Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Hurgon Fernik]

Morning of November 1st

Hurgon woke up with a pounding headache. This was hardly unusual, given the number of nights he dragged himself to bed drunk. Usually, though, he did not wake up with happy memories of the night before... but last night had been quite spectacular. He seemed to remember bonfires, and much dancing, and a young friend of his (whose name he could never remember) had acquired a small box of fireworks. The gathering storm clouds, and the howling wind had not bothered the crowd... it seemed instead to add an extra edge of excitement to the night. Hurgon thought had never met so many pretty women, or made so many new friends, or won so many drinking contests in one night. A pity he was going away.

With Gimilbeth the unspeakable horror. Who had said in a curt tone to him the night before that she intended to start sharp at sunrise... which, judging by the faintest of orange lights on the horizon, seemed quite imminent.

He groaned for a few minutes, until he felt better. Then, taking a deep breath, he jumped out of bed, and began to pack. What did people take on a journey? Well, the painting. He rolled the newly begun painting of Tarniel tenderly, and after tying it, slung it on his back. A box of paints and brushes, which he collected haphazardly. He could harldy lug his easel cross-country, which was, to say the least, inconvenient, but how she expected him to paint while he was riding along on horseback was also a mystery to him, and if he could accomplish that, no doubt he could get used to there being no easel.

The sun was only half-way up. Time to bundle some clothes, thus, and hide the little bottle of red wine, there. After digging in a drawer, he found himself an old amulet, inscribed with a rune of protection. He hoped it would be enough to ward off any evil spirits he met on the road, or hopefully enough to give Gimilbeth a headache.

He was ready! And when he skidded down to the front Gate of the Palace, he was, surprisingly, there in time to see Gimilbeth descending the stairs. She was, he noticed, looking younger and more happier than ever. Certain this could mean nothing good, he waited deferentially until she should find something about him to criticise. To his utter surprise, she said, "Good morning!" as if she really was responsible for the morning, and took no further notice of him.

"Well, well, that amulet's working all right. Protecting right from the start, thats for sure. Gave her the opposite of a headache, but if it works, I'm all for it" he said to himself. Massaging his own head, he followed her down the steps where the horses were waiting, together with the guard that would accompany them most of the way. Wrapped in a heavy fur against the cold air of the dawn, Tarnendur waited, too, to give his farewell to his daughter.

"Fortune smiles on you, it seems. I had thought to ask you to wait a while, for there was surely a storm brewing last night. However, the day has dawned as clear as I could wish. May your errand be as favoured througout."

Gimilbeth smiled, "Fortune... is as we make for ourselves."

Tarnendur took this as a sign that she was determined to suceed, and found little more to say. They parted in silence, silence except for the clatter of the horses clattering, and Hurgon was already wishing he was back in his warm bed.

[Gimilbeth]

Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.

The morning dawned bright, with merry sun playing upon the rooftops and turning the Old Tower from dull gray to shimmering silver. A crowd of on-lookers gathered in the court to say their farewells, or to gawk at the Princess's departure. At the head of the enormous party of more than a hundred fighting men, Gimilbeth, astride her prancing bay stallion, cut a striking figure in her rich fur cloak and a small matching hat upon her thick, raven-black unbound hair.

The Princess ever enjoyed traveling, and in her youth she used to move around a lot, from Osgiliath to Minas Tirith, sometimes to Ithilien, and quite often, at least once a year, she took a ship to Umbar, to spend winter months with her grand-parents. Now, she understood what a strain it had been to stay for twenty years in Cameth Brin, as in a besieged castle. Finally, she was on the road again!

She felt beautiful and strong this morning, despite the fact that she had got almost no sleep last night. Instead, the Holy darkness had granted her waking visions, marvelous visions to say the truth...Gimilbeth's cheeks blushed at the memory, and her eyes sparkled. It had been many decades ago when she had dreams like that, vague and erotic, making her heart race as if she were young again...

