The Winter of Discontent. Shadow over Rhudaur V

[Caelen]

Narwaith moved in a little closer. He knew the value of information, and this certainly looked ... well, it had some potential of going the wrong way. For he had seen, though Caelen hadn't, the two Hillmen who seemed to be with the lady.

Narwaith thought that any direction that Caelen went, if it was away from Eryndil, was probably the wrong way. And given his knowledge and experience with Eryndil, this was a very reasonable belief.

And Caelen certainly seemed to have that regrettable tendency of getting into trouble that some people have. Like his sister.

Reaching a place where he could hear without being seen, he settled in to listen and observe. "Interesting!" he thought as the two women chattered away. "I guess she finally found those relatives!" He listened on, taking mental notes that he would pass on to Eryndil later. And as they continued talking, his vague premonition of danger kept growing. This Maleneth appeared to be attached to, of all people, that brigand hillman Broggha!

This could be complicated.

The two women finally moved off, walking in a leisurely manner towards the outskirts of town, Narwaith following discreetly while rapidly making plans in his head. Apparently this Malaneth was heading back to Broggha's estate now. Caelen had offered to walk her to the wagon that was going to pick her up, but Narwaith knew that it was a distinct possibility that Malaneth would invite her young cousin for a visit, and he had to be prepared to stop that at any cost, for he was afraid of the cost that Caelen might pay if he didn't stop her.

He had just decided that he needed to step in, for they were starting to get too far out of calling range from possible help the people in town, when the women finally stopped - Malaneth facing the road (where Narwaith could make out an approaching wagon), and Caelen facing Malaneth. Narwaith found a position where he could see Malaneth (for he wanted to read her face) and not be seen well by her, or at all by Caelen, and waited, listening, at the ready, waiting for something to happen.

As he expected, it came. A strange but fleeting expression crossed the older woman's face - kind of a suppressed excitement, as if at something forbidden.

Narwaith held his breath, all senses alert, even as he registered the fact that the waggon was manned by a gang of hillmen. But Caelen was oblivious to all this - the girl with no family was so happy at finding family that she took no heed of anything around her.

Malaneth squeezed Caelen's hands. "Oh, Caelie, do come with me now - just for a quick visit and some tea, then we'll have you driven right back. I'm so happy to see you - I just can't stand to let you go now!"

Caelen, visibly moved by Malaneth's use of the family's endearing name for her, agreed gladly.

"I'd love to, Cousin! I'm so glad to see you! And I won't be missed - everyone at the house was quite busy today, anyway." She considered a moment, and then added, blushing just a bit, "I'd need to be back by mid-afternoon, though," for that was when Eryndil often checked in at his house.

Malaneth smiled, but only with her mouth, and nodded. "Oh, that won't be a problem," she said softly. "Just come now ..."

Narwaith quickly went back up the road a bit towards town, then stepped onto the road and strode up to the women, keeping an eye on the waggon, which was now very close. He tossed his cloak back over his broad shoulders, making sure his great sword was showing clearly.

"My lady," he called to Caelen. She turned around in surprise.

"Narwaith?"

Malaneth turned around, a hunted look in her eyes that Narwaith caught and Caelen didn't.

"My lady, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I bear an urgent message from the Lord Eryndil, and I must talk to you immediately." He spoke firmly for Malaneth's sake; he knew that Caelen would not turn him down as soon as she heard Eryndil's name (and he made a quick mental note to tell her to not trust an unknown person saying they had a message from Eryndil). He saw Malaneth start to speak, and then think better of it.

The waggon got closer. He counted three, four men, possibly more; it was hard to see into the waggon bed.

"If you would pardon us, ma'am," he said to Malaneth with a smile, moving farther up the road towards town under the pretext of privacy.

Caelen's eyes were open wide with concern; she took hold of his arm. "What is it, Narwaith? Is he ... is he well?"

"He is well, my lady," he assured her, his eyes going back and forth between Caelen's face and the waggon, which had now drawn up to Malaneth. Malaneth was speaking to the driver, who looked in their direction.

"... but I must insist that you do not accompany your cousin in that waggon, for your own safety. Please return to town with me. She will surely excuse you, since you have an urgent message from your betrothed husband."

Caelen's eyes narrowed, and she let her hand fall from his arm. Narwaith was again reminded of his sister, and prepared for the worst.

"And just what is this message?" she asked suspiciously, guessing that he had none.

"The message was actually to me, my lady," he said gently, deciding that telling the truth in this case would help his cause. "It was to take care of you at all costs, as my discretion advised me. And I tell you now that if you refuse to go with me, then I will pick you up and carry you back into town."

Caelen was momentarily speechless with indignation, and Narwaith took advantage of this.

"My lady, turn around casually, and look at the waggon, and who is in it," he said, knowing that this would also help his case.

Caelen glared at him for a moment, then did as he suggested. The face she turned back to him was very pale, and she reached out for his arm again and held it tight.

"What shall I say?" she asked in a whisper, her large eyes open wide with fear.

"Say, 'I am so sorry, I must return to town immediately with my husband's man, I cannot wait,' he suggested. "Say it firmly; do not take 'no' for an answer. I will back you up. And by no account move closer to the waggon."

Caelen nodded, her lip trembling. She bit it hard (Narwaith had to suppress a smile at that familiar trait), took a deep breath, and then turned around, delivering Narwaith's line with a bright, firm voice.

Malaneth started to object, but Narwaith broke in.

"My lady, he said it was most urgent," he said to Caelen to help her out, and the concern showing on his face was not feigned, as he again reconnitered the wagon and saw that there were six men.

