The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Serenoli, Gordis and Angmar
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Odare twisted her head for a better look at the bear, who was dancing to applause.

"Did you know there was going to be a bear?" she whispered to Amantir, who was watching, quite hypnotised, the movements of the beast. He nodded, "No..."

Then, quite suddenly, chaos broke loose. A drunken hill-man arrived, with two hounds in tow; next moment, there was a fight in progress. She had hardly started to scream her bets on who would win, when she felt Amantir drag her behind him, blocking her view. "Hey!" she protested, but he was pulling her backwards, and she suddenly realised that Amantir had decided to act the hero and protect her from viewing atrocities.

"Amantir, you fool, stop pulling me away!"

"The bear is out of control! You should get out of here!"

"Where's Tarniel?" He didn't seem to hear her, tugging her again. Behind him, two burly men were approaching, pushing aside the panicky crowd, and she recognised them as the two guards assigned to her protection. She quickly wriggled free from Amantir, and ducking under the people before her (for once blessing her short height) she pulled out her dagger and forced herself towards the other end of the hall to where Tarniel was.

***

King Tarnendur watched the bear performance absently, a benevolent smile plastered upon his face. He felt bone-tired and only wished for the dinner to be over and for his humiliation to end. The Hillmen, however, seemed happy with the novelty, so the Queen Eilinel had chosen wisely, preferring this simple barbaric entertainment to the refined songs of southern minstrels so favored by Gimilbeth. The king stole a glance to his left and almost chuckled, seeing Gimilbeth's disgusted frown. Further away, Amantir and Odaragariel seemed fascinated by the spectacle and were whispering to each other excitedly.

Tarnendur turned to the Queen, took her white hand weighted down by priceless rings in his, and squeezed it gently in gratitude. Eilinel was the pillar of strength and endurance in this chaotic life he was plunged into. She was the one who had prepared this feast, while the others only muttered and shook their heads in disapproval.

"Thank you for everything, my beloved!" he whispered fondly.

Eilinel's warm grey eyes met his, and some ice from his heart melted away. They looked at each other, oblivious to the sudden silence in the hall.

A sound of barking covered the Queen's reply. The King watched in disbelief as two large hunting hounds attacked the bear. Soon all hell broke loose: the injured dog and screaming men were rolling over on the floor, the angered bear roaring back in challenge. Some guests cheered, others recoiled in fright, shoving some of the dishes and cutlery off the tables.

In his prime, Tarnendur had been a resolute man and a seasoned soldier, a veteran of Rhovanion wars. But now he was growing old. He sat there in a stupor watching the fight, unsure what to do. He felt the queen's hand tugging at his sleeve, but it was Gimilbeth's voice that finally rose in command.

"Guards, stop it! Take the dogs out! Daurendil, Amantir, go fetch the rest of the guards. Now!" Gimilbeth stomped her foot impatiently and waved towards the doors.

The young heir's face turned red. The witch had no call to order him around like that! He spat back, "Go fetch them yourself, if you need them!"

Daurendil fixed his half-sister with a venomous stare, obstinately refusing to move. Amantir paid Gimilbeth no heed; he was chasing after Odaragariel, shouting something.

Gimilbeth shot them a withering glance and disappeared in the crowd.

Daurendil smirked, pleased to have the upper hand in the confrontation. He was to become King soon, so he had to make people obey him, not the other way round. And he would not follow in his father's steps. Far from it! The day Rhudaur gets a new young king would be a bad day for Hillmen. They would be hunted down and killed mercilessly, like orcs. They deserved no better. Only Dunedain, the chosen of Eru, had the divine right to rule Middle-earth; the rest should bow to them or die. Daurendil was not alone in feeling that way. Many hot-headed youngsters followed the popular young Heir, waiting impatiently for the rule of the old, timid king to end and a new dawn to come to Rhudaur.

While the fight progressed, Daurendil found himself surrounded by half a dozen of his friends. They didn't bring their swords to the feast, but now they drew their daggers openly, hoping to stab a hillman in the growing confusion.

The lithe, wiry Nauremir, the Heir’s kinsman and closest friend, showed Daurendil a notched old knife of crude workmanship, the blade covered with some greasy dark substance.
"Do you know what it is?"

"Looks like an orc knife ... but where have you come by it and what do you want to do with it?"

