we assumed she had died in the city at first, but no one knew for sure. There was so much confusion and grief, and so much need among the refugees - illness and death, and bitter cold - we couldn't leave to try to find out more for many years - our help was needed so desperately. And then one day, a refugee came, speaking of someone who sounded like her, and so we left ..."

Tyaron looked off into the distance and sighed. "It was like chasing a phantom, though. But whenever we would give up, we would always hear something that would eventually make us start searching again. And then more wars, and more rebuilding ..."

He looked at Callon and smiled. "And so I guess we just got into the habit of wandering. Wandering, and discovering the beauty in the world, and fighting against the evil that would destroy it."

"And you're still looking." It wasn't a question.

And Tyaron didn't need to answer.

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On the road to Amon Sul, – eight leagues west of the Last Bridge. November 8, 1347, sunset.
Written by Valandil
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“We camp here for the night!” called Barund, in as authoritative a voice as he could muster. He glanced discretely toward Princess Gimilbeth, trying to gauge whether or not she approved – but he could not tell. He had consulted her on his earlier commands to the caravan, – which had met with a bemused stare. Perhaps he tried too hard to please her, or defer to her, he thought – maybe she would respect him for simply giving the orders as he saw fit. He had never escorted a member of the royal family before and, while he had practically begged Merendil for the duty, he now felt a little uncertain of what was required. He was given to understand that Gwindor and Elvegil had been particular favorites of the Princess. But who knows? Maybe some day he could enjoy that favor himself? Maybe even after this winter at Amon Sul!

He watched as the column advanced forward to the designated spot. There were forty men of Rhudaur – his own twenty from Brochenridge plus ten men from Merendil’s company, the six unscathed men of Gimilbeth’s former escort, and four men from Iant Barad. This last had been difficult to pull off, for the place was only garrisoned with twelve men, all of whom had families there in the village at Iant Methed. But after the attack, both Merendil and Barund wanted a few men along who knew the area well – so Merendil had commanded it. Barund had been west of the Bridge before, but only a couple times, and several years before – never quite as far as Amon Sul.

The rest of the party, besides Barund and the Princess herself, consisted of her maid and remaining page, the painter, the wagon-driver and two Elves who had attached themselves to the latter. They only had one wagon. All that could be spared from Iant Barad were employed in carting the unburied slain back to Brochenridge or beyond. The surviving Dwarves were trailing behind, and should catch up with them to pitch their own camp before the dark overtook them. Shaken up somewhat by the Orc attack, they had settled on continuing to follow Gimilbeth’s escort all the way to Amon Sul, then taking the interior road straight south to Tharbad, rather than taking the trail along the Mitheithel.

The site of their camp was an old abandoned watchtower from the days of Arnor. It had been ruined in the centuries of fighting between Rhudaur and Cardolan, and had no roof or floors, and half the stonework had fallen. For all the day’s journey, since leaving Iant Barad early that morning, they had traveled the border between the two lands, for Rhudaur claimed the land on their right, north of the road, and Cardolan that on their left, to the south. But the fighting had worn down both lands, and neither now had much fight left in them. And the land itself was desolate and empty – for after those years of war, none now lived within many miles of this stretch of road on either side.

With the short days, Barund was glad they had reached the watchtower before dark. In Arnor’s early years, these places had been established every eight leagues along Arnor’s major roads, as way-stations for her soldiers and to provide succor to travelers. If they kept making eight leagues each day, they would be within a day’s journey to Amon Sul when they camped on the 11th. Four steady days march, then one a little shorter at the end, if the maps were right, and they would arrive on November 12th. And they needed a marcher’s pace, for many horses had been lost in the fighting, and many of the rest were needed for the wagons. Only 15 of his men were mounted.

“A way-station, Your Highness,” offered Barund to Gimilbeth as he drew his horse up beside her. “Would you like your own tent set up inside its walls?”

“Of course it’s a way-station!” Gimilbeth began sharply, but continued rather formally, “thank you Sir Barund, I would be pleased to make use of it.”

Barund was off, barking orders at the wagon driver, until he remembered that this was the one wounded man in the company. After all, they were suddenly short on wagon drivers, and this man knew his horses. So, Barund called out to four men nearby, one of whom was unfortunate enough to look up at him at just the wrong time, and ordered them to make ready the Princess’ lodgings for the evening. He then returned to her side, in order that she might not want for companionship.

“It will not be as comfortable as our stay at Iant Barad, my Lady, but it must suffice as we travel in these parts.”

Barund was disappointed to see that she made no response and gave no reaction, but only stared straight ahead while her canvases were brought into their proper order. Barund had hoped that his mention of the place would remind her of the last few days – his rescue of her late in the night of November 5th, their short trip on to Iant Methed – the Last Bridge, and the warm reception they all shared at Iant Barad. Then yesterday, their lone full day of rest, he had been toasted at an impromptu celebration as the hero of her re-capture – and today, they had become traveling companions.