Gimilbeth smiled happily and surveyed the court. Hundred and twenty mounted Dunedain guards in a column three abreast were waiting for her signal. There were three wagons, drawn by small, sturdy local horses. One was full of trunks with Gimilbeth's clothes and other personal belongings - she never believed in travelling light - while another was turned in a painter's study and meant for Hurgon. Gimilbeth noticed how the bewildered painter, despite his weak protests, was firmly ushered in by one of the pages. The third wagon contained a coffin with the hapless Nauremir inside. The rich carvings of the coffin lid and sides concealed numerous holes, allowing the sleeping man to breathe.

"I really hope he won't wake up before we reach Brochenridge," grinned Gimilbeth to herself. Then she turned to Merendil, the Captain of the King's guards and the head of Gimilbeth's escort.

"The weather is fine this morning, isn't it, Captain? It seems the stars smile on our journey."

"Perhaps."

The old warrior's scarred face looked as grim as ever, he seemed to be the only men present totally resilient to Gimilbeth's charms. The Captain frowned, surveying the long train. Three wagons! What a folly! They would slow the party down... With a put-upon sigh, he lifted his hand and, at Gimilbeth's nod, gave the signal for departure.

Gimilbeth and Merendil hardly rode a few paces when they found their way blocked by a herd of fine horses led by three travel-worn hillmen, obviously horse-traders. The guards were trying to stop them and clear the way for the departing company. In a following confusion, one of the Hillmen stepped forward and announced "I am looking for the Captain of the Guards! I have a crime to report."

"Speak up, man," replied Captain Merendil. "I have no time to lose."

The ragged man looked bewildered being addressed by a mounted knight in full battle armor. He squinted up at Merendil and Gimilbeth, then looked around in wonder. Was it truly the Witch of Cameth Brin before him? And the tall old man in furs, there on the Palace steps, was it the King himself? Forced to speak in front of the full court, he suddenly felt at a loss for words. Then, gathering his wits, he announced, his shrill nervous voice carrying far and wide:

"An Elf, sir... A pointy-eared golden-haired Elf, Glorfindel from Rivendell he calls himself, he killed a young maid at the Three Goats Inn, South of Pennmorva. He took the lass to his bed and then slit her throat and got away with it!"

At this incredible news, Gimilbeth's eyes narrowed and the corners of her lips lifted ever so slightly. She turned and looked back toward the Palace steps searching for a particular person. Here she was... Arinya the Elf, looking every bit as shocked as Gimilbeth hoped she would be. Wasn't Glorfindel one of her friends... maybe even a relative? That served the arrogant elleth right - for years of nosing around and eavesdropping!

Concealing her happy smile, Gimilbeth turned back to the horse-trader and gravely said "You did well to come here to report this terrible crime. The King's justice will find the culprit. Go and repeat your story to Lord Curugil, the chief of the King's councilors."

Throwing a gold coin to the horse-trader, Gimilbeth rode out of the gate onto the King's road. The wagons and the mounted knights followed. The journey to Amon Sul finally started.

[The Wandering Dwarves]

November the 1st, Ford of Bruinen

Rain fell steadily on the ground, a rough, loud, fierce rain, driven hither and thither by the wind, so that sometimes Gere was drenched by it, and sometimes the rain hardly touched her. They had camped under a grove of large trees, hoping for some shelter from the storm, but it hardly helped. It had come upon them, suddenly, without warning, in the early hours of the morning from the North, and it did not look like the storm was about to let up soon.They had waited almost half the morning, and maybe they should start thinking about moving on again. And yet none of them were eager to cross the Ford in this weather...

