"Shadow III- Perilous Journeys" - Final version

[Gordis]

Perilous Journeys

Princess Gimilbeth travels to Amon Sûl to use the Palantir and to ask for help against the encroaching Hillmen. She also has a coffin with her - with a drugged man inside. But the Witch-King ordered Gimilbeth captured and a big company of Orcs lies in ambush.
Meanwhile another traveler makes his way to Carn-Dûm. Who is he and what will befall him?

Chapters

Chapter 1 – To Amon Sul!
Chapter 2. Glorfindel of Rivendell
Chapter 3. Last Preparations
Chapter 4. Tumultuous Departure
Chapter 5. Waking Dreams
Chapter 6. Buried Alive
Chapter 7. Five Dead Rabbits
Chapter 8. Robbing a Nazgul is not a Good Idea
Chapter 9. The Traitor’s Mistake
Chapter 10. The Lovesick Orc
Chapter 11. Brochenridge
Chapter 12. The Hunt for the Madman
Chapter 13. The Nazgul and the Southron
Chapter 14. Encounters on the Road
Chapter 15. The Uncunny Prisoner
Chapter 16. Troubles Ahead
Chapter 17. Ambushed by Orcs
Chapter 18. Capture the Witch!
Chapter 19. Methods of Cross-Country Transportation of Captured Princesses
Chapter 20. The Princess Rescued
Chapter 21. Losses and Gains
Chapter 22. The Magick Blade
Chapter 23. A Maiden for the Magick Experiment
Chapter 24. The Spell on the Blood
Chapter 25. The King's Nephew
Chapter 26. The Morgul Wound
Chapter 27. The Mystery of Mirkwood
Chapter 28. The Hands of the King…
Chapter 29. The End of the Journey



Chapter 1 – To Amon Sul!

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Hurgon's room in Cameth Brin Palace, October 25, 1347.
Written by Serenoli and Gordis
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Early morning sunshine slanted onto the piece of canvas currently holding a half-finished portrait of the Princess Tarniel. Hurgon the Royal painter had sketched her features, and had done a preliminary coloring of her clothes, but he had left her face untouched.

Sitting in bed, moodily sipping wine from a goblet, he had an excellent view of the portrait. He didn't like it. Once he had finished painting it, he knew it would be realistic. It had the right amount of noses and ears and eyes, and of the right shape, and the right distance from each other... but something was missing. He felt it in his bones. Something was missing, which made his potrait a picture of Tarniel's face, but not Tarniel herself.

He pulled his palette - a wooden board with little cup-shaped dents, made specially for him by the town's carpenter - towards him, and started mixing the colours up. He had mostly brown and red earth shades to go with, for they were the easiest and cheapest to obtain, but packed in little precious containers in a desk he kept locked were the rarer hues - an ultramarine blue obtained by crushing the precious lapis lazuli, green from the malachite, and a bright crimson cinnabar red, and a white lead that had chalk undertones. He had spent considerable time and money to obtain these, and used them only sparingly. But today he would use them all, for he was determined to get Tarniel's expression just right.

A dab right there, and maybe a bold stroke there... he worked carefully, concentrated on achieving what he wanted, his arms flying, and occasionally throwing himself on the ground to rest and take long sips of his wine (which was fast dwindling) and then getting up again, fighting the weariness that crept up into his arms, intent on finishing the vision in his mind. He placed colours where, in reality, you would never see them. He put straight lines where Tarniel's face held curves; he put, hands trembling, red and blue in her hair, mingling them well, and in the end, despite being throroughly frightened of actually side-stepping reality and going for 'expression' (as he put it to himself) he was done.

It was sunset now. He flopped onto the bed, and gazed dreamily at the potrait of Tarniel, which had become quite unrecognizable, but which gave him a curious warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. A moment later, he realized the feeling was simply one of hunger... he had survived on a bottle of wine all day. But a wide, elated smile broke out over his face as he surveyed what he was certain was his masterpiece. And to think, he could paint countless other pictures with this new technique he had discovered... and never again feel that his paintings lacked that 'something' that troubled him so much. Hurgon had discovered abstract art....


***

"By Eru! What is it?"

The rich cadence of Gimilbeth's voice filled the small room, waking its ruffled owner. Hurgon Fernik dropped the empty bottle he clutched to his bosom and sat upright, peering owlishly around. He found himself sitting on his bed, fully dressed - even his paint-smeared boots were on. Two of Gimilbeth's immaculate pages watched him, shamelessly grinning. The lady herself, however, paid him no heed; her gaze was riveted to the freshly-finished portrait.

"What have you done, Hurgon?" continued Gimilbeth, as if in a trance. "Where have you seen blue hair? Purple hair? Green patches on human skin? It is completely crazy, the work of a lunatic... and yet... it is so incredibly, so wondrously good! I have never seen a painting like that..."

Hurgon, who was at first shocked by the Witch's visit and by her apparent disapproval, blushed to the roots of his hair hearing the last words.

"The Crown will buy this portrait, I will see to it", continued Gimilbeth. "It will look quite appropriate in the Gallery downstairs, in a place of honor. I hope you will make a matching portrait of myself, once we return from Amon Sul. I will pay you handsomely."

With that she turned and looked at Hurgon for the first time. The painter was trembling. Did he hear it right?

"W-We return?" he stammered. "Why 'we'?"

"Because you are coming with me, of course," replied Gimilbeth levelly. "This portrait is too good to give away to Malvegil or to his grandson, whatever his name may be. And anyway, this masterpiece does not render Tarniel's likeness as it should. We need a classic formal portrait - and, as I can't wait for you to finish another one, there is no other option but to take you, your paints and your canvas with me to Amon Sul. The journey will take at least a fortnight. You will come in a wagon and paint on the way."

"But..."

"Hurgon, Amon Sul is a beautiful place. Every Dunadan should see it at least once in his life. You will draw sunsets and sunrises there."

Hurgon's mouth hung open. Gimilbeth nodded to him and left.

Descending the stairs, Gimilbeth decided not to postpone her errand to Amon Sul anymore. She had to carry Nauremir’s coffin to his family’s crypt in Brochenridge, and she was worried, lest Nauremir awakened while still in Cameth Brin. Also, she was in danger. Belzagar the traitor made no move, but who knows if he would decide to eliminate Gimilbeth later?


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Cameth Brin, evening of October 27, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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"The Jarl will see you now" announced a scarred dangerous-looking brigand who guarded Broggha's doors. The cut-throat looked incongruous in furs and velvets - the newly acquired finery of the Jarl's new court.

Algeirr nodded and stepped into the dimly lit room. The hour was late and the Jarl obviously had more than his share of strong drinks - he sat slumped in a high-backed chair near the fire, Maleneth on his lap. But the blue eyes that met Algeirr's were as sharp as ever.

"Greetings, My Jarl," said Algeirr, his dark face unreadable.

The Jarl grunted a greeting and waived to a chair across the table. "There is some wine left. Help yourself. What is it you want?"

"I have important news. But that is for your ears only." Algeirr looked pointedly at the Jarl's mistress.

The Jarl scowled, then pushed Maleneth from his lap. "Go to bed, wench, and wait for me," he barked.

Maleneth scurried away. Broggha pulled his furs closer around his giant frame and fixed Algeirr with a steely gaze. Algeirr understood that his hopes to get the Jarl drunk and not so sharp as usual were wistful thinking. Still he had to get through with his plan.

"I think you have heard that Gimilbeth the Witch is leaving Cameth Brin in three days time?" asked Algeirr.

It was impossible to tell whether that came as a surprise for the Jarl or not. He simply grunted and inquired "So... where is she bound?"

"Amon Sul. The Witch is going to use the Palantir there - a fabled magic device of the Tarks, which enables them to see far and to talk to each other over great distances. Also she is going to propose Princess's Tarniel's hand in marriage to Malvegil's grandson."

The Jarl's eyes narrowed. "Where have you learned such news?"

"Gudhrun, my ..." Algeirr chuckled slightly "...well, let us say "my betrothed" is keeping an inn in Tanoth Brin. The king's guards frequent it. Strong ale makes even the tarks' tongues loose."

Algeirr downed his goblet and continued. "But that is not all. The guards say that Gimilbeth is going to ask Malvegil for armed assistance against the rebel Hillmen. With the Arthedain's army at his back, they say, King Tarnendur is going to show the accursed barbarians their proper place."