Thoughts of her, and attentions to her when he could make them, occupied him all the rest of the evening, until he settled into bed under his own tent, right near to hers, in case she needed anything, and that he might most suitably protect her. His mind kept going back to his first sight of her, in the moonlight among the trees, heedless of her ruined attire. She was older than he – but clearly not TOO old, and her form had retained a youthful shape. He wondered incessantly… if a royal woman like herself, probably too old to marry now, might draw a younger man like himself into her service. He smiled at the thought. He would be happy to do whatever duties she might demand of him.

He dreamed that night of what the coming Yule might hold.

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On the road to Amon Sul, – eight leagues west of the Last Bridge. November 8, 1347, sunset.
Written by Rian
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Tyaron finished re-wrapping Callon's arm and then sat back with a satisfied expression.

"You'll have an interesting-looking scar to tell stories about, and you'll be stiff for a bit, but you'll be fine. Alagos probably didn't need to have cut so deeply, but for these types of wounds, it's better to be safe than sorry - he definitely saved your life."

A serious expression lighted briefly on the face of the normally-smiling Alagos. "I've seen too many die from those wounds - and it's not a pleasant death. If I had come to you a few minutes later, I would have probably used my dagger on you quite differently ..."

Callon drew a shaky breath as he realized what the Elf was saying. He stood up and bowed. "I thank you again for saving my life. I can't imagine ... my sister ... " He shook his head, overcome with emotion as he pictured his sister receiving news of his death.

"Well, she'll get most of you back!" replied Alagos merrily, the momentary serious expression now replaced with his usual smile. "I wish we could have saved all of you, but at least we saved most of you - 99 parts of 100 isn't too bad, considering the alternative!"

Tyaron grinned and made a remark in Sindarin. Callon looked at Alagos with an inquiring expression on his face, waiting for the translation; the elves had started speaking in the various Elvish tongues around him and then translating, knowing how he enjoyed hearing and learning about languages.

Alagos feigned a shocked expression. "I'm sorry, I must decline to translate," he said to Callon in a serious voice, although he was unable to keep a little grin from starting. "My friend has said something shockingly rude - something that I would NEVER consider saying!" He shook his finger at Tyaron in the universal admonishing gesture.

"He's just mad that he didn't think of it first!" replied Tyaron, laughing, as he put away the herbs he had used on Callon's arm and then stood up to join the other two. Callon smiled; even with his limited Sindarin, he had a good guess at what Tyaron had said.

Callon suddenly remembered what he had been setting out to do before Tyaron had stopped him to check his arm. "I need to check the horses - would you like to come with me?" he asked the elves, still a bit tentative around them despite their joking with him. The thought of how old they were, and what they had lived through and seen, still boggled his mind, and he didn't understand why they seemed to like to be around him instead of the other, more experienced soldiers. But whatever reason they had, he was thoroughly enjoying their company.

"Surely - Anka and I have to finish a very interesting conversation we started earlier today, anyway," said Alagos, and started walking towards the horses. Callon, unsure of whether or not he was joking, followed, with Tyaron at his side.

"Anka?" queried Callon, hoping to get the translation this time.

"Teeth!" replied Tyaron with a grin, and Callon chuckled. Both of them had observed the fiery gelding taking bites out of any man unfortunate enough to come within his range.

"Let me do any heavy work," continued Tyaron. "I don't want you straining your arm and re-opening the wound."

"All right, I will - thanks," replied Callon.

Normally Callon would have warned someone approaching the black gelding to be careful, but he had no worries as he watched Alagos come right up to the horse, put his hands on either side of his face and start talking to him nose-to-nose, while the the 18-hand giant nuzzled the tall elf like they had been best friends from birth. The First-Born definitely had a way with animals, there was no denying that!

"I'll keep his teeth busy - you might want to check his off-hind hoof; he seemed to be favoring it just a bit - but I'm sure you noticed that, anyway," said Alagos to Callon as he walked up.

"Oh yes, you must stop thinking that men are made of delicious oats and honey, you great big oaf, you - they don't appreciate being bitten," murmured the elf to the horse, who blew back at him softly through his nostrils. Alagos reached up and scratched the horse's forelock, and then fixed him with a stern look. "And if I hear of you biting again, I'll have to come back and speak to you sternly, and you won't like that!" he added, and the towering animal reached out and gently lipped Alagos's ear, tickling him with his whiskers.

Tyaron ran his hand down the gelding's right rear leg and picked up the hoof, holding it towards the light for Callon to examine.

