Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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Near midnight, October 27 Orc Camp in the Trollshaws
Written by Angmar
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As the rider guided his horse along the narrow path that was little more than a deer trail, he grew ever more alert and apprehensive. He knew that they were watching him, and he also knew the hatred and contempt in which they held his kind. If he had been one of the king's riders, he would have been dead long before now, shot through the heart by a black fletched arrow. They knew him, though, and so he was safe.

The day-and-a-half long journey had been a grueling one for both his horse and him. The difficulty of traveling through the inhospitable, foreboding landscape had slowed the trip, while the horse picked his way over tailless grounds that would prove challenging even for a surefooted mule. Since there was little forage for the beast other than a few autumn-dried grasses, it had been necessary to pack an abundance of grain to last for the return trip back to Cameth Brin. Stopping only long enough to allow his horse to rest, feed and drink, the rider had made good time, sometimes nodding asleep in the saddle.

Lean and wiry, his muscles hardened from years of riding, Galuarth the messenger had once been a dispatch rider in the army of Arthedain, but his short temper, flippant tongue and surly mood had earned him trouble from his superiors. He had finally been dishonorably discharged for insubordination to an officer. Turning to roving after that, he had joined with a group of petty criminals who made their livelihood stealing anything upon which they could get their hands.

Seeking their fortunes, the whole motley group crossed the borders into Rhudaur. Agents recruiting for Jarl Broggha had promised them quick promotions and ready gold, and they had joined the Hillmen. All had prospered since, but Galuarth preferred riding to fighting. Through a propitious meeting with one of Authon's agents, he had found employment as a messenger for the spymaster's assistant.

His duties called for him to be ready to ride at any moment. While he always had to be on the alert and had little time of his own, the position payed well. He enjoyed the keen sense of danger that he experienced when he would ride the dark and lonely trails, sometimes even being sent as far as the distant northern kingdom of Angmar.

Alert, the horse's ears pricked forward and the rider could feel the animal's body tensing. The gelding pranced, his nostrils sending out clouds of vapor in the chilly air. Suddenly, his horse shied as a large orc left the thick underbrush and blocked the trail ahead.

"Ho, Tark!" Galuarth recognized the voice which belonged to Durburz, one of the lads of Pizbur Ashuk's company. "What has prompted your lazy carcass to leave the city and come to these forgotten wastes? I doubt that it is because you have taken a fancy to any of us, is it?" Durburz laughed at his own crude joke.

"You aren't my type, Durburz," the horseman laughed dryly, "but if I ever change my mind, I will be sure to let you know."

The orc let out a thunderous guffaw, enjoying the rough banter. When his mirth finally subsided, Durburz wiped the moisture from his one good eye and said, "Come on now, I'll take you to camp." Then he turned and led the horseman down the path.

Pizbur Durburz, the leader of Third Company, First Regiment of the Third Brigade, of the Army of Angmar, had been enjoying a feast of roast pheasant when he saw Durburz and the messenger coming into camp. Wiping the grease off his mouth on the back of his sleeve, the chieftain called out a greeting to the two.

The fierce orc soldiers lounging about the camp turned greedy eyes towards the rider and his mount. While manflesh was always appealing, some of the orcs always had a hunger for horse flesh. There was more on the bones of a horse than there was on the frame of a man, and some thought it had a richer taste than human flesh. Having learned to fear and hate orcs in the past, the horse snorted and shied as Galuarth tried to soothe him. Slipping the bridle off the horse's head, Galuarth tethered the animal by the halter rope to a bush on the side of the road. Slipping a nose bag of oats over the horse's head to distract the beast, he patted the gelding on the side of the neck and walked to the orc campfire.

"Come over and warm yourself, rider!" the pizbur roared out a greeting. "There's draught and fresh game in plenty. You can have the choice of raw or cooked, even though I have not seen any man yet who appreciated the delights of raw meat."

"Narnulublat," Galuarth replied in words meaning "thank you" in Black Speech. "If I might have a piece of that venison roasting and a drink of orc draught, I'll be pleased." The thoughts of eating raw flesh sickened Galuarth, but he did not let it show on his face.

"What news have you for us?" Ashuk asked as he scratched at an irritating louse under his armpit and watched the man eat.

"Well," Galuarth answered between chewing and swallowing the meat, "you're not to send out any more pigeons to the contact in Cameth Brin. It appears that that whole line of communication has been utterly ruined by the Princess Gimilbeth. The witch has interfered and now sends her falcons to hunt the messenger pigeons."

Somehow the idea that one woman had destroyed an elaborate spy system appealed to Pizbur Ashuk's sense of irony. "You don't say," he remarked, rubbing his dark jaw. "You know, that's funny," he chuckled. "What that woman needs is a strong man to put her in her place!"

"Not likely that will ever happen," Galuarth chuckled.

"Since they are no longer needed, can we eat the pigeons now? The lads have restrained themselves and have not taken even one." The orc leaned over and peered into Galuarth's eyes.

"No, no, you cannot do that!" the courier exclaimed. "Those are valuable birds!"