"I'm so sorry, Malaneth, but I simply MUST go now," cried Caelen, and then, completely forgetting Narwaith's injunction to stay away from the waggon, ran quickly to embrace her cousin. Narwaith moved towards the group, but Caelen was back before he had taken more than a few steps.

"I'm sorry, I forgot," she whispered to him as she took his arm, ashamed of disobeying the man that her betrothed trusted to take care of her. "She's ... it's just that she's my cousin that we were looking for..."

"I understand, but please do NOT disobey my instructions again," he answered, holding her arm tightly and hurrying her back to town, while snatching glimpses of the waggon whenever possible.

"I won't, and ... and thank you," she said in a voice that trembled, and leaned in closer to him. For her, he represented Eryndil right now, and that close encounter with those Hillmen had left her frightened. Narwaith again felt that strange feeling in his heart as he looked down upon her fair head and then back towards the waggon.

Malaneth stood there, alone and silent, as her cousin left her to the Hillmen.

[Wilwarin]

Cameth Brin, Princesses’ wing, morning of the 10th of December

Wilwarin suppressed a yawn as she retired to her small room. She still wasn’t entirely acclimatised to the sudden silence that had fallen in the next room the last few weeks. Normally Wilwarin would be able to hear the maids chatter or talk to princess Odaragariel as they helped her with dressing. Now that the princess had gone home, the next room was eerily silent. The only noise now came from the common room of which princess Tarniel now found herself in sole possession of.

Wilwarin wasn’t sure what she was to think about Odaragariel’s rather abrupt leaving, and with the army to boot. On one hand she was relieved of having only one princess to guard, the opposite bedrooms of the princesses had been a rather logistic nightmare to guard efficiently. On the other hand, she wondered whether she was needed here now at all. For with the army of Rhudaur, many of the Hillmen had gone as well. Sirien, the ever-flowing fountain of gossip and rumours in the palace had even suggested that Broggha was winning the favour of the King since the Hillman chieftain had lent troupes for defending Rhudaur against orcs. Wilwarin remained sceptical, she knew she’d be one of the first to know when the King started to trust Broggha for real. She’d know when she’d be told to resume her old duties.

So when she had been summoned to queen Eilinel’s quarters a few weeks earlier, she had assumed the Queen might tell her to quit her nightly vigils and resume her day-time job. Instead, after some polite inquiry into Wilwarin’s activities, Queen Eilinel had told her quite differently.

Princess Odaragariel has decided to leave Cameth Brin,” Queen Eilinel had said. The queen’s disapproval had been visible in the thoughtful frown on her face, but also mingled with visible concern. “She will be travelling in the army to go home to Mitheithel. Have you ever travelled that long on horse-back, Wilwarin?”

And Wilwarin had been forced to admit she did not know to how to ride a horse. She had always travelled in the traders’ caravan-wagons, and that was how she had come to Cameth Brin as well.

“I take it that would be more comfortable after all,” Queen Eilinel had agreed somewhat absentmindedly. After a moment of thought she had continued. “When the army leaves, you will only be responsible for Tarniel’s safety. But you must keep up appearances of Odaragariel’s presence for a while after the army leaves. For the sake of her safety, it must not be known that Odaragariel is travelling with the army. Her maids have been instructed as well. So do not speak of what I have told you to anyone. You may now retire.”

It was only much later that Wilwarin guessed what that almost casual question about Wilwarin’s horse-back travels had actually meant. The queen must have been considering sending Wilwarin along with Odaragariel. But clearly a bodyguard that couldn’t ride a horse would have been more a handicap than an asset and the queen had been forced to abandon the idea on the spot.

The thought of it still disturbed Wilwarin. Riding a horse was not a necessary skill to the wives or daughters of merchants like herself. But it was a skill of many of the royal house. What if Tarniel would ever travel and Wilwarin had to follow?

All alternatives were quickly discarded and she decided she would have to learn to ride a horse. She decided to ask the sergeant of the guard during her next training session.

[Caelen]

December 10, 1347, afternoon

Caelen looked eagerly out of the door for the 10th time, scanning the horizon for her beloved, and had to be content with a smile and a nod from the ever-vigilant Narwaith instead.

But the 11th time yielded the sight that her eyes were longing for - Eryndil!

That now-familiar funny feeling inside her leapt up, and she could hardly keep herself from jumping up and down in the doorway. That scare with Malaneth - and the prickly problem of what to do with Malaneth? she could hardly ignore her own cousin! - made her want to fly into Eryndil's sturdy arms and have him comfort her and straighten out her confused thoughts with his lovely, deep, assuring voice. And then ...

Caelen blushed happily. Before she had met Eryndil, she had thought of kisses (when she did think of them, which was rare) as rather bothersome things that were merely something that men did on the way to getting what they really wanted from women. And her terrible experience on the road had merely confirmed this. But since Eryndil had won her love, and had so gently and patiently won over her fears on these matters, she had grown inordinantly fond of kissing. She couldn't decide which was nicer - the way his kisses made her feel, or the way that she could tell her kisses made him feel. And unfortunately, kisses weren't like food - when you ate some food, you were satisfied for awhile, but when you had been kissed by Eryndil (maybe not by other men, but definitely by Eryndil, for Caelen thought that he was probably just about the best at everything around, except maybe horses), you only wanted MORE!

And there were just so many people in the house! Their chances for more than just a brief kiss were few and far between. They had grabbed whatever chances came their way, and even arranged a few "chances" with Hendegil's help. But they were not nearly enough for Caelen (or Eryndil either, for that matter).

