Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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Shedun Pass on the road to Angmar, at the northern border of Rhudaur, evening of November 2.
Written by Gordis
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Agannalo's journey North was proving dull and uneventful. Once past the populated lands around Penmorva, he hardly saw anyone. The houses he passed stood empty and abandoned; often nothing remained but the burned-down remnants. The previous day he passed through what had once been a thriving town, but now was a pile of ruins. Orc work, obviously - he even caught the remaining stench of the brutes hanging in the stale air.

The search of the gardens in the burned town left him with some half-frozen apples - he collected as many as he could find, but that was hardly enough to keep the Gray going. "How low have I fallen!" he thought bitterly. It was fortunate that no one could see the former elegant courtier from Armenelos and the Dark Lord's High Nazgul rummaging about around the piles of dry autumn leaves in a dirty backyard. Agannalo fervently hoped that once in Angmar, he would find where to buy some more oats for his horse. The fodder supply he had in his saddlebags was running low, and soon the old Gray would be starving.

Water, at least, was abundant: Agannalo lost count of the rivers and streams he had to cross. Each time, he needed time to boost his courage to enter the running water - it was really enervating to travel through a country where people neglected to build bridges!

But on and on he went, and the rocky ridge separating Rhudaur from Angmar drew closer and closer. Soon the road started its winding climb to the Shedun Pass, meandering between outcrops of red rock. The firs on the slopes gave way to gnarled pines.

Agannalo rode on, musing darkly on his sad fate, when he heard a faint whistle coming from ahead and above him. The whistle was so low and far away that mortal ears could have hardly caught it, but the nazgul's keen senses alerted him of the danger. He checked that his sword hilt was well within easy reach and the harp was firmly attached to the saddle, then shrugged his shoulders and continued further into the gathering evening gloom.

He was not in the least surprised when, after a sharp bend of the road, he found a freshly- hewed pine solidly blocking the path. No one seemed to be around, but the smell of unwashed human flesh all around was overwhelming. Agannalo remained head bent, immobile on his horse, listening to the rustle of needles and the stealthy footsteps of a dozen men surrounding him.

***

The band of border outlaws counted fourteen men - mostly from Hillmen stock, but there were also two Dunlendings and even one Lossoth scout. The scout returned half an hour ago reporting a lone traveler on the road - a Tark with a harp, a traveling minstrel by the looks of him. A minstrel would be poor catch, but it was better than nothing. Lately, with winter approaching, the travelers had become few, and those who still used the road mostly went in big groups and often hired mercenary soldiers in Penmorva or Shedun to take them over the dangerous Shedun Pass. After hearing the scout's report, Ulfr, the leader, gave a low whistle to alert the rest of the group and the trap was set.

The outlaws waited, their unease growing. The weak light of the northern day gave way to a misty evening. The silence was heavy, growing weightier with each passing moment, accentuated by the clip-clop of the approaching hooves. The cold felt unusually biting, and the very air seemed dark, with a sickly mist clinging tenuously to the ground.

Finally, the prey arrived - a tall, hooded rider, swathed in a dark cloak. Overruling his sense of foreboding, Ulfr gave a signal and the hidden bandits scurried down to the blocked roadbed and surrounded the horseman. Ulfr got hold of the reins and brought the end of his gleaming broadsword to the victim's chest, wondering at the man's immobility.

"Now, Tark, let us have a look at your money bag. I hope it will prove heavy enough to satisfy us!" he growled, trying to see the other's face concealed in the depths of the dark hood.

There was no reply, no movement. Exasperated and not a little frightened, Ulfr pressed his sword harder into the stranger's chest. Then the figure moved. The gloved hands slowly rose and laid back the hood. Ulfr gasped and staggered back a few steps, not believing his own eyes. There was only darkness and a pale gleam, as if of eyes, where the head should have been. But he hardly had time to process what he saw, as at that moment, a terrible cry rent the air - a shrill and high-pitched wail, full of evil and malice unfathomable.

Darkness descended on bodies and minds: heavy, cold and stifling. Unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think, the outlaws crouched blindly on the ground with only one feeling left to them - abject terror. In the darkness, someone moaned; someone cried like a baby. There were other sounds - the ring of steel and the whistling of the blade as it arced through the air toward the necks of kneeling men.