"Then what are we to do with them if we are not to eat the little beggars? I think they would be downright tasty... just twist their little necks off and pop 'em in your mouth, then spit out the feathers."

Galuarth looked at the orc with utter disgust. "A man will be along tomorrow to pick them up and take them on their way."

The Pizbur looked disappointed. He had been thinking so much about those tender little birds, that he had already imagined that he had eaten half of them himself. "So how will we get dispatches to the spymaster in Cameth Brin? None of us can exactly go sauntering down the city streets."

"I will be attending to that, and if I should not be able to for any reason" - he thought of the possible reasons... his death or his capture by the king's agents, and felt a chill go down his back - "there will be a replacement found for me. Now that I have finished this fine provender and draught, I need to get to the main purpose of my visit... This dispatch," the rider reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a scroll tube sealed with wax and handed it to the orc commander. "I will wait for your reply."

Hastily the pizbur opened the tube and drew out the message. Unrolling it, his eyes skimmed over the document. "We will be ready... tell him that."

"Your message will be delivered, Pizbur Ashuk. Now I need to be heading back with any messages that you should feel fit to send."

"Except for an elf who was nosing around here a few weeks back, things have been quiet. There is no need to send a written message... Now if you should change your mind about those pigeons," the orc licked his lips hungrily, "we could put them in a pigeon pie."

"No, that will be quite unnecessary," Galuarth replied tersely, turned and went back to his horse.

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October 30th, married servants' quarters in Cameth Brin castle
Written by Rian
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"I wish I didn't have to go," said Callon for the hundredth time.

"I know, but ..." Caelen left the sentence unfinished, except for an expressive shrug of her shoulders.

"It's only a week," he said for the hundredth time.

Caelen fixed her brother with the stare that she usually used on stubborn horses. "I'll ... be ... FINE!" she said firmly. "Don't worry about it!"

Callon walked over to the window and looked out.

"I wish we could have found our cousins - that would have made it so much better for you..." He trailed off as he gazed into the distance, as if he might somehow see the family that they had come so far to seek.

"That would have been nice," agreed Caelen regretfully. Although they had made diligent inquiry, they had found no news of their family. The only news was news that seemed to be all too common to this region - roving gangs of bandits, families robbed and worse.

"Well, maybe I'll find news of them on this journey," said Callon optimistically. "We've only been here a short while - maybe we'll hear something about them soon. I haven't given up yet."

Caelen smiled encouragingly at him. He was so nervous about leaving her, and she wanted to make things easier for him. He had done so much for her, given up so much for her ...

Callon moved away from the window and over to his sister.

"I wish you hadn't slipped up and told Arinya that we're brother and sister, but it's probably a good thing that she knows - I think she'll keep our secret, and I think she'll be watching over you more now. It will come out eventually, I'm sure - but at least the people here will have been used to thinking of you as a married woman expecting a child, and ... and ... well, hopefully that will help," he ended up somewhat vaguely.

"And she can help me during my "miscarriage", too," added Caelen in the same low voice, with a glance at the door - listening at doors seemed to be a popular pastime here. "It would have been difficult to fake being pregnant much longer, and it would have looked strange to not have a woman with me during that time."

"Do you think you should do that while I'm gone, or when I come back?"

"No, the timing will be just about right when you come back - I mean, with ... all the details," she waved her hands vaguely.

Callon, who knew very little about a woman's monthly "time" and had no desire to learn more, made no objection. "Whatever you think is best, Caelie," he said, standing up and walking over to his bag, idly checking its contents once more.

"No! It's all packed! Leave it be!" said Caelen, moving across to her brother and pulling at his arm ... but not before he had found the note.

"Thanks, Caelie," he said softly, pullling her close and giving her a hug. "I'm glad you remembered ..."

It had been a family tradition of theirs to sneak a little love note into the bag of anyone that was leaving home, even for a day. Callon smiled as he thought of the note he had slipped into her drawer ... some things never died.

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Cameth Brin Palace, October 30, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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The night before her departure, closeted alone in her underground study, Gimilbeth prayed.

It was The Holy night, Sauron's Last Night before the Dark Lord departed the World of Living. Rumor had it that this night, one thousand three hundred and forty-seven years before, Sauron, besieged in Barad Dur by the Last Alliance, gave a great feast and ball. Ever since, the followers of the Dark Lord held this night holy and celebrated the Duvediu.

Gimilbeth remembered what a wild night it used to be in Umbar. Great bonfires were lit in the streets and a crowd of commoners: sailors and merchants, men and women, Umbarians and Haradians alike, danced around the Duvediu fires all night after partaking their share of the strong local wine. It was the night of wild revelry, songs and fireworks, flirting and street fights - the night that left enough to talk about for a whole year to come.

The King's guards and the Gondorean Governor were not too happy with this custom, knowing of Duvediu dark origin, but over the years the celebration had become traditional both in Umbar and Harad and, much as the conquerors tried, they never could wipe it out. So the Gondorean guards and the Faithful in general just tried to make themselves scarce, least they be maltreated by the heated crowds. The Faithful reappeared the next morning - clad in white robes they walked in a dignified procession celebrating Sauron's downfall and the beginning of the New Age, while most of the Umbarians slept after the last night's revelry, or nursed their hangovers.