Behind her were a few ponies, holding as much of their belongings as they could not carry themselves. Huddled in small groups under the tree, whispering in worried voices and looking up at the grey sky were thirty-two dwarves. They all looked as impatient as she felt... she did not like waiting here, so close to Rivendell. With a slight shiver, she remembered the Elf they had met at the High Pass a few days ago. She had been willing to consider him with an open mind, to view him without prejudice, the first Elf she had ever met, and he had confirmed everything bad she had ever heard about elves, and added some more. Gere wasn't sure what it was about him, not his looks, certainly, for he was tall and fair to look upon, and his clothes were sober, and the carved knife at his waist and his harp were both objects of beauty.

It was something else. It was the fear that had preceeded him, that tinge of fear before he had even come into their view. It was the way he had looked past her disguise, and seemed to know that she was a dwarf-woman, and the way he had licked his lips ever so slightly. If the others hadn't been with her, if she had been alone, she was certain she would have fled from that look. And the way he sneered as he passed them, and ... well, maybe she was prejudiced, for listed like that, it really wasn't all that much. All the same, she didn't like Elves, and she did not wish to meet more of them.

The wind died down suddenly, the rain trickled to a halt slowly. The dwarves gathered themselves up, and once more set out on the road, the leader, Hroim, setting the pace with his long strides, followed by the others. His son, Truin, fell into pace beside Gere. He was younger than her by a few years, but he had as forceful a personality as his father.

"You look troubled." He began without preamble. "We'll reach the others in time, don't worry."

"I wasn't worried. We have three weeks before we need to be in Tharbad, after all. I was thinking I'll be glad to move on, and not meet any more Elves, and also I wish I knew what awaits us in Tharbad."

"And you wish we were back home. As you always do." He frowned. "Gere, we haven't had a home for the last two years; if you go back, all you'll find are the ruins the goblins made of it."

"I know that. All the same, I do not enjoy all this wandering around, the road is hardly a place to sleep in, and I wish that we had never decided to split the tribe up. I haven't seen my parents in so long."

"With any luck, three weeks from now, we'll be meeting your parents again, we'll find a good place to settle in near Tharbad, and you will be able to stop worrying so much! You're too young to frown as much as you do. You'll be getting all wrinkled soon." he added mischieviously.

"I may not be as young as you, baby Truin, but I can still heft that axe of mine pretty well!" She tried to look threatening, but failed at the sight of his dismal face- he hated being called a baby - and burst out laughing instead. When he joined her a few moments later, she did feel cheered. The Ford was in sight, they would be over the Bruinen soon enough, and Truin was right, they would be reuniting with the others in less than a month. There was nothing to worry about.... yet.

[Arinya]

Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.


"An Elf, sir... A pointy-eared golden-haired Elf, Glorfindel from Rivendell he calls himself, he killed a young maid at the Three Goats Inn, South of Pennmorva. He took the lass to his bed and then slit her throat and got away with it!"

Startled out of her musings about the recent goings-on in the palace, Arinya's eyes opened wide in shock and disbelief. The credulity of the man, to believe that tale about one of the Eldar! But no, he was one of the Hillmen - she could see that as the crowd shifted and she had a clearer view, although she should have realized that before by his voice - and the ignorance of the ways of her people was to be expected. But that didn't make it a pleasant situation; she realized with surprise and alarm that many in the crowd were whispering and pointing her way.

She felt the people standing next to her shrinking back slightly, as if from something distasteful, and was not long in finding the reason. Gimilbeth's piercing eyes were fixed on her with a curious expression of glee and malice in their depths. Arinya recoiled slightly from the intensity of the look, and then, recovering, said loudly in her clear, ringing voice, "Of course, one of your highness' lineage knows well that such a story is not to be believed of the Eldar - that is not our way."

[Tarniel]

Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347

Tarniel was in an extremely good mood that morning. At last the evil witch was leaving... well, at least for a while. She watched with eager anticipation as Gimilbeth and her entourage made ready to embark for Amon Sul. "Good riddance," she thought spitefully, "and may you never return!" She looked up at the bright sun shining in the sky. It was an unseasonably good day; perhaps nature itself was breathing a sigh of relief?