***

Fourteen heads... the features of each face forever contorted in horror. Agannalo stacked the severed heads in a small, neat pyramid on an outcrop of rock near the road. Not very impressive - after some battles, he had seen piles of heads almost reaching the sky. "Pity there were so few men..." he mused, looking at his handiwork critically. Sighing, he mounted the Gray and went on - North, always North.

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Orc Camp in the Trollshaws, November 2
Written by Angmar
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"I don't like it, Pizbur Ashuk. I don't like it at all!" Durburz muttered dourly and then bit into the rabbit carcass, neatly severing one of its hind legs. For a moment, he sat looking in fascination at the bloody stump, before tearing chunks of flesh off with his teeth.

"Quit your grousing, Durburz, or you'll be missing that one good eye you have left!" The powerful orc leader glared down at the smaller orc, who was sitting amongst the other orcs on a long, felled log by the fire.

"Sorry, Pizbur. I suppose I'm just a little over-eager. It seems we've been sitting here for centuries waiting." Durburz was terrified of Pizbur Ashuk. He had to admit, though, that the Pizbur was an outstanding officer and had led them out of many a tight spot. It wasn't for someone like Durburz to question an officer, but he was restless, eager for some action, and this waiting was getting on his nerves.

"Durburz, the hunting's good here. You can't say you've ever gone hungry since we've been camping in this location, can you?" He listened for Durburz' deferential "Yes, sir," and smiled, displaying his massive tushes of which he was so proud. "Corporal, we ain't never seen such easy duty, and when we get to the work of kidnapping the Rhudaurian princess, it is all going to be a matter of child's play!"

"Now, men, listen to me!" He turned to the whole company of orcs and captured their instant attention. "I am going to go over this whole operation again... the more you keep something in your mind, the fresher it will be."

All the men's' attention on him, Pizbur Ashuk spoke louder, so everyone could hear him:

"Now, men, as you know, there's good cover on both sides of the road. When we see the signal, we attack... We want to get this over with quickly. Broggha's dispatch rider promised that there would be some good booty in this for us if we do it right. Remember! No survivors to tell the tale! We are to take everything, even the horses! The princess' entire entourage will just 'disappear.' Any questions?"

One of the orcs stood up. "Yes, sir, I have a question. You say that Algeirr, Broggha's man, will provide a distraction for us?"

"Aye, Private. When he feels the time is ripe to attack, he will ride his horse to the side of the road and pretend that the beast has a loose shoe. While he is disrupting the column, we strike. Any more questions?"

"Only one, sir," the speaker replied. "The Princess Gimilbeth... I understand she is not to be spoiled. But what about any jewelry she has? Can we 'relieve' her of it?"

"No, you fool! Everything is to remain intact, and I do mean everything, so keep your filthy paws off the woman! She is considered to be quite a prize in the North! The King wants her just as she is!"

The other orc's face fell. "Not even a little fondling? If there's no bruising or cutting, how is anyone to know?"

"You idiot! Are you deaf? I said not to touch!" Moving quickly to the other orc, he grabbed him around the waist, squeezing him close in a fierce grasp. "Do you like hugging and kissing?" his raspy voice hissed in the other's face. "Want a little lovin'? I'll give you a little 'hug!'"

"No, Pizbur, no! You're breaking my ribs!" the other orc screamed as Ashuk's massive arms tightened, threatening to crush the breath out of him. "Just a little lovin', private," Ashuk laughed as he felt a rib in the other's chest give. Lifting him up over his head, Ashuk threw the subordinate across the campfire. The other orc came crashing down, nearly missing two warriors sitting near the fire.

Not even breathing hard, the massive orc stood back and challenged any other complainers, but there were none. "Let that be a lesson to you other leeches! I demand obedience, and death to any who don't give it!"

Durburz, thankful that he wasn't the brunt of Ashuk's fury, stood up. "Sir, I have a question."

"What is it?" Ashuk turned to him, a scowl on his face.

"The officers? What about them? Are we allowed any sport? What about the corpse in the coffin?"

"We will take the most important officers for questioning on the trail. This Nauremir fellow? We can eat him. His body is unimportant."

"Sir, what if his body was pickled like the tarks like to do? I ain't ever eaten a corpse filled with pickling fluid," a grinning Durburz commented.

"Jarl Broggha thinks Princess Gimilbeth tried to play a little joke on us and that the man is still alive. But if he is really dead and has been pickled, just think of the pickling fluid as extra flavoring," Pizbur Ashuk guffawed.