Broggha crashed his fist on the table so suddenly that Algeirr dropped his goblet and paled. "Treachery! Treachery again!" roared the Jarl. "The Tarks are plotting behind my back!"

"Quite so, my Jarl" Algeirr nodded, satisfied by the effect his news had on Broggha. He waited patiently until Broggha's angry pacing subsided and the curses he muttered died out. When the Jarl finally sat down again, Algeirr continued, trying to get closer to his own secret goal.

"Gimilbeth is taking inordinately large company with her. Hundred and twenty Dunedain guards - a third of what they have in the fortress. The garrison here will be much depleted. She is afraid of an ambush, they say." Algeirr waited, allowing his words to sink down.

"But there is some good news as well. The King has ordered the guards to accompany Gimilbeth till Brochenridge, but no further. Then most will return back, and only about twenty knights will accompany her to Amon Sul. The great Road is safe, they think."

The Jarl's eyes glittered and a cruel smile crept to his lips. He was obviously planning something. The interview was going much as Algeirr hoped it would.

"Can we send some spies with Gimilbeth's company?" asked the Jarl.

"No Hillmen is allowed to ride with the Witch, on the King's express orders. Not only they don't trust us, but they also have Nauremir's body to dispose of. If the wretch is indeed not dead, it would be awkward to let one of us see him resurrected, would it not?"

"You are the head of my spies, Algeirr". The Jarl's voice took a dangerous edge to it. "You must find a way to send one of our men with Gimilbeth."

"I have already done it, Jarl." Algeirr allowed himself a smile. "Captain Merendil himself has promised to take me along. There is very little that the King's guards can refuse to my Gudhrun, Jarl."

Unfortunately, the Jarl immediately became suspicious. "Why would this woman want to send you away, Algeirr?"

Here, Algeirr came to the most difficult point in the conversation. He had to tell a lie and not let Brogga detect it.

"My Gudhrun is from Fennas Drunin, Jarl. Gudhrun plans to move to her native town, as she thinks Tanoth Brin has become not a safe place to live. She wants me to go there, take a good look around and probably find a good inn for sale. Then I have to go back to report to her. That's why she asked the guards to take me along as it is unsafe to travel alone. I accepted, so I could be your eyes and your ears in Gimilbeth's company, at least as far as the Great Road."

In reality, Algeirr craved to go not to Fennas Drunin, but much farther - to Tharbad. Tharbad in southern Cardolan on the banks of the great river Gwathlo was the richest city of Arnor. From the moment when Algeirr stole the wondrous emerald necklace, he knew he had to go somewhere far away to sell it. Heirlooms of the kingly Tark house of Dauremir were no trinkets that one could sell anywhere in Rhudaur without any explanations - if one wanted to get good money for them. No, he had to go somewhere out of the country. The best place to go was, of course, Gondor. But the Southern Kingdom was far and the road was long and perilous. Tharbad was the second best choice. Immense riches changed hands daily in this city of merchants, sailors and thieves, and no awkward questions were asked.

"If I sell the necklace for a fair price, I shall settle in Tharbad and never see you again, my Jarl," thought Algeirr. "If something goes wrong, I shall return to you and to my Gudhrun and none will be the wiser. I may even get a promotion after fulfilling a difficult mission." Algeirr looked into the Jarl's piercing eyes and waited for the other's reply, trembling inwardly from fear and excitement.

"Algeirr, I had come to expect anything out of the witch, but this time she outdoes even herself. Princess Tarniel betrothed to Malvegil's grandson! The army of Arthedain giving Rhudaur aid! Aye," he said, stroking his thick, red beard, "Gimilbeth thinks she is very clever, but she will find that she is attempting to match wits with someone far more clever and with far more power.

"Now here is what you are to do, and perhaps there might be an extra profit for you - if you are successful. But much depends upon how successful you are in achieving the 'if,'" he emphasized. "I do not like failures." The Jarl's icy blue eyes glittered. "But then does anyone?"

He studied Algeirr's face to see the other man's reaction, and Broggha was pleased when he saw the distinctive look of fear in the other man's eyes.

"No, Lord Broggha, of course not, but I will not fail you," Algeirr exclaimed. "What is it that you want me to do?"

"A very simple task. Nothing complicated. As you know, our friends in the North have provided aid for me to use, forces whom no one would suspect. The orcs under the leadership of Pizbur Ashuk are planning an ambush. They are waiting in the Trollshaws - you will get there on the second evening of your journey. When you think it is the right time for the orcs to attack, you will organize a distraction. You are to rein in your horse and take it to the side of the road. Give the excuse that one of your mount's shoes is loose. Dismount and make a show of inspecting the horse's hoof. Then say that you are not satisfied and must pull the shoe and replace it with another. This will be the signal for Pizbur Ashuk to attack. Princess Gimilbeth must be captured alive, for her presence is requested in the North. If possible, capture the officers, and any who might prove valuable for questioning. But the rest - kill them all." Broggha laughed loudly. "Perhaps the orcs will be allowed a little treat for their success in accomplishing the task. When it is all over, they can dine upon Nauremir's body - if the miserable coward does not sicken even an orc!"

Even Algeirr was disgusted at this idea, but he allowed no emotion to show in his eyes. The two men rose to their feet and as they faced each other, Broggha slapped Algeirr over the shoulders. "Remember, there are rewards in success, but failure often has very unpleasant consequences."

[Gordis]

Chapter 2. Glorfindel of Rivendell

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The Three Goats Inn on the road from Cameth Brin to Penmorva, evening of October 26, 1347.
Posted by Gordis ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hegga was a new maid at the Three Goats Inn, hired only about two months ago. Broggha's men had all but devastated the countryside around Penmorva and there were very little stores left in the village of Penn for Hegga's big family to hopefully survive till the next harvest. After young Kviggr left for Arthedain to become King Malvegil's mercenary, Hegga's hopes for marriage were utterly ruined. Now there were so few young men left in the village, most went to swell Broggha's enormous band. So, after much deliberation, Hegga's parents decided to send their daughter away to her cousin, Gwynn, who worked as a maid at a roadside inn north of Morva Torch.

There was much more to eat at the inn than back home, but Hegga soon found out that the landlord was not going to give her anything but board and lodging for all the hard work she was doing for him. If maids wanted some money, explained Gwynn with a wink, they had to earn it themselves. Hegga was old enough to understand what her cousin meant, and she shriveled at the thought. Most customers staying at the inn were rough, baseborn men, vagabonds and traders, and the idea of spending a night with one of them made Hegga sick. Sure, there happened by some guests of quality on occasion, but, as her cousin said, those were unlikely to fancy the inn maids. Many a customer winked to her suggestively, attracted by her fresh face, milky throat and plump breasts, but still Hegga turned a deaf ear to immodest words and slapped at prowling hands. At nights, she dreamed of a fair prince who would come and rescue her.

This evening it seemed to her that her dreams had come true. Cheeks aflame and breath coming in short gasps, Hegga peered from behind the counter into the dim common room.

The slow autumn rain was beating on the roof. The large downstairs room of the old inn was half-empty. The winter was approaching and travelers on the road were fewer, much to the landlord's chagrin. There were only a company of southbound horse-traders drinking their fill of ale at the central table, two masons going north to seek work for the winter, and a lone traveler sitting quietly in a corner furthest from the hearth, a bottle of wine and the untouched plate of mutton in front of him. His figure was concealed by an unadorned dark-blue cloak that he kept on, despite the heat in the room. The hood was up, leaving his face in deep shadows. He put his sword on the tabletop in front of him and stretched his long legs under the table. The glow of the fire played on his travel-worn leather boots - the only detail clearly visible about the stranger.

"What do you make of him?" Hegga whispered to Gwynn, once the other returned to the counter with a platter of empty mugs.

"Which one?" asked Gwynn, yawning. She had been busy again last night and had little sleep.

"The one in the corner! What do you think he is?" prompted Hegga excitedly.

Gwynn studied the stranger for some time, then shrugged. "He is not SOMEONE, for sure," she said with contempt. "There is not a single trinket of silver or gold on this one, not even a bit of embroidery. His sword is unadorned, in a plain leather sheath. His boots are old. I bet he has not a spare coin in his pouch."