This journey had twofold benefits; one being the absence of Gimilbeth and the other being the safety of Nauremir. The brash young man had really gotten himself in a lot of trouble, and it had taken everyone a lot of trouble to get him out of it. Tarniel gnawed her lower lip. She hoped that the ruse would be successful. She also hoped she could trust Gimilbeth to see Nauremir to safety. The whole plan depended upon the witch, and Tarniel prayed that the sorceress would act honorably and not attempt anything untoward. Undoubtedly, Gimilbeth would want some pay for her efforts, something to aid her schemes. Owing a debt to a witch was as dangerous as having a hungry wolf prowling about, and Tarniel wondered what compensation Gimilbeth would ask. But that was the future. In the meantime...

As she watched Gimilbeth's progress down the hill of Cameth Brin, Tarniel barely tried to conceal the big smile which was upon her face. No one liked the witch anyway; why should she make a pretense of sorrow? Instead, she thought with delight about the future. Now that her half-sister was away, she would have the undivided attention of her father. She and Odaragariel would be the second and third most powerful females in the kingdom, under the queen. These possibilities excited her. Maybe the witch would decide to travel to the South, or maybe even move back to Umbar. Tarniel could only hope.

She frowned; Gimilbeth and her party had come to a halt. There was some commotion ahead. Was something amiss concerning Nauremir? No, it was something about an elf... and a murder? Scowling, Tarniel moved closer so she could hear more clearly. She espied Arinya, her tutor, among the crowd. The elf woman looked horrified as she heard the proclamation that Glorfindel – THE Glorfindel - had murdered a girl at the Three Goats Inn. Dismayed by these unpleasant tidings, Tarniel wondered how it would affect the kingdom. They already had enemies enough in the hillmen, without having to worry about the elves. But this was most puzzling. Glorfindel was a hero of lore, and murdering a girl at a tavern was hardly a crime that such a valiant elf would commit. To think of such a thing was absurd, and even disrespectful! This whole unfortunate affair stank of hillmen, Tarniel thought angrily.

[Belzagar]

WAKING DREAMS (Chapter Title)
Morning, November 1
Belzagar’s Townhouse, Cameth Brin

"Lord Belzagar, I think that monotony will be the death of you quicker than anything," quipped Authon as he glanced out the window and looked at the mews across the courtyard. Two youths were making their morning rounds to feed the pigeons. As Lord Belzagar followed Authon's gaze, he cursed softly.

"There will be none of our little friends with messages this day, or for many days to come," Belzagar said angrily. "The Witch has seen to that!"

"My lord, there is nothing we can do about that," Authon shrugged and settled back in his chair. He sipped his goblet of brandy, noticing that his master had scarcely touched his own drink. As was their custom during their morning meetings, the spy master and his chief assistant sat in their comfortable chairs around the blazing fireplace in Belzagar's private chambers.

"Nothing," Belzagar echoed. "Nothing! In one move, Princess Gimilbeth effectively destroyed the messenger system that took Lord Alassar and others, equally devoted, years to develop! Now messengers must travel by foot or horseback from our agents in the field and from our brutes in the Trollshaws! This can take days, while with the pigeons, sometime it was only a matter of mere hours!"

Authon was becoming concerned about his master. Five days before one of Princess Gimilbeth's falcons had brought down a bird with a message from the Trollshaws. Since then, Belzagar had been like a man who feared that his next breath would be his last. Authon had been told that his master had difficulty sleeping; his appetite had decreased to the point where he ate very little but drank much more than was his custom; and that, since the incident of the capture of the messenger pigeon , none of the servants had reported that Belzagar's mistress had visited him, nor had he visited her.

"Too dangerous for the poor dear now with the trouble and all," one of the laundresses had reported to the butcher's delivery boy. "I do not think we will see the lady here for a while, and such a shame! They say she is very much in love with him."