But now, everyone was away from home - the coast was clear! Surely it was a natural thing for a betrothed couple to stroll into the drawing room for a little chat, and surely it was natural to want privacy for the conversation, and close the door ...

Caelen bit her lip, willing herself to calm down and look calm and in control and more like her vision of a soon-to-be wife, but she couldn't keep the wide smile off of her glowing face. And as Eryndil got closer, she could see that he had an answering smile on his. She counted the seconds until he would be at the door.

But her lover was sidetracked by his faithful watchdog, as Caelen had started to think of Narwaith. Impatient, she stamped her foot, but she had wanted him to hear what had happened from Narwaith, anyway. She pictured the loving concern on his face, and how he would hold her to him even tighter after her close call with the Hillmen.

Eryndil spoke with Narwaith for a few moments, throwing a few glances in Caelen's direction with concern clearly showing on his handsome face. Then she saw Narwaith take Eryndil's arm and examine it - was that a bandage?

She couldn't take it any longer, and ran over to him, the concern now on her face, too, and was deeply gratified by the strength of his embrace and his concerned inquiries about her. But there was something awkward about his embrace, although it was strong. Oh, the arm!

Pulling back a little, she asked with some concern, "Erya*, are you hurt?"

Eryndil, smiling at the nickname she had given to him ("Your name takes too long to say!" she had exclaimed once), was quick to reassure her.

"Only a small scratch - it's nothing," he said firmly, trying to hide the fact that it was actually starting to bother him quite a bit. "But it's cold out here - let us go into the house."

Eryndil wasn't going to be cold for long.

They both headed towards the drawing room by mutual unspoken consent, Eryndil looking a question at her and being answered by the smile on Caelen's face. Naturally, they shut the door, since they would be speaking of family matters ... and didn't speak a word for quite some time.

"Almost lost to me - again!" he thought passionately, and not satisfied with how close he could hold her against him with his injured hand, he moved her backwards until she was pressed up against the wall. "Caelen," he murmured in his deep voice between even deeper kisses. His body was pressed up hard against hers now, leaving his uninjured hand free to caress her body. His blood flowed like fire in his veins; he was flushed with heat and desire. The ache inside him grew - his whole body ached. His breathing came quick and shallow, as if breathing was a distraction away from concentrating on the delights of his love. He grew hotter and hotter; the aching grew and grew; the world was a whirling eddy ... He was so hot, so hot ... the pain ...

"Eryndil!" gasped Caelen, stepping back as he slumped down on her. Struggling, he blinked hard and stood upright again, but he had to steady himself with a hand on the wall.

"You're pale - and ... " She put a hand on his forehead, then drew it back in alarm. "You're burning up!"

Eryndil looked at Caelen, blinking hard as he tried to clear his head, his breathing coming now in uneven gasps, the ache in his body now concentrated in his wounded arm. He tried to straighten up, but instead, sank to the floor, and Caelen, realizing that she needed help, ran out of the room, calling desperately for Narwaith.

But it was the Prince Daurendil who answered her.




"Erya" - single, as in sole, only - i.e., "my only one"

[Daurendil]

December 10, 1347, afternoon

"Where is Eryndil?" the Prince asked without preamble, urgency in his voice.

"Daurendil… but what in Middle Earth is he doing here?" Caelen stopped short in her tracks staring at him wide eyed. The Prince looked different - but for the familiar voice, Caelen would have hardly recognized him. There were smears of dirt on Daurendil's cheek and his thick dark hair, normally dressed in elaborate curls, was now plastered to his forehead and hanging along his cheeks in unkempt sweat-soaked strands. The soft wine-red tunic, which he revealed when he flung his fir cape onto a chair, was also soaked with sweat and torn at the seam of the right shoulder. But Caelen hardly had time to process all these details, as her eyes were riveted to the prince's face. It was stern and commanding, the grey eyes grave and unwavering, the stubborn jaw firmly set: not a face of a boy, but that of a grown man - and a warrior.

"He looks so like his father, the King," a stray thought ran through Caelen's befuddled mind, "strange that I haven't realized it before…" This train of thought was cut short when Daurendil stepped forward, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her slightly.

"Caelen, lead us to Eryndil" he said slowly, articulating every word, like one speaks to a small child. "We are here to help him."

"He…" Caelen gulped, looked beyond Daurendil's big frame and saw another man - this one was quite old, with a a long beaky nose and round balding head set on a scrawny neck. Then she recognized him - Sarador the Royal surgeon, the object of so many funny stories going among the palace servants. "But what is happening? How do you know that Eryndil…?" she whispered.

"Lead the way, m'lady," Sarador cut her short in his strident, unpleasant voice. "I must see the patient immediately."

Followed by the Prince and the surgeon, Caelen returned to the drawing room. Eryndil lay sprawled by the wall, just as she had left him, his face now ghastly white, beads of perspiration on his forehead. Caelen stopped dead, biting on her hand to stifle a cry, while Sarador unceremoniously pushed her aside and knelt by Eryndil's body. Her sight blurred with tears, Caelen watched how the old surgeon opened one of the boxes and produced a long stripe of leather, which he used to make a tourniquet above the elbow of the injured arm.

"Where is his room?" Sarador asked briskly.

"I.. it is upstairs, I think,…oh, yes, upstairs," Caelen sobbed.

But the surgeon shook his head. "No time to carry him there. Daurendil, come here, boy, and take his arms, while I take his legs. Let us carry him to the nearest bed." They lifted the still unconscious Eryndil and carried him out of the room into the corridor. Daurendil glanced around. "Whose room is this?" he indicated the nearest door.