Hegga giggled in reply. "Then you are wrong, Gwynn," she whispered triumphantly. "He is SOMEONE all right. I know who he is, because he told me. I was the one who took him upstairs to show his room. He is an Elf!!!"

"An Elf?” asked Gwynn, wide-eyed. “Are you cracked or what?"

Still giggling, Hegga dragged her cousin to a larder to tell her the story.

"It was like this. He came from the South on a big gray horse - a fine animal, they say in the stables. I took him to his room, Number Three on the first floor. He had his hood on, and I could not see his face. He thanked me and I was going to leave when he turned to me and laid back his hood."

"Oh, Gwynn! I stood dumbstruck and peered at him like a dimwit. He is the most handsome man that ever walked in Middle Earth! He has most striking blue eyes, like the sky in spring, and his hair is like a shining golden river, falling unbound down to his waist. He smiled at me, he did! When I found my voice, I asked him, "Are you an Elf, sir?" Then he laughed. "You are perceptive, child," he said kindly - and his voice was like music - "indeed, I am of the Firstborn." And he told me his name and where he hails from. I looked into his eyes, and I knew it was the truth. His eyes... I am a simple village girl, and I don't think I can put it right, but his eyes are old - as if he had seen countless ages of Men, wars long forgotten, victories and defeats... and he looks so young otherwise... no more than thirty!"

Gwynn shook her head. "I don't believe an Elf would stop in our inn, rain or no rain. No one ever sees them. I sure saw none in all my life. Perhaps they have all gone over the Sea."

"But he is an Elf!" cried Hegga. "He said so himself. And I have seen his ears. Have you heard that all Elves have pointy ears?"

"Yes, that I have," replied Gwynn.

"Well, his ears are slightly pointed - not so much as the tales tell, but still much more pointed than yours, or mine, or any Man's".

"Well… if he is an Elf, as he says," said Gwynn dryly, "you won't expect him to fancy you, a lowly mortal, would you now?"

Hegga blushed furiously. "I hope you are wrong," she said. "I told him I have always loved stories about Elves and even heard a song about HIM from a traveling minstrel last year, a song how he slew a fiery demon! He smiled and said that he would tell me all about it and even sing me some songs if I come to his room after supper. He has a knee-harp with him!"

"Perhaps he will do just that, sing you some songs...and nothing else," replied Gwynn acidly, an obvious envy in her voice. "Make sure he pays, will you?"

"Oh Gwynn, you must be joking!" cried Hegga in outrage. "I love him so very much already! Money? I will never ask for money from him!"

Gwynn knocked thrice on her forehead to show what she thought about Hegga's wisdom. She made her way to the door of the larder, then turned abruptly.

"You said he told you his name," she said. "What is it?"

Hegga blushed again and announced proudly:

"Glorfindel. Glorfindel of Rivendell."

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The Three Goats Inn on the road from Cameth Brin to Penmorva, morning of October 27, 1347.
Written by Gordis ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was already past noon when they started looking for Hegga. At first, when Hegga failed to be on time for her morning chores, Gwynn made no fuss, out of kindness, allowing the poor girl to sleep after her first night with a man, but by the late morning it became evident that something was wrong.

Hegga's long-cold body was found in the bed of room Number Three, her throat neatly slit from ear to ear. Surprisingly, there was very little blood. The weapon that did the deed was thrown carelessly nearby. It was an ornate Elven dagger adorned with runes and golden flowers. As for the customer, Glorfindel by name, who stayed in the room overnight, he was long gone.

Gwynn, yesterday's envy forgotten, only congratulated herself that she was not the one the Elf took a fancy to. "What is the world coming to these days?" she wailed. "Elves taking village maids to bed and killing them! Bloody perverts they are, may Njamo eat their rotten souls! So no one here is bold enough to avenge the poor girl?"

"Where are those Rangers when you need them?" roared the innkeeper. "They mill around by the dozens when all is fine, but when something goes really wrong, who knows where to find them? Is there anyone here who is willing to man the pursuit party?"

The horse traders argued that they had their own business to attend to and hurried along on their way to Cameth Brin, venturing only to warn the authorities there about the happenings at the inn. The masons promised to do the same at Penmorva. A frightened and disheartened group of stable boys wandered for some time in the rain, careful not to venture too far from the inn. And that seemed the end of it, if we don't count the horrible stories, ever growing in the telling, that spread far and wide over the land.


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In the woods west of Penmorva, October 27, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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A lonely hooded traveler rode along a narrow path in the woods. The overgrown path led North, avoiding Penmorva and presumably striking the main road to Angmar west of this city. This suited the traveler well, as he was hurrying along to outpace the news of his night's work.

The rider grinned again, remembering the silly girl with the milky throat and full breasts who came enamored and trusting to his room last night. He heard and smelled human blood running hot and strong in her body. The way the blue veins could be traced beneath her white, almost transparent skin aroused him greatly. So he took his time killing her and drinking her blood. He held her in his arms, feeling her life force seeping out of her, feeling her body becoming as cold as his, seeing utter terror in her innocent blue eyes.... With a parting kiss, he bid her to send his greetings to old Namo - greetings from Agannalo. He never missed to ask this favor of any of his victims. By now, his name must be well known to the Vala... The traveler laughed aloud at this thought. He was not counting to see old Mandos - ever - so let Namo get impotently frustrated, for all he cared.

During his unnaturally long life, the traveler was known under many names, but "Glorfindel" was not one of them. In the forgotten West, his noble parents gave him a sumptuous name, Silmatan, the Jewel of Mankind. And indeed, with his handsome Elven-like features, golden hair and blue eyes, he deemed himself the jewel of the House of Hador. His mother and close friends called him Silmallaire - the little jewel... But it was long ago... in the short mortal years before the Ring. Now, for already two thousand and seven hundred years, he called himself Agannalo, the Shadow of Death.

At mid-day, the sun rose above the pines lining the path. The traveler threw back his hood and waved to the watery autumn sun, so different from the fiery orb of Far Harad, as he would to an old friend. Still, even the weak northern version of the fiery Arien hurt his eyes, so he pulled his hood back over his head right after sending this mock greeting.

Soon after, the gray stallion started to show signs of tiredness. The sly horse, always at his tricks, pretended to get lame, but Agannalo's will overrode his and they continued on. The nazgul frowned - he was concerned about the horse. Twenty years ago, Agannalo bought the gray in Harad and called him after a certain pesky wizard - Mithrandir, the Gray Wanderer. The name was given in jest, but proved prophetic. Over the years, there was never a place that the Gray Wanderer could call home; there was only a succession of roadside inns, unfamiliar stables, and endless nights in the wild with only the starry sky for a roof. Now the stallion was growing old and eager for small comforts. Agannalo carried a vast supply of oats, apples and a warm blanket for the horse. Thankfully, he needed none himself.

Just before sundown the rider finally stopped. This time the Grey was pretending no more - he really was exhausted. Agannalo fed the horse, put the blanket over his back and started a small fire. Not a real one, of course, but just a semblance of fire that gave some greenish light and almost no warmth. The Gray was grateful even for such a substitute, though - he never overcame his fear of the dark.

Soon Agannalo was sitting near the fire with his harp on his knee. The Gray stood nearby, munching quietly and listening to the haunting melodies of the songs long forgotten by mortals.

This evening the tunes were sad. Agannalo stopped feeling kinship with mortals very long ago, so killing them was as natural for him as squashing midges was for humans - no remorse, no second thoughts. But there was one thing that saddened him deeply - the loss of the Elven dagger with golden flowers he had to leave near Hegga's body as the evidence. He found the dagger while digging for treasures in the ruins of Ost-in Edhil and kept it for many lives of men. The dagger was of little use to him, as it burned his hand as if by hellish fire. But it was a wondrous piece of craft, with runes and golden flowers running along the razor-sharp silver blade, and Agannalo, ever a collector of high art, grew quite fond of it. Perhaps it was indeed from Gondolin... And now he lost it in a silly joke! Maybe the real Glorfindel would never hear of it ....

One thing was cheering, though. He would see his Captain again. Agannalo was surprised that he started to miss his comrades and his captain so much. The Nazgul King had a vicious temper when annoyed, and Agannalo had a knack of annoying him constantly. But still he looked forward to meeting the Captain again ... soon, very soon ... once he got to Carn-Dum.