For years, Authon had employed agents in Lord Belzagar's household who kept Authon apprised of his own master's actions. Authon had no doubt that Belzagar had spies in his own household. He would expect nothing less of the spymaster. Of course, neither one ever mentioned the possibility to the other of such a thing going on right beneath their noses.

"My lord," Authon said, "you are taking this all out of proportion. We are not under house arrest, and not once has either of us been questioned. There has been scarcely a break - other than the messages by pigeon - in our communications. Whatever happens in Rhudaur - or Cardolain or Arthedain for that matter - sooner or later, we will receive a full account of it from one of our agents. We know everything that happens in court and the city and the countryside. You fret too much, my lord. You should try to relax."

"I am relaxed, damn it!" Belzagar fairly shouted. "My only trouble is that I have trouble sleeping at night. I think it must be indigestion, and I am concocting a potion that will soon remedy that. My unsettled stomach causes me to have dreams - dreams - dreams!"

"My lord, what sort of dreams? Perhaps by the telling of them, you will make them go away," Authon suggested, far more interested than he would admit.

"Authon, I am sure that you will be amused," Belzagar replied with ice in his voice. "You and I are upon a great stage in the center of the public square here in Cammeth Brin and an enormous crowd is screaming for our blood. There is a massive brute dressed all in black, a hood over his head and he holds a great axe in his hands! How the edge seems to have been honed, for it gleams wickedly! Both you and I are kneeling with our heads on the axeman's chopping block. I hear the axe as it whistles through the air and then comes down - swish... chop!" He made a sliding movement with his hand. "And your head rolls off your neck, down off the block, across the executioner's stage, and into the crowd! The crowd stills in a hush, and then they cheer, I tell you! They cheer! They will not stop cheering, and the cheers rise up as a great roar like the ocean! The image is horrible! The axeman then turns to me."

Authon quietly sipped his brandy as he listened to his master's dream. It would be rude to ask what happened next, so he waited until Belzagar volunteered. A long moan escaped Belzagar's lips as he exhaled, and his hand trembled slightly as he reached for his crystal brandy goblet. "You want to know what happened, do you not?" he hissed out. "I will tell you! You are in it right with me! Then my head was severed and my spirit left the body but did not find peace in Mandos. Instead both of us wandered until we came to a great dark fortress, and evil spectres came out and dragged us inside. There we were forced to stay forever, in eternal slavery to Melkor the Potent. He, too, laughed when he saw us. They all laughed!"

"My lord, this was nothing but a dream and has no significance." Though the dream made Authon apprehensive, he tried to minimize its dread portent. "Forgive me for suggesting this, but perhaps you are turning too much to the poppy potions to bring you sleep. Even those of us who are adept at drugs and spells can sometimes make mistakes. I suggest you cut the dosage down gradually until the dreams stop."

"Only a dream, only a dream. Perhaps you are right. I know what kind of dreams the sleeping draughts can induce." Lord Belzagar rose to his feet, seeming suddely to have tired of the topic. "Authon, I feel a sudden summons to go riding on the road northeast of the Long Waterfall. Hurry now! We must go to the stable and tell the grooms to saddle our horses!"

***

Soon the two men's horses were cantering over the bridge near the Long Waterfall. A half mile further ahead, they halted their mounts, and sure enough as Belzagar had expected, dropping down from the heavens, was Honalnût the raven.

"His Majesty's messenger!" Authon exclaimed, looking at his master with new respect. "Such a thing has never happened before! They have always gone to your townhouse, but never has one come to you directly like this."

"I knew it would be so now and will be so," Belzagar murmured, a strange new light gleaming in his eyes. "I heard His Majesty's voice. He spoke to me in my mind, and he has promised to speak to me again! I am his man!"

[Tarnendur]

Cameth Brin fortress court. Morning of November 1, 1347.