Callon pulled out a hoof pick from his equipment pouch and started gently clearning the massive hoof, noting at what spot the gelding seemed to pull back a bit. When he had cleared the mud and debris, he pocketed the pick and ran his finger along the inner spongy area of the hoof and found the problem - a small stone lodged deep into the cleft near the center of the hoof. He gently worked it out while Alagos kept the gelding occupied, thankful to have such helpers with such a horse - it would have been a much harder job to manage alone, especially with his injured arm. Pulling a small jar from the pouch, he rubbed a little of the salve it contained into the sore area.

"Is it warm at all?" inquired Tyaron, holding the hoof firmly while Callon worked on the sore area.

All of a sudden, the comfortable noise of men relaxing by fires after a long journey, telling tales rendered more interesting by drink and camraderie, was rent by a loud voice.

"Barund! Will you PLEASE tell your men to quiet down!" came the angry and haughty voice of Gimilbeth through her tent material.

"You could always have the Ice Princess come by and cool it down," came Alagos's voice from the head of the horse.

Callon grinned and shook his head, then retrieved the hoof pick and cleaned the other three hooves. As the three men left to check over the other horse, the black gelding whickered softly and shook his mane at the backs of the retreating elves.

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On the road to Amon Sul. November 12, 1347, sunset.
Written by Gordis
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The last days of the journey to Amon Sul proved to be dull and uneventful. Gimilbeth was fed up with adventures for the rest of her life, so she was glad of this soothing monotony of riding at an easy pace for eight leagues a day, then stopping for a night at a way-station or camping in the open. The landscape presented no diversion, as the land was flat as a table-top and almost barren. The icy northern wind whistled in pale dry grasses. On the south side of the road there were tangled bushes and small groves of birch-trees, now leafless and forlorn, but northwards nothing sheltered the party from the biting wind.

Away in the distance westward they could see a line of hills, the highest of them on the left of the line and a little separated from the others - Weathertop. On its conical summit there stood a tall white tower, looking unbelievably high and eerie from a distance. Everyone in the party knew that high atop the tower there was a seeing stone, sleeplessly watching over the wild barren plain - the Palantir of Amon Sul.

"You should be comforted, my Lady, as we are now in full view of Amon Sul," ventured Barund, who rode alongside Gimilbeth at the head of the Party. "I am confident that no surprise attack - like the one that has almost proved our undoing - is now possible!"

Gimilbeth nodded, trying to hide her irritation. She hated the way Barund always tried to turn every conversation back to the orc attack. Sure, he had saved the day and rescued the princess from a fate that would be far worse than death, but then again he had gotten his reward, universal praise and profuse thanks. How could he fail to understand that Gimilbeth didn't wish to recall the awful fight, deaths of her nearest companions, and, to top it all, her own humiliating captivity?

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched how Barund shifted uneasily in the saddle and bit his moustache, obviously at a loss for further topics of conversation. The Brochenridge scout was an honorable man and experienced fighter, but he sadly lacked both Gwindor's refinement and Elvegil's heady joviality. Gimilbeth was surprised with herself - cold and practical as she was, she still missed her faithful knights terribly. As compared to the two late Gondorians, Barund was nothing but a rustic...

Gimilbeth turned to smile at Edelbar, who rode just behind her, his face grave and composed. The page had grown a lot in the course of the short journey, not in stature, but in personality - he looked no lad anymore, but a man. Pity Lammir didn't make it as well...

At least they still had the wagon, Gimilbeth thought, looking further back. Despite the fight and fire, very few of Gimilbeth's possessions had been damaged or stolen. Barring Elessya, of course - what a pity she had kept it on her person! Fortunately, Serinde's spell-book was safe in its secret locker of the big trunk with dresses.

The two Elves walked alongside the wagon, their long legs eating mile after mile tirelessly. Feeling Gimilbeth's barely concealed hostility, they stayed away from her and she was glad of their discretion. She noticed Hurgon perched alongside Callon on the driver's seat of the wagon. The painter looked tired and sleepy - or perhaps he was drunk as usual... But Gimilbeth didn't mind. The previous day she went to check on Tarniel's portrait and found the painting all but finished - not a masterpiece this one, but decent enough work all the same. Hurgon could easily put the finishing touches to the portrait when they reached Amon Sul.

At this moment, Barund's voice interrupted her musings. "Your highness, there is a company of horsemen approaching from the west. They bear the standard of Arthedain." Barund barked a command to their own standard-bearers to move to the head of the procession. Edelbar proudly unfurled the royal pennant of the House of Dauremir - an elk's head on the field of maroon, crowned with seven golden stars.

Soon the horsemen came into full view - about 40 of them, tall men clad in blue and black. And sure enough, the blue-and-silver standard of Arthedain was streaming out in the wind, plain to see. Seeing the men of Amon Sul, Gimilbeth's battered company cheered - their perilous journey was nearly over!