[Gordis]

Chapter 3. Last Preparations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
October 30th, married servants' quarters in Cameth Brin castle
Written by Rian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I wish I didn't have to go," said Callon for the hundredth time.

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

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

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

Callon walked over to the window and looked out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Palace, October 30, 1347.
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night before her departure, closeted alone in her underground study, Gimilbeth prayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tower of Carn Dum, October 30, 1347.
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***
TRANSLATION

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

[Gordis]

Chapter 4. Tumultuous Departure

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin palace. Morning of November 1st
Written by Serenoli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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 hardly 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 happier than ever. Certain this could mean nothing good, he waited deferentially until she should find something about him to criticize. 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, that’s 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 favored throughout."

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

Tarnendur took this as a sign that she was determined to succeed, and found little more to say. They parted in silence, and Hurgon was already wishing he was back in his warm bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.
Written by Rian and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The morning dawned bright, with a 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 had always 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. One 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 traveling light - while another had been turned into a painter's study 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," Gimilbeth grinned 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 man 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 at 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 Penmorva. 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. There she was... Arinya, Tarniel's Elven tutor, 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 Elf right - for years of nosing around and eavesdropping!

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 a Hillman - 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 his 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."

Gimilbeth paid Arinya's words no heed. Throwing a gold coin to the horse-trader, she urged her horse forward with a smirk. The wagons and the mounted knights followed. The journey to Amon Sul was finally started.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.
Written by Rian and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


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! Had the world grown mad? However, the truth of the Elf's words brought the King out of his stupor.

"Of course!" Tarnendur 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 had 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 wondrously ornate dagger in a sheath of silver and gold. The thing of beauty looked incongruous in his meaty brown hands with their dirty, bitten nails.

"This is the very same knife, my Lord King, as slit the poor lass's throat. Begging 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 had 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?"

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..."

"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 wondrous 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 the faces of the Elves from Gondolin that she had recently spoken with 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."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347
Written by Elfhild
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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 fair 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 across the fortress court to the Gate, 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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin fortress court. Morning of November 1, 1347.
Written by Rian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arinya watched Gimilbeth's entourage ride off into the distance. The people next to her lost sight of it long before she did, and moved away from her uneasily while she was still gazing after it. The king denounced the rumors and seemed to support the elves, but change was in the air, and the people felt it.

"Best to stick to one's own kind," said a woman to her daughter, nodding towards Arinya darkly and pulling her daughter away protectively. "I don't want you talking to her anymore!"

"But mama, the lady is so pretty and kind, and always says the most interesting things!"

"And that's how they catch their victims, most likely!" said the mother ominously.

Arinya came out of her reverie just in time to see the young girl being pulled away by her mother. She looked around - she was quite alone now. Little knots of people were gathered together, heads bend in close and talking quickly and quietly, while others had just left to go about their business.

She sighed with frustration - all she had wanted, when she came here, was to learn more about the Second-Born. She had always loved books, so tutoring seemed to be a good idea, and she had come to love her pupil, and to love teaching. Surely a tutor could teach in peace, and wouldn't have to get involved in politics! But here she was, right in the middle of what looked to be a very volatile uprising.

Bears and Hillmen, she thought wryly, remembering the disasterous party. I suppose you can teach them some tricks, but you can't take the animal out of them.

As Arinya turned to go, she saw Caelen approaching her, and smiled. "So young and earnest," thought Arinya. "I like her ..."

"Oh, Arinya, I just wanted to tell you that there are others besides the king who think the Hillman's words are ... are vile and false!" The girl had started the sentence rather quietly, but finished it angrily and breathing hard.

Arinya was intrigued - and grateful. "Thank you, Caelen," she said graciously, bowing her head. "But I think we're in the minority here ... now," she ended with a grimace as a particularly loud Hillman crossed in front of them, belching and spitting.

"Are you busy now? May I come and read again?" Caelen asked hopefully.

"Certainly! I enjoy your company very much! But you need to leave some time for your husband, too, you know!" Arinya said rather loudly, for the benefit of those around them.

"Oh - well, he's going on the first part of the journey, so I'll be free for a week or so," finished Caelen, still uncomfortable with the whole marriage and pregnancy intrigue, but grateful to Arinya for her help.

"He is? But you just got here! I'm a bit surprised at that," said Arinya, puzzled why a newcomer would be preferred over men that had been there longer.

Caelen shrugged her shoulders - she didn't see anything unusual in her brother being preferred over others. "He's just really good with horses - I guess the stablemaster saw that."

"Well, then, I'm free right now - shall we go?"

Caelen looked up eagerly and nodded, and they headed off to Arinya's chambers.

[Gordis]

Chapter 5. Waking Dreams

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Belzagar’s Townhouse, Cameth Brin. Morning, November 1
Written by Angmar
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"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 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 problem 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 Cameth 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 suddenly 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 Honalnut 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!"


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November 1, 1347. Broggha's Camp
Written by Angmar
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"Did you ever see anything like that in all your life, Captain Griss!" Heggr exclaimed enthusiastically as Princess Gimilbeth's entourage passed by the rude shack where the two men were lounging. Spitting a long stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth, he laughed in amusement as the brown liquid narrowly missed a yellow cur nosing amongst the garbage at the side of the shack.

"Aye, truly impressive, but it surely did not compare with the Jarl's triumphal entry into Cameth Brin last month. No doubt, much to the old king's chagrin, that event will be given a page to itself in the royal history," Griss remarked waggishly. After watching the end of Princess Gimilbeth's procession pass out of sight, Griss drew on his long-stemmed clay pipe. A small vagrant breeze pulled the hazy smoke towards the east.

"Maybe our names will be recorded. Do you think so, Captain?" Heggr asked after he had spat the depleted plug of tobacco from his mouth and prepared another chew from his tobacco pouch.

"Who knows?" Griss shrugged. "Why don't you ever smoke the pipeweed instead of chewing it?" Captain Griss' eyebrows wrinkled in a disapproving look. "I don't know how you can tolerate the taste of the strong stuff in your mouth."

"Captain, chewing the pipeweed sometimes eases the pain in my aching teeth, or maybe it just takes my mind off the misery." Heggr looked disappointed at Griss' nonchalant dismissal of a question he considered important. "Wouldn't you like to have your name written down in a great volume of history as being someone who did something important?" Heggr looked at Griss hopefully.

Griss laughed. "People like high and mighty Princess Gimilbeth get their names in history books, not rogues like us. Don't tax your mind on it anymore, Heggr. We have more important things to do than stand here. We need to be getting to the Jarl's keep. He will want a full report of the Princess' departure."

***

Retrieving their horses from where they had been tied behind the shack, the two men were quickly mounted and on their way to Broggha's estate. Rolling the new cud of tobacco in his mouth, Heggr was silent, a mournful expression on his homely face.

"Why so glum, Heggr?" Griss asked without much interest.

"Nothing," he spat to the side. "Only I was hoping there would be a little time to stop at the Hare and Thistle. I was hoping to see Fainwen."

"Heggr, that is impossible. You shouldn't even ask! The tavern is in the opposite direction from the Jarl's keep. You can always ride over and see her tonight. What's so important that you should want to see her now?" Griss replied disdainfully. He had never been able to understand Heggr's infatuation with the plump barmaid, who, while her face was pretty enough, was a little too old and well-used for his tastes.

"You see, Captain, it's like this. She's grown pretty fond of me, and... well, I am somewhat fond of her. You remember during the procession that one of the boys who work at the inn came up to me and whispered into my ear?" Heggr seemed almost shy.

"Yes, I remember that. What was it all about?" Griss smiled as their horses trotted into the courtyard of Broggha's hall.

"Well, he's Fainwen's nephew..."

"Aye, I know that," Griss replied as the two men dismounted and turned their horses' reins over to the waiting grooms. "I suppose the lad was delivering an important message from your lady love."

"Aye, Captain Griss," Heggr replied as he followed Griss into the corridor that led to Broggha's private chamber.

"Well, out with it, man!" Griss growled irritably as the guard ushered them into the warm confines of the audience chamber. "What does she want? Another present, I suppose?"

"Well, sir, if what she thinks is true, maybe I have given her present enough as it is." Stammering, Heggr's face flamed crimson.

"You old dog!" Captain Griss slapped him hard across the shoulders. "You've gotten the wench with child! Are you sure it's even yours?"