"An Elf, sir... A pointy-eared golden-haired Elf, Glorfindel from Rivendell he calls himself, he killed a young maid at the Three Goats Inn, South of Pennmorva. He took the lass to his bed and then slit her throat and got away with it!"

Tarnendur stood bewildered listening to the weird accusation. He couldn't believe his ears. The gall of the Hillman to accuse the legendary Elf-Lord of such a base, ugly crime! Has the world grown mad?

Than he heard a clear Elvish voice saying "Of course, one of your highness' lineage knows well that such a story is not to be believed of the Eldar - that is not our way." Arinya's comment was adressed to Gimilbeth who paid it no heed, but just urged her horse forward with a smirk. The truth of the Elf's words brought the King out of his stupor.

"Of course!" he roared. "There is no Man here who believes such a stupid tale!". He advanced menacingly toward the now pale and cringing horse-trader and hissed, trembling from anger. "You, baseborn rascal, how dare you utter poisonous lies before the face of your King? You must be a fool to think anyone would listen to you! Beware, lest you end your worthless life in the deepest dungeon of this tower! What proof do you have? It should better be good!"

The frightened Hillman fumbled blindly in his leather bag, his fearful eyes riveted to Tarnendur's red face. Diverse objects spilled to the ground: flint and tinder, a couple of silver coins, a horse-shoe, some dirty clothes... Finally the man produced a wondrous ornate dagger in a sheath of silver and gold. The thing of beauty looked incongruous in his meaty brown hands with dirty, bitten nails.

"This is the very same knife, my Lord King, as slit the poor lass's throat. Bagging your pardon, Sir, I spoke truth and no lies. The knife is still covered with dried blood as no man dared to touch such an evil thing as this. There are some magic Elven runes on the blade."

Tarnendur took the proffered dagger. It was clearly Elven work, but fairer than he had ever seen in all his life. The King only heard tales of such blades - work of the Noldor - that were said to gleam with blue light of their own when the foul creatures of Morgoth were near. With difficulty, as dried blood stuck the blade to the sheath, the King pulled the gleaming blade out and stared in wonder at the intricate golden flowers running along the sharp silvery blade. "Silver? Mithril?" he thought dismayed. If it were the latter, the value of the dagger had to be breathtaking. Add to this the fineness of the craft and the rarity of such things...

Then another thought struck him. There was something in the old tales about the Golden Flower. He couldn't remember what it was exactly. Something associated with Gondolin of old... Frowning, he turned to the pale Elf at his side who, eyes wide, was also intently scrutinizing the dagger. She was a right person to ask.

" Lady Arinya, what do you think of this blade?"

[Rian]

Arinya drew in a deep breath, unsure of what to say. Her hand had unconsciously started to reach out towards the dagger, but she stopped short, unwilling to touch a blade said to have done such a deed. Her fingertips hovered just above the beautiful tracery of golden flowers.

"I think," she said softly, "that the days are dark indeed, when a fair name and a wondrous blade are coupled with rumors of foul deeds..."

"Those twitty elves!" thought Tarnendur with a sigh. "They never give a straight answer!" He shifted moodily; he didn't need anyone else to tell him what he already knew. The days were dark, and getting darker.

Arinya drew her hand back and continued in her normal voice, "Although it is wonderous to think, the blade looks to be of Gondolin, and the golden flower is indeed the sign of Glorfindel of the Golden Hair, although as Your Majesty knows well," and here Arinya bowed gracefully, grateful for the King's anger at the base accusation, "never would he do such a deed - if it is even true that he walks again in Middle Earth, as some have said."

As images of the men from Gondolin that she had recently come across on her last ride flashed through her head, she concluded hastily, "Many fair things from that city were lost forever, yet some escaped - and have new owners. Your Majesty will not find the doer of the deed among the Eldar."