"It is his sister's - Gildurien's," replied Caelen shakily, "but the next room is mine, you can use it," she proposed. Without as much as a glance, Daurendil kicked Gildurien's door open. The bed stood near the window and they put Eryndil on the immaculate lace coverlet.

"Bring my box!" Sarador ordered Daurendil. "And you - he pointed a long scrawny finger at Caelen - go and get some hot water, and find at least one beetle-headed bladder of a servant in this pox-ridden empty house! And stop this whimpering, girl, for Eru's sake!"

"Was I whimpering?" Caelen felt mildly surprised while rushing downstairs to do Sarador's bidding. Her legs seemed not her own and she had a feeling of moving through dense murky water - never fast enough for her liking. "It is just a nightmare" she thought, "How I wish to wake up soon!" But the pain in her knee when she stumbled and fell onto the hard oaken floor seemed all too real…

Here was the kitchen ... at last! And, Eru be praised, there was someone in it - not the swarthy Cook, but the young scullery-maid (what was her name again?) "Er.. please, I need some hot water! The Master is ill!" Caelen said, panting. The girl turned and looked at her with wide vacant eyes. Caelen remembered the scullery-maid was mute. But… was she deaf as well? Luckily there was a pot of water on the stove, so Caelen snatched a medium-sized kettle and filled it with boiling water. She paused at the door and pleaded. "If you understand me, please, find someone: Soromo, or some other servant, and send them upstairs to Gildurien's room". She didn't wait for a reply from the maid and hurried back upstairs.

Meanwhile, Daurendil helped Sarador to cut away Eryndil's jerkin and tunic. The small wound looked ugly - the skin around purple and bluish and the forearm mottled with angry red spots. Sarador lost no time - he chose a long lancet and opened the blood flow at the elbow. A small trickle of dark-purple blood ran into Gildurien's silver bowl that Daurendil had snatched from the wash-stand and placed on the floor.

Daurendil stood at the ready for more errands. He couldn't help to admire the gruff old surgeon. He had known Sarador from his early childhood - actually it was Sarador who helped deliver him, they said - but up to this very moment he didn't realize how coldly efficient the old surgeon could be when the circumstances called for it. Daurendil berated himself for having played so many practical jokes at the expense of the old man... Of course, Sarador's colorful curses were not something to miss, that may have explained the children's persistent attention to his person.

"O Eru, let Sarador help him!" he prayed. He would have liked to see Eryndil dead or gone - but not like that! Not from base treachery, not from underhand assassination perpetrated by one of his best friends... Daurendil shook his head and gulped at the vile taste in his mouth.

Half an hour ago, returning from the training session, Daurendil was accosted by Rhaglas who desired to talk to him in private. The prince felt tired and only wished to get into the hot bath that awaited him, but his friend was persistent. "Matter of Life and Death" he said. And it was.

Poison! The word made Daurendil shake from revulsion. There was orc poison on Celemir's blade, that was what Rhaglas said, and Daurendil wasted no time to hear the rest. He rushed to Sarador's room, sending Rhaglas to find Celemir and guard the murderer until he gets further orders.

Sarador asked no questions, he only sent one piercing glance at Daurendil's face, compelling the prince to explain haltingly that he was neither the one who had planned this murder, nor the one who had ordered it. Then, in no time at all, Sarador was ready and running alongside Daurendil to Eryndil's house with the agility of a young man, his big box with instruments under one arm and his favorite amputation saw under another. Now the saw lay on Gildurien's dressing table and Daurendil fervently prayed that Sarador wouldn't be compelled to use it.

A sound of steps on the stairs pulled Daurendil out of his reverie. He went out into the corridor to meet Caelen, took the water and closed the door firmly, leaving her outside. She had no call to look at her betrothed's blood filling the silver bowl.

[Gildurien]

Cameth Brin, tailor’s shop by the Market place. December 10, 1347, afternoon

Gildurien sighed and looked through the samples of the golden embroidery the tailor displayed for her one more time. The flowery design she favored the most was beautiful and artistic – she could just imagine how glorious it would look on the cuffs, the bodice and the train of the deep violet dress she had ordered for her brother’s wedding. But the price – oh, the price was just ridiculously high! Unaffordable in her current situation, after all these ridiculous restrictions Eryndil had lately imposed on his poor family…A shame, indeed!

She sighed again. “I am afraid I can’t afford it, Master Harnor, not unless you open me some credit…” She looked pleadingly at the fat man opposite her.

The tailor pursed his lips and settled his ample frame into a plush chair by the table, his sharp heavy-lidded eyes watching his client shrewdly. “I could offer you cheaper samples, m’lady, but you must realize that the second-quality embroidery just ruins the whole thing. With golden thread the dress would be fit for a queen, and you shall easily outshine all the ladies assembled at the wedding, the bride herself included. But, you see, the trade is low these days, so I can’t lower my price anymore. I hope you understand my predicament. Neither am I able to offer credits to anyone in your family, with the exception of Lord Eryndil himself. He had made it abundantly clear to his creditors, and the word went around…Yet,” he waived to Gildurien who was starting to say something, “yet I am not an insensible man, and I fully understand ladies’ wishes to have the finest stuff. I want my noble clients to be satisfied… all of them, regardless of their money situation. So, I thought, if I can’t help you myself, perhaps another noble lady may help you instead, if you but agree to help her - for the mutual satisfaction?”

Gildurien licked her lips and twitched uneasily. She was not sure what the tailor was dragging her into, but most likely it was something dishonorable. She frowned and asked “Who is this lady you are talking about and why in Arda would she lend money to me?”