Heggr had not been prepared for the enthusiastic response, and the wind was almost knocked out of him. Recovering quickly, he whispered to the captain. "Aye, it's mine, or at least I think it's mine."

"Be quiet now," Griss muttered. "The Jarl is looking at us!"

A tankard of ale in his hand, the red-haired giant sat alone, attended only by one trusted servant. The Jarl nodded when they drew near to him. "Take seats," he ordered, "and tell me everything that happened."

Griss inclined his head respectfully before he began. "Princess Gimilbeth, full of her usual arrogance, rode at the head of her lackies, with that supercilious, smirking Captain Merendil coming along right behind her like a trained dog." Griss paused as the serving boy set tankards of ale on the table beside Heggr and him.

"Drink, men," Broggha's booming voice seemed far too loud for the moderate-sized room. "The draughts will take the chill from your bones." Nodding, the two men smiled their gratitude to him. "And the coffin of Nauremir? I trust it was with the procession?" He beamed a broad, pleased grin.

"Yes, my lord Broggha, the dog's coffin was right there," Griss replied after wiping the froth off his lips with the back of his hand.

"Everything is going according to His Majesty's plan. Won't the lady be surprised when she discovers that there will be a little welcoming party for her, or should we say a little surprise party?" Broggha chortled. "She and her party will be observed every step of the way. The marvel of it is that none of them will ever suspect a thing until it is far too late for them to do anything about it! His Majesty thinks of everything!"

Broggha's eyes had begun to take on that strange gleam which made Griss feel slightly uncomfortable. The Jarl's eyes had never appeared that way before the Great Lord had visited them back in September. Always when dealing with the emissaries from the North in the past, the Jarl had been visited by underlings. Griss wondered if it had been the King himself who had made an appearance. Whoever the lord was who visited them, he made an overpowering impression upon Griss and Broggha.

Heggr coughed uncertainly and Griss turned to look at him. Heggr stared at him in a strange way for a moment and then looked away. A shiver rippled down his spine when Heggr realized that the expression upon Griss' face was just as wild and mad as the one which was on Jarl Broggha himself!


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Ford of Bruinen, November 1, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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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 preceded 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 mischievously.

"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.

[Gordis]

Chapter 6. Buried Alive

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South of Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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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 a commotion behind, where the wagons were... She turned round her bay stallion and went to investigate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 1, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Darkness surrounded him. Lassitude lay heavy over Nauremir's mind like a blanket of lead cast over an invalid, and he stared, not really contemplating what his eyes beheld. Of course, what was there to behold? Only oblivion, the complete absence of light, raven-black, punctuated now and then with the strange muted colors the eye sees when all is dark; shifting burgundies and tarnished golds, and shades which his mind could not place. But darkness surrounded all, and all was darkness.

How long he lay there, he knew not. Time did not seem to matter. Days could have passed, or maybe years. Mayhap the sands in the hourglass had escaped through some fissure and ascended to the heavens to hang as timeless stars in the sky. Nothing seemed to matter in this place, this nebulous realm suspended somewhere between life and death, a place visited by the dying and by the drugged.

But slowly the shattered pieces of reality began to gather and reform, as though floating through a sluggish sea. Thinking consciousness gradually returned, and with it, a pounding headache, a pain so dreadful that he feared it would split his head in two! Moaning, he attempted to lift a hand to clutch his throbbing head, but it seemed that shackles and chains of iron held his arm in an unrelenting grasp. Another attempt. The hand lifted a few inches but clashed against a barrier which lay above him, then fell down to lie limply upon a cushiony bed.

Where was he? The mattress upon which he lay was soft and comfortable, and he felt himself being lulled back into slumber. No, no, he must resist the temptation to sleep, to sink back into the senseless oblivion in which he had so recently traveled. Somewhere in the back of his befuddled mind, a sense of unease began to grow, but the rest of his mind could not yet comprehend the reason for this discomfort.

Gaining strength, he raised his arms again. His fingers brushed over the roof which hung only a few inches above his body. A thin layer of cloth, and beyond that, hard wood. He clutched his temples in his hands, groaning like an opiated sleeper making a half-hearted attempt to wake from the stupor of the poppy.

Where was he? What had happened? He groaned again. Was this the morning after a night of heavy drinking? He did not remember... He needed light – though surely it would sear his eyes in this state. His fingers explored his surroundings. Walls all around him, a ceiling above him, some sort of cushioned floor beneath him. What sort of place was this?

He lay there, staring into the darkness above him. And then suddenly his mind cleared and the dreadful realization dawned upon him.

He was in a coffin.

He had been buried alive.

His heart pounded, waves of horror crashing down on him like the drowning tides of a dark sea. The foggy bewilderment left his brain, and in its place was clarity, horrifying and grim. Left for dead when he was yet alive, would he spend his last days imprisoned within the tomb, slowly starving to death? Long would be the hours as he waited for death's embrace, for the final cessation of his young life. Surely this was the worst way to die – to die once and wake to life, only to have it wither away like a plucked flower in the confines of interment!

Powered by a desperate surge of energy, he balled his hands into fists and pounded on the roof above him. It was as unyielding as the cold stone of the tomb; his struggles as futile as the last throes of a dying man. Nauremir saw his life, his death, all flash before his eyes. Panic rising up inside him, a dreadful shriek escaped his lips, and his whole body shuddered in a paroxysm of revulsion and fear. This was it – this was the end – the slow, prolonged, agonizing finale of those entombed whilst still alive - this would be his fate – his doom – his death -

And then consciousness left him, and his mind fled once again into the comforts of the murky darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 1, 1347
Written by Serenoli and Gordis
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Hurgon had imagined that painting on a horse without an easel would be the height of impossibility. Sadly, there was not much difference when you were in a wagon being pulled by horses, even with the easel. But would Gimilbeth listen to reason? Oh, no, her highness intended to see him paint during the journey, even if she had to move his hands for him.

After four mad hours of trying to draw Tarniel's mouth, he had thrown up his hands in disgust, jumped out of his wagon, and settled on the front seat of the third wagon, muttering under his breath things like, "I wish that witch would look her age! Ha!"

The driver of the third wagon, a bored-looking fellow, who had a taste for the macabre, leaned in confidentially, and asked, “How long do you suppose it’ll take before the end of our journey?”

Hurgon, who had his eyes fixed on Gimilbeth at the front of the procession, gave a start. “What? I don’t know. Three days to Brochenridge, I heard.”

“And how long before poor Lord Nauremir there begins to rot, I wonder. He should start giving off a stink anytime soon. Although maybe the coffin’s holding in the smell.”

Hurgon gave a shudder the most delicate lady would have been proud of. “I somehow don’t think that’s likely to happen anytime soon.”

“And why not?”

The answer was supplied by young Nauremir himself, who shouted out, “I’m alive! Let me out!” This, followed by a series of pounds. Hurgon, who had been half-expecting this ever since they set out, cursed under his breath. "Darn my needles! He’s gone and woken up!" The driver pulled up short, an ear cocked.

“You hear something?” he asked Hurgon. The horsemen following them had stopped, too, looking puzzled. They had obviously not heard anything… yet.

Nauremir pounded a little more on his coffin, the sound of desperation creeping in.

“There! That pounding! Coming from behind us, isn’t it?” The sudden light of realization flooded his eyes. Hurgon waited with bated breath for the inevitable horror and shock. It came….

… only not quite in the way he expected. With bulging eyes, and fear written over his thin face, the driver shouted, “They’re drums! Drums in the forest!”

“What drums?” a confused Hurgon asked.

“Everyone know goblins use drums to alert each other! They’re going to attack us!” His voice gaining panic, the driver began shouting over the rhythmic pounding of Nauremir’s coffin, completely oblivious to the fact that it was making the wagon rock from side to side. “Goblins! Orcs are upon us! Brave soldiers, defend us!”

Various cries of “Ready Arms!” “Where?” “What drums, I don’t hear anything!” and “What in the name of cheese is going on?!” permeated the air. The wagons in front creaked to a halt. At almost the same moment, Nauremir, his little energy spent and the drug taking hold again, gave a final shriek and fell back into blissful sleep.

Gimilbeth got down majestically from her bay stallion and swept up to them to ask crisply, “Well?”

“My Lady, we heard the orc-drums. They’re preparing to attack us any minute! And just now, I heard them give a most blood-curdling war-cry, my Lady!”