Umbarian nobles celebrated Sauron's Last Night as well, but they never mixed with the wild crowds of commoners.. Richly clad guests and relatives gathered at Gimilbeth's grand-parents' palace for a great feast and dancing. But first, dark rites were held in the underground vault decorated with golden and black velvet trappings and lit by nine great lamps filled with scented oil from Harad. Gimilbeth remembered chanting in a strange language, harsh and alien, that she heard coming from the vault. Young Gimilbeth craved to be there, she begged her grandmother to let her take part in the ceremony, but Serinde was adamant:

"No, child, you can't join us," she said to Gimilbeth, her colorless lips pressed into a thin line. "I have promised to your poor mother afore she died that I will keep you away from the Holy Rites. In her bewitchment with your father, she wanted you to become one of the deluded Faithful, as he is. I may regret it now, but I have sworn by the Holy Darkness, and I intend to keep my promise."

So Gimilbeth remained in the empty hall, waiting for the other guests to reappear after the rites. She took part in the subsequent feast and danced at the ball, but she couldn't help but feel frustrated to be left out of the main ceremony.

Now, eighty years later, she finally had the ritual chants for the Holy Night recorded in full in the black book she had inherited. There they were, written in a neat flowery script by one of her mother's ancestors: prayers in the Holy Black Tongue and their Adunaic translation. Gimilbeth spent two days trying to learn the unfamiliar words by heart. But when the Holy Night came, she was prepared.

This night, alone in her study, Gimilbeth lit the nine candles and chanted the prayers to the Two Lords of Darkness, Melkor the Mighty, and Artano, the Giver of Gifts, and to the Nine Angels of Shadow, Those Who Live Forever. She killed three sacrificial black birds and spilled their blood on the stone altar, asking the Holy Darkness for guidance in her plight and for a safe journey.

At some point along the long chant, she got a feeling that her prayers were not in vain, that they were being heard... She felt another, much more powerful, mind slightly touching her own... She thought she felt cold invisible fingers on her shoulder, along her neck... Frightened and elated, Gimilbeth continued chanting in a low voice, trembling from emotion. Will the Dark Lord deign to answer her prayers?

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Tower of Carn Dum, October 30, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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The Witch-king stood looking through the open narrow window as dark clouds hung low and foreboding over the tower of Carn Dum. Moaning and howling like lost spirits, icy winds raced from the north and whipped about the tall structure, buffeting the stones with tiny pellets of ice.

As the wind whipped up the ice crystals, swirling them wildly outside the window, a face began to materialize and take shape before the king's eyes. "The Princess Gimilbeth," the knowledge came to his mind, "is concerned about her trip, troubled and uncertain." The Witch-king laughed at the irony. Her trip to Amon Sul played right into his plans for kidnapping her. But, should the ferocious storm sweep down from the north, her journey would be delayed. The king would not let that happen.

Among the powers that his ring had bestowed upon him was the ability to control the forces of winter. It was obvious to him that the natural elements had decreed that a storm of great fury and might would sweep down across the North that night. If the storm were allowed to continue on its course, everything from the Ice Bay of Forochel to Sarn Ford would be covered in snow until the blizzard tapered out in the mountains past Rivendell.

Laughing, the king took the full force of a fierce swirling whirlwind of snow as it burst through the window and whipped snow about his tall form. Raising his arms, he held a long, shimmering sword into the air and intoned softly,

Gazogal pardahûn-ob bor-ob agh akûl
Khlaar hasum-izub, khlaar mog-izub
Shakrop naakh-lab, unr krum satug-zi
Sharlob kul pardahûn-izub-ishi!

Princess Gimilbeth's prayer had been answered, and no foul weather would plague her journey, but she had paid a price. Her prayers and obeisance only deepened the hold that the Witch-king already had upon her. Now he would bind her still closer.

Closing the window, he walked to the table where rested nine candles on nine silver candlesticks. A delicate blue flame appeared in front of him and rippled atop the wicks, lighting the candles. He opened up an ebony box inlaid with torticeshell. Taking out a sheer silk nightgown dripping with lace and trim, he visualized the owner of the gown. Clearly he could see her in her study chanting before nine candles. Intoning in a soft, singsong voice, he utilized his power to conjure up a pleasant image of himself as a handsome prince. The vision seemed to float just above the candles before her.

In her mind she heard his deep voice. "Princess Gimilbeth," he touched the place where her neck and shoulders would be, "your prayers are answered. Into your hands will come all you have ever wished and more." Taking the small ceremonial dagger from his belt, he sliced across his right forefinger. He watched as the blood slowly dripped over the bodice of the fluffy nightgown, falling to the spot which would rest over the wearer's heart. He smiled as he saw an expression of rapture light up the princess' face.

***
TRANSLATION

Wielder of the might of snow and ice
Behold my plea, hear my voice
Stay thy hand, hold back the gale
Until the woman is in my power!