The fat tailor coughed, covering his mouth with an immaculately white lace kerchief. After taking two deep breaths, he sat back in his chair and replied “It is not in my power to disclose the identity of the high-born lady in question. But you are wrong in assuming something shady. The lady only desires information – which you are able to provide, if you agree to the offer.”

Gildurien’s brows went up. “Information?” she asked aghast. “I am not privy to any secrets, state or military, and surely there are people in a better position to spy? Anyway, what makes you think that I would agree to such a thing?”

“Your kind heart, m’lady,” replied the tailor without hesitation. “I am sure you would have agreed to help a suffering mother worried for her son even it there were no money involved.” Smiling at the bewildered Gildurien, Harnor continued. “But first and foremost, you have to promise that you will not say a word of what transpires here to any that lives.”

Gildurien looked at the tailor’s unreadable face, then at the samples on the table, then at the display of jewelry on the wall. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to hear the offer, would it? At length she nodded and replied “I swear to remain silent.”

Harnor also nodded, satisfied. A rare smile crept to his lips and he took time to pour two goblets of wine. Offering one to Gildurien, he started his tale.

“You see, my customer is a very high lady –one of the highest in the land. That is the reason we have to be so discreet. Not long ago Her Ladyship’s first-born son took interest in a woman far below himself, a social climber, if not worse. It is rumored that he has fallen in love and pursues her most doggedly, while the vixen shamelessly encourages him and plays with his affections. You understand the noble mother’s distress. Yet, she can do little – she is restricted to staying in her palace and not going around asking questions. Therefore, she has let it be known that she is eager to pay, and pay handsomely, for any information pertaining to the dealings of her son with the woman in question. Would you agree to help Her Ladyship?”

Half through Harnor’s speech, Gildurien’s heart went cold and then started beating fiercely. Blood rushed back into her cheeks. She knew whom the tailor was speaking about! By Morgoth, she had solved the riddle! With a voice suddenly sounding hoarse she asked “Am I correct in guessing that you wish me to spy on my brother’s future bride?”

“You are a bright lady, and no mistake.” The tailor sounded relieved. “You see, there is no harm in it, neither for “the King and the country”, nor even for your brother. Actually, if you discover something appalling, you could do Lord Eryndil and all your family a lot of good, preventing your brother from marrying a dishonorable woman. If, contrary to that, you discover that she is honest and well meaning, you will also do a favor both to your brother and to Her Ladyship, allaying her fears.”

Gildurien picked a sample from the table and studied it with unseeing eyes. Blushing slightly, she asked “And what is in it for me?”

“Oh, once you agree to the deal, I will offer you a large credit here in my shop – up to, let us say, ten gold crowns a month. Her Ladyship will pay your bills, starting with that for the dress and the jewelry to go along, and, believe me, she will be most grateful to you for accepting the offer. Of course, you may not approach her directly, even if you happen to meet her in private, which is unlikely. You will bring your written reports here and I will further them to Her Ladyship. Is this agreeable?”

“Yes, it sounds fine. I will return tomorrow with the first letter.” Gildurien suddenly shivered and felt as if a wide precipice has opened right at her feet. Disregarding the nasty feeling, she rose and bid the tailor good evening. She hurried home for the dinner as if a pack of wargs were after her.

***

After Gildurien had left, Harnor rang a bell. A delivery boy entered and bowed to his master.

“Go to Lord Belzagar’s townhouse and ask for Master Faron. Now after Master Authon’s demise he is the head of the household. Ask him to please come here at his convenience, preferably tomorrow evening. Tell him I have some questions about lord Belzagar’s latest order – the velvet cloak.”

The boy bowed and left. Harnor the tailor sat for some time musing in silence, than grinned. The ruse had played to perfection, and the spy net around the royal family was drawn even tighter. Sooner or later Gildurien’s reports would find their way up North, and the Great King would order what to do next. There would be a rich reward as well, Harnor hoped, mightily pleased with himself.

***

When Gildurien returned home, Eryndil’s house was unusually quiet. It seemed she managed to come back from her errands earlier than the rest of the family, which was good: she felt she needed time to think in the privacy of her own room. Yet, coming into the upper corridor, she was most surprised to find Caelen at the very door to her room, moreover Caelen listening at the door and trying to peek inside through a keyhole.

“By the Powers, what do you think you are doing?” Gildurien hissed, causing Caelen to jump and almost faint. At this point Gildurien remembered that to carry out her mission she had to befriend the victim, so she added in a much milder tone “What is up, darling?”

Caelen lifted her tear-streaked face and whispered: “Eryndil is wounded… poisoned. They don’t let me in. And Sarador says he has to cut off his arm... ”

“What? In MY room?” Gildurien growled and threw the door open. The door bumped into someone full force – someone that Gildurien, to her immense surprise, recognized as Prince Daurendil. The prince, however, paid her scarce attention, as he was hotly arguing with the old surgeon. Eryndil lay prone on Gildurien’s bed, its white coverlet now soaked with blood.

Posted by Gordis

[Daurendil]

Eryndil's house, Gildurien's room. December 10, 1347, afternoon.

“I tell you, I can’t guarantee anything if this arm is not amputated right away!” Sarador cried in his strident nasal voice, pointing towards Eryndil with his amputation saw.

Daurendil shouted back “And I tell you, the poison being so old, he would likely recover without any surgery! What is a man without his right arm? It is better to be dead than to be a cripple!”

“That is what YOU think, barely-weaned pup that you are! What do you know about treating wounds anyway?”