“We? You and who else heard these ‘drums’?”

The driver promptly pointed at Hurgon. Hurgon refused to wilt under her icy stare - a first for him – and began shaking his head and wagging his eyebrows vigorously towards the coffin behind them. He mouthed, “Nauremir! He’s awake! Awake!"

Gimilbeth had no need to ask: "Who is?" Ever since they set out on the journey, she had been afraid of that moment. Should Nauremir come to his senses in an inopportune time, the secret would be out! Sure, no Hillman was allowed on the journey, save one, Algeirr by name - a trustworthy man, according to Captain Merendil. But still even one Hillman was far too many. And even the Dunedain, if once scared witless by the apparition of the unquiet dead man, were bound to chat about it afterwards, especially when drunk.

Gimilbeth cursed inwardly, cocked her head and listened. Everything was quiet in the wagon with the coffin. Perhaps the wretch has fallen in a swoon again, if not worse. She sincerely hoped it had been the case. Anyway, nothing could be done until the evening.

Meanwhile, Merendil's barked orders rallied the men, some of whom had fanned out into the forest on both sides of the road looking in vain for assailants. The journey continued.

By sunset, Gimilbeth's party reached an old roadside inn. But those who looked forward to warm beds and hot meal were sorely disappointed as the house proved to be deserted. It stood with broken windows and doors and the wind blew dry autumn leaves through empty rooms. Captain Merendil sent several men to scout around, appointed the night guards, and the travelers settled for the night as best they could.

A big fire was lit in the abandoned hearth of the former common room of the inn and a small tent was set in a corner for Gimilbeth and her maid. The others took out their bedrolls and laid them on the floor. There was not enough place for everybody, of course, so Gimilbeth's order to bring in the coffin as well was met with astonished silence.

"Has the witch gone mad?" thought the bewildered Merendil. He coughed several times and then objected as politely as he could.

"A-hem... My Lady, the late Nauremir is precisely the only one here who won't suffer from the cold. In his present...er.. condition he will only benefit from some exposure to the night's frost."

"I want the coffin here!" replied Gimilbeth icily. Her cold eyes met the Captain's and held them. Merendil was the first to lower his gaze, muttering darkly - the journey with the crazy witch was proving every bit as unpleasant as he feared.

With muffled curses from the guards, the heavy coffin was brought in and set in a small adjoining room, maybe a former pantry or a storage room as there were empty shelves on the walls. The floor of the little room was littered with debris, but still it was better than to have the coffin in the common room. To Merendil's relief, Gimilbeth had no objections to this arrangement.

After the evening meal, which everyone ate seated on the floor on his own bedroll, the weary travelers fell asleep. Gimilbeth lay awake listening how the hushed muttering in the common room finally ceased, replaced by snores. Quiet as a shadow, Gimilbeth slipped out of her tent. First she shook awake her two pages and sent one of them to fetch Hurgon. Soon the four of them assembled in the pantry around the coffin.

"Now, open the lid!" ordered Gimilbeth. With much effort, the three men lifted the heavy lid and laid it on the floor. They stood for some time looking down at Nauremir in wonder.

The hapless youth lay before them pale and emaciated. His cheeks and chin were covered by long, uneven stubble, curly, and a shade lighter than his hair. The sparse, ungainly beard made him look older and somehow different.

"Good!" commented Gimilbeth. "Now he will be hard to recognize, especially after Edelbar cuts off his hair. Here are the scissors, Edelbar!"

"Chop off his hair?!!!" gasped Hurgon. All the nobles wore their hair long and only commoners cut them. Cutting one's hair short was an outrage - a loss of stature. "But he is Elendil's descendant, your own kin!"

"He has forfeited the right to his high lineage when he vilely attacked the King's guests, putting his kin and all the Numenoreans in danger!" hissed Gimilbeth. "From now on, he will be a commoner - your new apprentice, Hurgon."

She bent to the coffin, retrieved a bundle of cloth that lay hidden at Nauremir's feet and threw it to the painter. "Here are his new clothes - plain, threadbare stuff. Put it on him instead of this fancy dress when Edelbar finishes his haircut."

Long strands of raven black were falling to the ground. Hurgon stood at a loss watching what disturbingly looked like a degrading execution. The two pages stripped the body and dressed Nauremir in the plain clothes provided by Gimilbeth. Now the noble Daurendil's friend was truly unrecognizable.

At this moment Nauremir's eyes opened and focused on Gimilbeth. By the sudden fear and revulsion in his gaze, it was evident that the youth recognized her. Gimilbeth laughed evilly.

"Arise, apprentice painter!" she said haughtily. "New life awaits you - the life that is MY gift. Your old life has ended. Nauremir is no more. Helmir I name you, as your heart should henceforth be as cold as it used to be fiery. Now kiss my hand and be grateful for my gift. You are in my debt forever."

[Gordis]

Chapter 7. Five Dead Rabbits

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Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early hours of November 2, 1347
Written by Rian
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Callon lay quietly on his bedroll, unable to sleep because of the heavy snoring of the man next to him. He thought over the events of the last few weeks yet again - little else had occupied his mind lately. His decision to flee from their home now seemed naive and rash. He was young then, and the young are optimistic; he was older now. Age gained the hard way - by bitter experience.

It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for his sister. Young men in the stories set out for adventures, but they never seemed to have sisters to take care of. He wondered moodily how Beren and Tuor would have fared if they had had their sisters with them. Of course, Turin had his sister, and look at all the problems they had... He sighed with irritation and turned onto his other side. The man on this side of him wasn't snoring as loud as the other man, but he had an irritating habit of getting quieter and quieter, making you relax, and then letting loose with a nasal explosion that made you leap out of your skin.

Maybe they should have stayed at Eryndil's father's place after all, but Callon had talked Caelen into going to Cameth Brin - he thought it would be safer closer to the castle, and then they could look for their cousin, too. Last he had heard, Maleneth was somewhere around Cameth Brin - but that was long ago ...

"I can't wait 'till this trip is over!" he thought, uneasy about leaving Caelen alone. Well, at least she and the elven tutor had become friends. "Stay with her as much as you can," he had admonished his sister. "And remember - I'm your husband!"

A gigantic nasal roar from the man next to him made him jerk and then turn wearily back to his other side. He made a mental note to never sleep by this fellow again.


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Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early morning of November 2, 1347
Written by Elfhild and Serenoli
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Nauremir gaped up in horror at the evil witch. Her face was twisted in wicked glee like some leering female gargoyle. He still felt lightheaded, the lingering remains of the draught which he had been given and the fright which he had experienced. What had the witch done to him? He did not recognize his surroundings. Had she kidnapped him? Had she drugged him and stuffed him into a coffin, in some bizarre murder plot? Or was her intent something far darker?

Forever – the world reverberated in his mind. Life that was her gift. His heart should be cold. Kiss her hand and be grateful. What did all that mean? Perhaps he HAD died after all, and she had raised him from the dead by some unholy necromancy!

"Gimilbeth! What is the meaning of this?" Nauremir demanded shakily. "What in Eru's name have you done to me?!"

Gimilbeth tossed her head and laughed again. Seeing someone she disliked utterly helpless and at her mercy felt like heady, strong wine. It made her nerves tingle and her head swim pleasantly. For here he was - Nauremir of royal blood, the best friend of the King's Heir, the best swordsman and the best dancer, the sweet dream of all the young ladies of Cameth Brin - now brought down. This dashing youth now stood swaying on his feet and looking at her with his bloodshot, puffed eyes like a terrified rabbit...

Rabbit...rabbits... she almost forgot... Sobering, she turned to her pages: "Edelbar, have you brought those rabbits you killed three days ago?"

"Yes, my Lady, here they are," replied Edelbar, grinning. He produced a leather bag, untied the strings and tossed the contents into the open coffin. Five dead rabbits. Sweet cloying stench of rotting flesh filled the small pantry. Gimilbeth nodded, satisfied.

"Now close and fix the lid, but don't forget to extract Helmir's bedroll first. It is there, under the pillow."

Edelbar pushed a plain soldier's bedroll into Nauremir's arms. The poor young man looked upon it in bewilderment. Then the witch addressed him again.

"This is not the right time and place for explanations, Helmir. Know only that I have saved not only your worthless life but also the Kingdom you put in peril by your foolishness. Keep quiet for now, lest nothing could save you again. Hurgon, your new master, will tell you the tale on the way - far from the curious ears."