[Gordis]

Tanoth Brin, evening of November 1, 1347

The Hare and Thistle Inn was crowded this evening. Apart from the usual bunch of Broggha’s men, there were other rare visitors – horse-traders returning from the North. One of them, a huge stocky Hillman, more than half-drunk already, was telling a most exciting story about a murder. He proved to be a good story-teller and the audience listened attentively, gasping and cursing.

“Them dirty Elves…” he concluded, “they are killing our wenches just for fun and nobody is gonna do nothing! The King as good as sent me to rot in his dungeon for telling him the tale. He said I was lying, that’s what he said, even when I showed him this dagger. He took it from me, he did, and that dagger costed a fortune, I tell you…”

“Wasn’t that a Hillman girl, the one as was killed?” asked someone derisively. “Do you think the King and all them Tarks care one way or another whether we Hillmen live or die? Tarks love Elves, not us.”

“You are right, curse them to Njamo!” replied the horse-trader. “I was a fool to come report the crime to the king. No good ever comes of it.”

‘Sure you were a fool” said Heggr, one of Broggha’s men who was constantly sucking his rotten teeth. “The murder was near Penmorva, right? And who is the Lord of this town? – I will tell you, if you happen not to know. Jarl Broggha is, not the King. And the Jarl cares for his people and not for the accursed pointy-eared sorcerers. Had you come to the Jarl, as you properly should, you would have been heard.”

“It is too late already”, the horse-trader replied sadly.” I have no proof now and my wondrous dagger will be added to the King’s hoard. Tulkar be praised, I still have the finest horses that one can find in the Vales of the Great River, or I would become a bagger.”

“I will report the case to the Jarl – replied Heggr importantly. I am a friend of one of his chiefests Captains. The Jarl is just. He will hunt down all the creepy Elves in the land!”

[Gimilbeth]

South of Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.


The long cavalcade rode down the winding King's road onto the flat meadows below the Cameth Brin hill. Soon the horsemen passed Broggha's camp - a maze of rundown shacks and tents. Broggha's brigands eyed the passing Dunedain somberly, muttering and cursing was heard in the crowd gathered along the road. Someone cried "The Witch is gone - and good riddance!" Gimilbeth rode impassively at the head of the party, flanked by Captain Merendil. The princess pretended not to hear what was being said behind her back.

"Farewell, Cameth Brin!" Gimilbeth looked to her right at the looming hill. The Loud Waterfall, all foam and rainbows, cascaded from the top of the plateau with a deafening roar. Suddenly Gimilbeth's heart went cold with premonition. Would she ever see the place again? And more importantly, would she see again her aging father? Much as she scrutinized the star-charts, she was never able to read her future clearly. She only sensed danger ahead and danger behind. The bright morning seemed suddenly dimmed.

The head of the column crossed the bridge over the Cameth River, passed the dike surrounding Tanoth Brin and rode down the main street through the town. Here the faces of on-lookers seemed more friendly, occasionally cheers were heard at the sight of shining armor, bright banners and dancing, richly caparisoned horses.

Soon the troop crossed the moat and turned south.. For some time they rode along the rushing Hoarwell. The going was not easy as the old road was often damaged by spring floods and, in those tumultuous times, seldom repaired. On their left rose another highland, not so steep as the Cameth Brin Hill, but still practically inaccessible - broken crags with tall pines. Ten miles downstream from Cameth Brin, the road took a sharp turn east - away from the river. The rocky, broken ground was steadily rising. After a short halt for the midday meal, the company finally reached the densely wooded area. The road meandered through forests of fir-trees, dark, silent and foreboding. It was easy to imagine evil creatures lurking there, somewhere in the tangle of boughs and shrubs, and only kept at bay by the presence of armed warriors.

It seemed that the others shared her apprehension - she noticed many a young soldier eye the foreboding trees warily. There were rumors that the forest south of Cameth Brin was haunted...

Suddenly, Gimilbeth heard the commotion behind, where the wagons were... She turned round her bay stallion and went to investigate.