Daurendil was furious. “I admit I know little, but this I say to you: if you but try to use your saw, I will chop off your vulture head here and now.” He eased his sword in its scabbard for emphasis.

Sarador drew up to his full height, his nose pinched. “You dare threaten me, me, a peaceful unarmed man? So be it – I leave the patient to your incompetent mercy. Don’t hold me responsible when he dies.” Grumbling angrily, Sarador collected his tools and stalked to the door. He pushed past Gildurien and Caelen, saying dryly “If he doesn’t come to his senses by tomorrow evening, consider him lost.”

Caelen had too much and started weeping openly - in dry incontrollable sobs. Daurendil looked from the crying Caelen to stricken Gildurien. “You are his sister, aren’t you?” he asked wearily. “Then go in and care for him… please”. With that he put an arm around Caelen’s shoulders and led her back into the drawing room across the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

It was there that the thane Camglas found them some time later, sitting side by side on the bench, the Prince’s arm around her, Caelen still crying and Daurendil whispering reassuring words. Camglas didn’t comment on the awkward situation, but simply told Hendigil to lead Caelen to her room and care for her. By then, the house was abuzz with activity – Rildorien, alerted to her son’s situation, was giving orders, and the servants were running around carrying water and linen. Daurendil got up, feeling awkward and mortally tired.

Camglas eyed him coldly. “And now, your Highness, you own me some explanations” he said.

Daurendil knew he did. Head low, his eyes riveted to Camglas’s boots, he told his tale. It was short and not altogether clear. Eryndil’s father, however, asked but one question. “What will you do with the murderer?”

Daurendil lifted his head and looked at Camglas with red sunken eyes. “I owe my father the truth – as I owe it to you. I will leave my former friend’s fate to the King’s judgment”.

Camglas nodded. “I think it is the right decision, your Highness. I am grateful to you for coming here to save my son – if he can be saved. You did the right thing, as an honorable man should. Now go to your Father and I will go to attend to my son.”

Daurendil bowed formally to the old thane and left.

[Eryndil]

December 11, 1347 - Eryndil's house... unable to make out the time

Eryndil came slowly to his senses. He opened his eyes and, keeping his head still looked around the room. It was not his own room, but was in his house… Gildurien’s, yes. The sunlight filtered in and Eryndil saw that he was not alone. In a chair at the foot of the bed sat Caelen, fallen asleep. He remembered… a kiss…

What else could he remember? It was all a blur of disconnected images; not just Caelen, but also Hendegil, his mother and father, some he wasn’t sure of, and… oddly, Prince Daurendil.

His right arm throbbed with pain. He shifted slightly to try moving it, and Caelen stirred. Her eyes opened and caught his own. She leaped to her feet with delight and then sat beside him, leaning over him.

“Erya…”

“Caelie… wha…?” He found that speaking was difficult.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she answered, “Poison.”

More memories came flooding back; the training session, Celemir’s odd request for some sparring lessons, the strange way Celemir had positioned his sword – which Eryndil kept trying to correct, and the way his positioning had pricked Eryndil’s arm even as he tried to instruct him. Only a flesh wound – so Eryndil pounded back at him with some solid whacks to teach him a bit more of a lesson – but now the wound hurt like the Dirhavels!

“Celemir! Where…”

“Already on his way to the Northern Front… this morning, by order of Prince Daurendil and King Tarnendur,” replied Caelen with a smile. “He poisoned you yesterday, and the Prince came over with his surgeon once he knew about it.”

Hearing this, Eryndil turned more sharply at once to get a good look at his right arm. Reassured that it was all still there, he settled back down and relaxed again.

“Will I…?”

“Probably for another 120 years,” and her smile grew wider. “At least that’s what Sarador said, IF you would revive today and be able to speak.”

Eryndil realized suddenly that while he lay there his left hand had reached up to Caelen, first brushing her and then absently caressing her chest as she leaned over him. She didn’t seem to mind. He thrust himself up slightly, to try to kiss her.

Caelen kissed him, but only briefly. Then she pressed his shoulders back down onto the bed, kissed him lightly on the forehead and rose from the bed. “I don’t want to make you pass out again,” she said with a wink. “Sarador said none of that for a few days… so maybe tomorrow, or the day after.” She turned away, but then paused and looked back, “Only twenty days from this evening until we wed!”

She walked over to the door. “I’ll go tell your family that you’re awake. They’re at mid-day dinner. I’ll bring you some soup… and bread. Happy Highday!”

She smiled and went out the door. Highday… yes, it would be Friday, if that training session was yesterday. Eryndil could hardly believe a whole day had passed. Of course, it was his first time getting poisoned. Must take a little getting used to, he thought wryly, as he pondered the further oddity of Prince Daurendil rushing to his aid.

[Belzagar]

Northern Rhudaur, night of December 12, 1347.

Belzagar was cold; no, he was freezing. He was certain that he had never been colder in his life. Actually, he had not been warm since the army left Dol Mithlad two days before, and the night promised to be another wretchedly cold one. It did not matter that the winter so far had been a comparatively mild one. He was simply not accustomed to spending hours in the saddle every day or nights huddled in his tent around the small brazier.

"Your tea, my lord," came the nasal, high-pitched twang of Amarion, Belzagar's manservant, as he ducked through the tent flap. Once inside, he set the tray on the portable table in front of Belzagar, who barely looked up from a parchment scroll which he was reading.