"Take him to the common room, Hurgon. Sleep now, but make sure to get into your wagon before the first light."

Nauremir's lips trembled, but he said nothing. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand and turned to Hurgon, obviously hoping for some reassurance. But the painter only shuffled his feet uneasily and pulled him out of the pantry.

"Do as she says," he whispered. "Come with me. I will find you something to eat and to drink."


Hurgon had some bread and cheese left over, and he still had that bottle of red wine. He had had many plans for that bottle, but Nauremir, that is to say, Helmir, obviously needed it much more.

He rolled out the bedroll in a quiet corner of the common room, and pushing the dazed man onto it, he handed him the food and the bottle, and sat down heavily beside him. Helmir looked as confused as a newborn pup, so Hurgon alternated between patting him on the head and wringing his own hands. He should have known Gimilbeth would do this! No doubt she had heard every single name he had called her, and this was her revenge. The amulet had obviously lost its power - or else she was far too evil and powerful for it to work against her!

"What is going on?" Helmir whispered, trying his best to keep his voice level. "I thought I was dead, but now I fear something worse than death! Were those rabbits... part of some dread ritual?"

"Oh, no, I think they're to make the coffin smell rotten... so everyone will know you really are dead."

Helmir, who had cautiously taken a bite of the bread, choked. Hurgon hit him on the back a few times, saying "Shhh!"

"You mean I really am dead?" Helmir forced out through gasps.

"Well, everyone thought so, and many people even think she," he inclined his head towards the old pantry, "killed you herself, but Tarnendur says she didn't really kill you. Even I had trouble believing, but look at you, my lord... ah, Helmir, you're walking and talking and eating, so you can't be dead, right?"

Was it just him, or was there uncertainty in Hurgon’s last words? Oh, Eru. What if some vile work of sorcery had been committed against him, and he was now some sort of foul creature, neither living nor dead? Well, the king did not think that he was dead. That was reassuring, at least. But what if the witch had enchanted the king and he was now her thrall?

Groaning, Nauremir bent over, holding his head in his hand. Was this evil sorceress now ruling the kingdom? No, no, he was letting his thoughts run away with him!

He seized the wine bottle like a drowning man grabs hold of a piece of driftwood in a desperate attempt to keep himself afloat. Bringing the mouthpiece of the bottle to his lips, he swilled the rest of the liquid down in one gulp, wincing as fire exploded inside his head. "What happened?" he asked at last. "I remember the fight at the reception banquet. One of those accursed Hillmen stabbed me in the shoulder. There was a fire... I was taken to safety... I remember lying on a bed," he said slowly, concentrating on his fuzzy memories of what had transpired. "After that, all is darkness. I understand that Gimilbeth is behind all this. She claims that I am in her debt forever. What vile spell has she cast upon me?" He paused, and then demanded, "Where am I, anyway?"

Nauremir was getting increasingly distraught. Remembering Gimilbeth's injunctions, and not at all relishing the prospect of explaining away Nauremir's presence to the entire room, Hurgon chose not to answer him at once, but instead led him outside to where the wagons and horses were standing. Nauremir looked around him, puzzled. "Are we on some kind of journey, Hurgon?"

"We're going to Amon Sul - but we're only a day away from Cameth Brin. Here, this way. You're staying in my wagon, and you must stay as concealed as possible throughout the journey, so no one recognizes you."

Nauremir stood his ground. He had the air of a man who intended to find out what was going on, and no more evasion, thank you very much. "What happened?" he repeated "Tell me what is going on."

"Well... the long and short of it is that Broggha demanded your head, and Gimilbeth told him you had already died of your injuries. She gave you some potion to make it look as if you were dead - and, most of us thought you were dead, and we - I mean, some of them thought she was the one that killed you. And then the Prince - Daurendil, not Amantir - tried to kill her, and the ladies Tarniel and Odaragariel tried to stop him... and then the King himself came and stopped Sarador from embalming you, and it turned out you were alive after all." Hurgon paused to take breath.

Nauremir slumped on the ground, and said slowly, "All of that really happened? Sarador almost embalmed me?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Gimilbeth was going to Amon Sul anyway, and she took me along to paint Tarniel's potrait. She decided to bring you along - I don't know why. But Broggha would kill you if he found out, and while I sympathise with you - obviously I would not like to be in Gimilbeth's clutches either; but of the two alternatives, if I may say so, she strikes me as slightly less nasty. Besides," he added, wishing to reassure Nauremir, "I am not a very tough taskmaster, lord." He gave a nervous smile.

"And she didn't put a spell on me? She didn't bring me back from the dead?" His voice was hoarse with fear.

"She says not," said Hurgon. He felt hesitant about putting forward anything Gimilbeth said as a certain fact. "I didn't even know anyone could be brought back from the dead. But the doctor, who is my friend, told me your health was on the mend before you died; that is, seemed to die."

"So she may have been telling the truth?"

"Possibly."

Nauremir groaned softly... it was hard to tell whether he was relieved or worried. When he looked up, a new aspect of the matter seemed to strike him. "Helmir... that is my new name. Does that mean I'm never to be Nauremir again?"

Hurgon shook his head.

"My family... what about them?"

"I don't think they know. They are waiting for us to bring your dead body to them. I don't know whether Gimilbeth plans to tell them." Hurgon watched Nauremir anxiously for signs of anger. "Either way, the plan seems for you never to return to Cameth Brin."

A man with no family. No home. A past, yes, but one which was denied to him. His whole life was gone. Everyone thought he was dead. Where did he go from here? No longer was he Nauremir, but instead Helmir, a stranger. The witch had saved his life, but for what? Obviously not the goodness of her heart. Well, if she expected him to do her bidding out of gratitude, she was sorely mistaken. Perhaps she sought to sway him by the threat of blackmail, offering to reveal his identity if he did not do her bidding. But what could she want with him? What importance did he have? Nauremir the nobleman was "dead" and he was now Helmir, the painter's apprentice. What did he know of painting anyway? He shook his aching head.

"I need time to think on all this," he groaned. He took another gulp of wine. It was best to be intoxicated at a time like this, he thought wryly. That was often the state of Hurgon Fernik, and if it worked well for his "employer," then it was good enough for him.

[Gordis]

Chapter 8. Robbing a Nazgul is not a Good Idea

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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.

[Gordis]

Chapter 9. The Traitor’s Mistake

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On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 2, 1347
Written by Rian, Gordis and Valandil
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Callon shifted his weight around on the hard bench, irritated with the world, and with Gimilbeth in particular. "Why she picked me to drive this old wagon, I'll never know!" he thought moodily, looking at the riders with envy. He was a very competent driver - he was good at anything to do with horses - but he much preferred riding. "I guess those people just have their whims," he concluded with a shrug.

He took a look at Hurgon out of the corner of his eye. Callon's few ventures at polite conversation with the painter and his apprentice had been met with vague, short answers, and an evident desire to not speak with him. "It's going to be a long week!" thought Callon, shifting around impatiently on the hard seat.

At least yesterday, after the mad painter had thrown a few brushes around and then left in frustration to go sit in the other wagon (Callon looked ruefully at the bright blotch of vermillion decorating the edge of the seat, thankful that it had missed his tunic) one of the soldiers had ridden by him for awhile, making polite overtures of friendship to the new arrival. The polite conversation turned into a discussion enjoyed by both of them as they discovered many interests in common. But now, with the painter and his apprentice (the guy sure did look ill! And frightened as a rabbit!) staying in his wagon, his new-found-friend stayed away.

"It looks like there's some decent-enough fellows here," mused Callon, playing with the sturdy leather reins and enjoying the feel of the horses that flowed through them up to his hands. "I'll be glad to get back, though."

He sat up straighter, stretching his back, and then settled down again to the mesmerizing sound of hooves on a road on a warm morning. The only thing that had really bothered him on this trip, besides the snoring last night, was the one finely-dressed Hillman in the group that he caught a glimpse of at dusk yesterday - something about the guy had reminded him of the robber on the road. "Good thing Eryndil fixed HIS wagon!" thought Callon with grim satisfaction, fingering the mark on his throat.