"It is poisoned, don't you see? All orc blades are poisoned as a rule. I've found that the tower cellar is full of enemy weapons. Even a scratch from this knife must be deadly... I will try to edge nearer to Broggha."

Daurendil looked at his friend in open admiration. "Just use as much stealth as possible," he advised. "Probably the brigand will not even notice the scratch... "


***

All evening, Jarl Broggha had been enjoying the uncomfortable looks on Gimilbeth's face as he repeatedly raised his tankard to her. Her father, King Tarnendur, had a look of benign, aged stupor upon his face. "Well-lapsed into his dotage," Broggha thought smugly. Broggha had been bored the whole evening, but it would be over soon, and so he entertained himself with thoughts of Malaneth. Aewen, the little mouse that she was, sat beside him in resigned silence. The only thing that promised any interest that night was that a trainer and his dancing bear would entertain them later.

Broggha roared in laughter when the bear "danced" and he raised his tankard, cheering, "Here! Here!" when the bear stepped particularly high.

"My lord, the bear is indeed marvelous," said Malaneth. "Whoever has such skill that they can train a bear to dance?"

"Put red hot plates under your pretty little feet and you would dance high, too," Broggha guffawed.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and let it go at that.

"Ah, look there at the entrance to the hall! Two of our fine Northern hunting hounds! This should be interesting!" Broggha exclaimed. "If I did not know better, I would swear old Heggr or Griss had something to do with this! Good lads, both of them! They know how to stir up some lively entertainment!"

Broggha suddenly rose to his feet, knocking the chair in which he had been sitting backwards with a great crash. Aewen screamed and Malaneth's face went white.

"My lord," Aewen reached up, tugging at his sleeve, "the bear is loose and the brutes are fighting! I am afraid! The child! I think I should leave!"

Not taking his gleaming eyes from the fray, Broggha ordered two of his bodyguards who were close by, "Take the women out of the hall! Make sure no harm comes to my wards!"

As the guards escorted the two terrified women from the hall, pandemonium broke out. The bear rose to its feet and roared a challenge to the hounds. Aewen screamed again at the blood-curdling sound. The pregnant woman was close to fainting, but one of the guards and Malaneth gripped her by the arms to steady her.

Some of the men were betting on the bear, others on the dogs. Broggha finally spotted Griss. "Captain, place my bets on the bear!"

Struck by the bear's paw, one of the dogs crashed into a table and fell to the floor, its spine broken. Broggha lustily cheered the bear and waved his tankard in another toast to the brute.

Griss returned to the table, grinning broadly. "My lord, the fight is getting better and better!" The second hound, teeth bared, foam dripping from its mouth, was facing the bear. The bear's bloodshot eyes gleamed in rage as it prepared to deal with the last of its tormentors.

Out of the corner of his eye, Broggha caught some sort of disturbance between Gimilbeth and her brother. Broggha laughed to see her stamping her foot wildly, and then in a fit of pique, disappearing into the crowd.

"That curly-headed fop over there is the crown prince, isn't he, Griss?"

"Aye, my lord, that is Crown Prince Daurendil. Sneaky-looking little weasel, isn't he?"

"Aye, and it looks like he has gathered some of his friends about him."

"My lord, perhaps this would be a good time to leave," Griss whispered nervously, his thoughts going to the two daggers he had hidden on his person.

"Why?" the big man laughed. "We might get some true sport now!" The giant looked around the room until he saw what he was looking for - a large, double-bladed broad sword displayed as part of the room's decoration. With Griss at his side, Broggha strode over until the sword was just behind him.

***
Broggha's bodyguard had rushed to him at the first sign of a threat from Prince Daurendil and his friends. The great Rhudaurian broadsword felt good in Broggha's hands; the weight perfectly balanced.

"Too much to drink, Prince Daurendil? It must have taken a great quantity to give courage to a coward such as you!" Broggha taunted him.

"Prince Daurendil," one of his companions, who was having second thoughts, whispered, "this man is a giant! He will show you no mercy!"

"And I will show him no mercy!" the prince cried as he grabbed a chair from the floor and threw it at Broggha. The determined prince then rushed in low with his dagger, thrusting, trying for his enemy's stomach. At the same time, Nauremir, the orcish blade held in his hand, came at Broggha from his other side.

Griss and the other bodyguards were having their hands full with Daurendil's other friends. Even the reluctant courtier had plunged into the fray.