Out of habit, Belzagar was about to dismiss the man so he could drink his tea in peace. Then he remembered that because of the practical consideration involved in a field campaign, it was necessary that his servant and two of his guards share the tent with him. "Of course, he will want some tea," Belzagar muttered to himself.

"My lord, it is cold out there tonight, but the stars in the heavens are making a splendid display," Amarion said in his usual singsong voice. Shivering, the man stomped his feet on the well-packed snow that made up the floor of the tent.

"Sit down, my good man, and have yourself some tea," Belzagar said in his usual cold, imperious tone.

"Do not mind if I do, my lord," Amarion smiled as he poured himself a cup of tea from the steaming pot and sat down across from Belzagar. "A pity we do not have something to sweeten it with." Amarion's pale, wideset eyes looked at him pathetically. "But I suppose it cannot be helped; we are with the army now, and have left the amenities of civilization far behind. Of course, it does our hearts good to know that we are serving a noble cause." He smiled happily as he felt the warm tea going down his gullet.

Lord Belzagar went back to reading the parchment. This would be another night of listening to Amarion's grumbling, which it seemed that he had done ever since they left Cameth Brin. Did the man have to whine continuously about everything, everything small or large, anything and everything? Back in Cameth Brin, Amarion had been a capable, faithful and very efficient servant, but then Lord Belzagar and he had not been forced to live in such close quarters. In the confines of the tent, Amarion's voice was like the drone of flies on a hot summer day. Pretending that he was concentrating on the document, Belzagar pulled his great fur cape tighter around his shoulders. Just as he was about to lift the cup to his lips, the tent flap opened, and Jarl Broggha, Captain Gris, and two of Broggha's henchmen stomped into the tent.

"By Melkor's hot and fetid breath!" Belzagar thought, more than a little surprised to see Broggha. "There are that lout Broggha and his henchman Gris! What dark curse has brought them to my tent tonight?" Of course, Belzagar did not say these words, but he thought them. Instead he rose to his feet and warmly welcomed Broggha and his cronies.

"Lord Broggha, what an honor to have you visit us tonight! Welcome, welcome, to both you and your men!" Belzagar turned to the servant who was nervously regarding the visitors. "Wine for our guests, something to bring cheer upon a cold winter's night."

"Lord Belzagar," Broggha replied as he commandeered Amarion's portable camp chair and poured his huge bulk in it. "I cannot stay long, but goblets of wine would suit my men and me quite well." Belzagar watched in amazement as the giant Hillman did not stop drinking until he had consumed the contents of the entire goblet. "'Tis the custom not to put the horn down until the last drop is drunk from it," Broggha explained, wiping off his mouth and looking to Amarion for another drink.

The tent was crowded enough in the best of circumstances, but with the addition of Broggha and his comrades, it was packed. A fastidious man, Belzagar coughed politely, his nose twitching at the rank, unwashed stench of Broggha and his men. "What brings you to visit tonight, Lord Broggha?" Belzagar thought about taking the handkerchief out of his left sleeve and bringing it this nose to block out the smell, but he considered that would be too obvious so he suffered silently.

His face hard, Broggha looked at the nobleman as he clenched his fist around his second goblet of wine. "Treachery, my lord, treachery! The camp is rank with the smell of treachery!"

"And other nauseating odors," Belzagar thought as he concentrated on taking shallow breaths. "Ah, yes, the attempt upon your life last night. A terrible thing," he nodded his head gravely. "I understand you were wounded, and the assailant is still at large."

"Not for long!" Broggha fairly shouted, slamming his empty wine goblet down on the table and looking to Amarion for a refill. "And, aye, I was wounded, but it was only a scratch. Many have tried to kill me, but it seems I live a charmed life." He grinned roguishly and his men murmured their agreement, nodding their heads.

"It seems that way," Belzagar nodded. Had the Hillman left his tent on this cold night just to boast about his amazing ability to escape death? "There must be something more," Belzagar thought to himself. "Apparently no one saw your assailant," he commented.

"If anyone did, he has not come forward..." Broggha looked around, as though he heard something. "Gris," he shot a glance to his henchman and slid his head rapidly to the side. The captain nodded to one of his fellows, and together the two quietly rose to their feet and silently slipped out of the tent. Belzagar raised an eyebrow, but Broggha's only reply was a finger to his lips.

Outside, they heard the sounds of a brief, intense scuffle and angry voices. A few minutes later, Gris and the other henchman returned with a young man held between them. Moaning, the unknown fellow turned his head to the side and spat a stream of bloody spittle upon the ground.

"Look what we found outside!" Gris snarled as he prodded the man forward with a sword held firmly at his back. Quickly on his feet, Broggha sprang for the man and grabbed him by the neck of his tunic. Lifting the man off the floor, Broggha struck him several vicious backhand blows while his men held him.

"Who are you?" Broggha demanded.

"An honest man!" was all he had time to get out before Broggha drove his fist deep into his gut. As he doubled up in pain, Broggha grabbed him by his long hair and held him up to face him.

"Cowardly dog, there are ways of making you talk!" Broggha snarled in a low, threatening voice.

[General Nimruzir]

Northern Rhudaur, night of December 12, 1347.

Roused from his sleep by the sound of tumult in the Hillmen's camp, General Nimruzir called for Captain Gellamon to investigate what was the cause of the excitement. Accompanied by two young soldiers, Sadron and Lhawsion, men-at-arms in the Rhudarian army, Captain Gellamon made his way to the Hillmen's camp. Before they ever reached the site, they could see the glow of a huge bonfire and hear the angry shouts of the men.