"Broggha, beware!" Griss screamed as he saw the knife in Nauremir's hand. The smoke from the burning tablecloth was becoming intense to the point where Griss was having trouble seeing much of anything at a distance. They had to protect the Jarl! Griss heard the chair crash into Broggha's head and then fall to the floor. The Jarl had been a little slow and seemed stunned from the blow.

Nauremir's back now was turned to Griss. Griss was fond of taking every advantage he could, and a vulnerable back was fair game. With a mighty lunge, he flung himself on Nauremir, plunging the blade into his back, causing him to drop the knife. With a bewildered look on his face, Nauremir fell stumbling towards the table.

Prince Daurendil was skillful with his dagger, quick on his feet, and kept low to avoid the swing of the great broadsword. But his range was no match for the great weapon. Shaking his head to clear the confusion of the chair's blow, the Jarl roared in fury. As their eyes burnt with the smoke, temptation to rub them was great. Dodging a sweeping swing from the broadsword, the smaller man moved in quickly, his dagger drawing blood from Broggha's side. Totally enraged, the Jarl saw red. He lifted the great sword, made a feint with it to Daurendil's left, and then brought it crashing down on the man's skull. Dazed, Daurendil relinquished his knife.

The Jarl cursed as he picked up Daurendil in his great arms. "You little dog! You will die soon enough, but not tonight!" Throwing the man back into his companions, the Jarl lifted the table and picked it up on its end. With a great shout, he flung it into his attackers, knocking some of them sprawling to the floor, struggling to free themselves of the burning cloth.

"Men, we have to find a way from this hall before we choke on the smoke!"

"I think I know a way out," Griss exclaimed. "But, my lord, you are injured!"

"No worse than I have suffered before," the large man laughed.

"This way, Jarl!" Griss quickly led them to a side door in the hall. He found it locked. "Men, we are going to have to knock it down!"

With willing shoulders against the barrier, they soon had the door crashing from its hinges. They quickly fled down the hall.

"Griss! Are my wards out of the hall?" The Jarl was now holding his bleeding side.

"I think so. I could not see anything after a while through the smoke."

Far behind them, they heard the bear bellow out a scream of rage and then they heard the sound of a great crash.
Wounded worse than he had thought previously, Broggha leaned on Griss for support as they made their way to the stables. "That impudent little fop! He tried to murder me!"

"Aye, my lord," Griss exclaimed, out of breath from helping to support the heavy man's weight. "My feeling is that it was a plot by King Tarnendur all along to entice you to come here so he could have you murdered!"

"The king will not get away with this. He will pay dearly!" Broggha muttered as he slumped against the side of a stall.

"Bring more light!" Griss shouted, and soon one of the other bodyguards had fetched a lamp from its sconce. "Hold it up!" Griss implored him as he helped Broggha take off his fur robe, bloody tunic and shirt. Once again, Griss saw the strange amulet that Broggha wore about his neck on a silver chain. Griss' face went grimly white as he looked at the wound. "My lord, this will have to be bound up. You are leaking too much blood!" Although the light was not the best, Griss could see that Daurendil had ripped a jagged, bloody wound in Broggha's side.

"Where is Malaneth?" Broggha bellowed as he clutched the amulet and felt it giving him strength. "Bring Malaneth!"

"She will be coming directly, Jarl," Griss assured him. "I have been informed that one of the men has located her and is bringing her to you now."

Broggha grunted his satisfaction, and sagged down, leaning against the back of the stall.

"My lord!" A confused and worried Malaneth looked about the stable, and when she saw him, she rushed to him. "You are hurt!"

"Aye," he grumbled. "What took you so long to get here?"

"Aewen and I became separated, my lord, and in the panic that ensued, my guards tangled with some of the other men in the hall. I - I have no idea where she is!"

"We will not leave without her!" Broggha growled. "Now bind my wound, woman!"

With an embarrassed look towards Broggha's guard, Malaneth lifted up her skirts, and after taking off her petticoat, she began tearing it into strips. Placing a wad of cloth into a grimacing Broggha's wound, she wound the strips of material around his chest and tied it.

"That should staunch the flow of blood!"

"Griss, bring me your flask," Broggha demanded. "I need a staunch draught of ale!" Griss pulled the flask from his cloak and, unstopping it, handed it to Broggha, who took it and greedily swallowed. "Now, Griss, take some men and find Aewen!"