At the periphery of the camp, they were halted by the sentries and denied permission to proceed. Only when Captain Gris, Broggha's chief lieutenant, stepped forward and gave his permission were the three men allowed to pass. Escorted by six hillmen, all fierce looking blond-haired giants, Captain Gellamon and his contingent were taken to the center of the camp. There Jarl Broggha held court, seated as usual upon his large portable throne.

"Hail, Captain Gellamond, welcome!" Broggha's great strong voice boomed out. "You are just in time to witness a villain who has been brought to justice."

"My lord Broggha," Gellamond said politely, bowing formally, "General Nimruzir heard the great sound of shouting coming from your camp and sent me to determine what was the cause of the commotion."

Broggha leaned forward and rested his chin on his upraised hand and studied the captain and his men. "Captain Gellamond, I have every reason to believe that my men stymied yet another attempt upon my life. They found this suspicious man lurking just outside of Belzagar's tent tonight."

Quickly assessing the situation, Captain Gellamon realized that Broggha was instrumenting another one of his usual extravagant spectacles. Another unfortunate man was Broggha's latest victim. Held back at a distance by a spear-wielding cortege of guards, the hillmen were like a giant pack of wolves. Their eyes wild and filled with blood lust, they shook their fists and shouted, "Kill the assassin! Kill him! Show no mercy!"

In the midst of this wild throng stood a young man, whom Captain Gellamon immediately recognized as Ruscon of Brockenridge, a Rhudaurian soldier. The object of the hillmen's hatred was sitting on the ground, a staff of wood thrust against his back, his elbows bent around it, his hands tied painfully in front of him. Even his thumbs were bound in an upright position. One of his eyes was swollen almost shut; there were numerous lacerations on his face; and blood still oozed from the rips and torn places in his uniform. Still there was a cocky smile on the young man's face, as he defiantly faced the crowd.

"Lord Broggha, what do you plan to do to him?" Captain Gellamon guardedly asked.

"Why, find out the truth, of course," Broggha laughed evilly.

"And how do you plan to do that, Broggha?"

"Tickle his back with hot brands from the fire until he decides to talk!"

At Broggha's words, the crowd went wild, shouting and cheering until they were hoarse.

[Wilwarin]

Cameth Brin, late afternoon of 12th December

The sergeant of the guard thought Wilwarin’s riding lessons were a good idea, at least, that’s what he told Wilwarin as soon as he had finished laughing. Soldiers, Wilwarin thought, humpf. He had sent her to Palnor, one of the youngest soldiers of the cavalry unit. Palnor then introduced Wilwarin to the horses.

“You might want to start with this one,” Palnor said, as he led a brown and white spotted horse out of the stables. “He’s got a bit of a stubborn character but he’s gentle and never has thrown off anyone.”

“That’s a comforting thought,” Wilwarin said, thinking the opposite. She looked up to the horse. “He’s… rather large.” She added.

“Well, if horses weren’t tall we’be be riding goats, and be the laughing stock of the whole of Arnor,” Palnor replied with a grin. “When was the last time you’ve sat on a horse?”

“We-ell…. Since I was seven I believe… My dad put me on the back of one of the draft-horses of the caravan once.”

Palnor laughed.

“Yes, everybody seems to find that so hilarious for some reason,” Wilwarin remarked evenly.

“Sorry,” Palnor said, “soldiers’ humour. You’ll find this horse somewhat different from a draft horse, though.”

With some help Wilwarin got on top of the horse. Palnor showed her how to direct the horse and how to stay in the saddle. After half an hour, he thought her good enough to take for a stroll through Cameth Brin. Wilwarin protested at the rate these lessons were going but eventually gave in and Palnor went to get his own horse. With him in lead, they left the palace ground and entered the city.

It was late in the afternoon and most people had already retired indoors. This suited Wilwarin fine, she was still very hesitant at doing this riding-thing and the less people she could end up trampling, the better.

When the two had gone down a few streets for a while, Palnor stopped and waited until Wilwarin drew level.

“Not bad,” he said, “not bad at all for a first time. In fact I think you’re up for something a little quicker. Straight ahead down that street are the stables, there’s no one in the way, so let’s race.”

“Race?! But I’ll never-“

“Never mind that! On three: one…“

“But-”

“Two…three! Go!”

The two horses remained perfectly stationary where they were.

Palnor turned to Wilwarin with some surprise. She gave him a pitying look. “I have a younger brother,” she said, “did you really I had never seen that prank pulled before?”

Palnor flashed a contrite smile. “Sorry, soldiers’ humour. You’d be amazed how many fall for that. Clearly you’re too smart for that. So I’m sure you’ll be able to get back to the stables on your own. I’m off duty now, so see ya!” He flashed her another smile and nudged his steed into a run.

Wilwarin pursed her lips as she watched her teacher and his horse disappear quickly between the houses. “And off course we didn’t cover galloping yet. Soldiers…” she muttered to herself.

She looked at the back of the horse head. How hard could this be? She hesitantly nudged the horse forward.

It didn’t budge.

“Being hard on the newbie, eh? Don’t tell me you’ve got that lousy type of humour too,” she sighed.

She pressed her knees slightly against the horse’s flanks again, like she had been taught. It didn’t move. Then she noticed it was looking at something at the other side of the street. She turned and looked: the steed was staring intently at a stall of apples.

“I am not going to bribe you with apples. Move,” she firmly told the horse. The steed snorted derisively and remained put. Wilwarin cupped her head into her hand. “A bit of a stubborn character, he says. Oh really?…”

She looked down. It was a long way down. This dratted horse was far big and higher than she had expected. She sighed again.

“I’m never going to get down,” she muttered.