***

Algeirr rode at the back of the party at his humble place among the servants. The first day he felt quite intimidated - after all, he was a single Hillmen in this party of Dunedain. At the beginning, the servants were eyeing him suspiciously, despite Captain Merendil's assurance of his loyalty. But by the morning of the second day the others lost their interest and Algeirr was able to breathe freely.

This last month, Fortune had smiled at him. He was neither deserter nor mercenary anymore. Now Algeirr was dressed in fine dark-brown velvet clothes - the legacy of Gudhrun's late husband - and looked a wealthy, respectable Tanoth Brin citizen. He led a pack horse with his belongings and presents that Gudrun was sending to her relatives in Fennas Drunin. He was not going to deliver them, of course, but this little addition to his plunder left him indifferent. His main treasure - the wondrous emerald necklace - was concealed in an inner pocket of his tunic. He fingered the treasure through the soft fabric and felt his heart warming at the touch of the large stones.

There were other things he had to do than making plans for the future. Broggha sent him to spy, and, as long as it was safe, Algeirr was going to do the job. The problem was that from his place in the procession he had only occasional glimpses of the third wagon - that with the coffin. There was no way of telling whether Nauremir was alive or dead. Algeirr supposed the former. Last night the coffin had been brought inside, out of the cold, so it stood to reason that the wretch was still inside - alive. A shiver ran down Algeiir's spine at the thought. Ugh... This witch was a cold-blooded, reckless enemy.

"Perhaps she got him out last night?" mused Algeirr. He had to spent the night at a campfire outside - the crowded inn had no place for such as he. In the morning he watched the knights coming out, but it was still dark when the party set out - in November the nights were long and the days short. Also Algeirr had only seen Nauremir twice - at the memorable party and later during the funeral. He was not sure he would be able to recognize him now, especially if disguised.

As soon as Broggha ordered him to watch the coffin, Algeirr tried to become appointed driver of one of the wagons - preferably that with the body. He coaxed Gudhrun into going to the King's stables and trying to arrange the thing with her buddies there. But even Gudhrun's fabled influence failed. It was Gimilbeth herself who appointed all the drivers -a highly unusual thing for a princess to do. And what choices she had made! The stables were abuzz with angry gossip. Old Damgir, a half-deaf oaf long overdue for retirement, was chosen to drive the coffin wagon. For another wagon, that of Hurgon the painter, Gimilbeth appointed an untrained young man - new to Cameth Brin, who had hardly worked a week in the stables! And to top it all, the witch decided that her own wagon should be driven by one of her pages! Considering that the stable staff had quite a few experienced, loyal wagon drivers, such orders were baffling.

"Surely the witch is trying to cover her tracks..." thought Algeirr. He decided it was time to approach the wagons and have a better look. Casually, he looked around and urged his horse forward. He made his way up the column slowly and cautiously, slowing now and then to have an amiable conversation with nearby troopers. Men were guarded with him, he noticed, but nobody hindered his progress. In half an hour he reached the wagon with the coffin.

"Hail, Master Damgir," he called out to the driver. "A fine day, isn't it?"

"Eh?" replied the driver gruffly. "What did you say? And who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Algeirr. I don't think you know me, but you must know my Gudhrun, the one who keeps "The Sword of Elendil." We are going to marry when I come back from this trip. She sends you her greetings and this bottle of wine."

Algeirr fished a bottle of Dorwinion red from his saddlebag and offered it to the driver. The sight of the bottle and the mention of Gudhrun made the old man relax and beam back.

"What a pleasant surprise! How thoughtful of Gudhrun to send this bottle - and today of all days.... This awful stench from the coffin makes my throat dry as road dust. Come down man, tie your horses to my wagon and sit by me. We shall drink this bottle together."

Algeirr did as he was bidden. He was no accomplished horseman and the previous day in the saddle made his thighs ache. He climbed to the wooden bench and stretched out his legs. Damgir meanwhile fetched two bronze goblets and poured the wine.

"To Mistress Gudhrun and to the happy journey!" he toasted. Algeirr nodded and drank deeply. The wine was good - rich, and with fruity flavor. There was some other smell in the air as well, though, the stench of rot; slight, but unmistakable. The driver was right - the coffin stank.

"Hmm..." Algeirr mused aloud, sniffing the air. "Strange that the corpse stinks - wasn't it embalmed as the Dunedain custom demands?"

"Sure it was," grinned the driver morbidly. "Seems old Sarador lost his touch. But then the body is not supposed to be brought inside to rest near the fire at night, is it? Yestereve it didn't stink at all, but after this foolishness it became as putrid as the bowels of Barad-Dur."

So either Nauremir was really dead or Gimilbeth got him out last night, thought Algeirr. Then, where was he now? He was determined to find out. As soon as the bottle was empty, Algeirr took his leave of old Damgir, mounted his horse again and rode forward to the next wagon.

When level with the driver, he offered his usual greeting. "Hail, Master! Isn't it a fine day?"

The tall young man who was driving the second wagon turned to look at him. Algeirr saw the man's face become suddenly ashen. It was the familiar face of one of his recent victims...

As if in a nightmare, Algeirr watched the gray eyes staring at him widen in recognition. Now he was truly lost...

***

Callon turned his head towards the man who was hailing him, grateful for some friendly and coherent conversation (not much was to be hoped for from the painter or his assistant, apparently!) and then froze in disbelief. The blood drained from his face as he stared at the man who had led the attack against his sister and himself on the road. But - but - this was the Hillman merchant ... No! It was the man! It had to be - he couldn't be mistaken! That face was burned into his memory, and apparently this was just another deception the despicable scoundrel was playing...

Callon made a swift grab for Algeirr's reins, but the momentary confusion he had experienced over the man's identity gave Algeirr the time he needed to evade Callon's grasp. He spurred his horse away from the wagon as Callon yelled out, half-standing in the wagon and pointing vehemently towards Algeirr, "Stop him! STOP him!! He's a thief and a murderer!"

In a panic, Algeirr galloped along the road toward the head of the column. This way he had to face fewer men, as in front of the wagons were only Gimilbeth, Merendil and the knights of their entourage. But the cries of the Tark had alerted those in front, so when Algeirr passed the first wagon he was confronted by a chain of mounted knights with drawn swords. The road was barred...

He turned his horse around in desperation, but the soldiers from behind the wagons were almost upon him as well. There was the only escape left - into the woods away from the road. The dark fir trees on both sides stood dense and ominous, leaving no clear path. Algeirr rolled from his saddle and dived into the forest in a shower of needles, tearing his way through the heavy branches. He was followed by curses and cries and the sound of snapping twigs and branches. He had hardly made a dozen steps when someone grabbed him from behind. Algeirr kicked, but a heavy weight descended on his shoulders, pulling him down. A strong hand got hold of his hair and shoved his face hard into the forest floor. A heavy boot connected with his ribs and he ceased to struggle.

"Lead him here!" came Captain Merendil's order from the road. In a moment Algeirr found himself on his belly disturbingly close to the front hooves of the Captain's war stallion.

He raised his scratched, bleeding face and asked artfully, feigning indignation, "Why were you hunting me? I did no wrong! I only came up for a chat when this wagon driver attacked me. He must be raving mad... I only tried to save my life!"

Captain Merendil's left eyebrow rose expressively. The men who knew him grinned. "Then why did you run from my men, who would have defended you from this "mad" wagon driver?" he asked with a tinge of irony in his voice, dismounting to get a better look at the man. "Stop!" he commanded as Algeirr started to answer. "We will have everyone here who is involved in this before we talk further. Let him up, but keep a good hold on him so he won't be tempted to seek the 'safety' of the wilderness again," he added to the soldier holding Algeirr down.

Algeirr got up and started dusting himself off with the air of someone who has been greatly wronged but will be reasonable about it. He took a quick look at the Captain and was dismayed at the look he got back - Algeirr was used to fights where his side held all the advantages, and he didn't like his odds here at all ...

A look from Captain Merendil stopped Callon, who came running up, wanting nothing more but to get at Algeirr in a fair fight. With a great effort, Callon stopped, breathing hard, and bowed his head in a gesture of respect and obedience, contenting himself with catching his breath instead of his enemy, since he could see that Algeirr was now securely guarded by the soldiers. The time would come - he could be patient ... He looked at Algeirr with anger and contempt, and his hands balled into fists.

A young guardsman, a nephew of Captain Merendil, came running up to Callon and put his hand on his shoulder in a gesture of support. Callon looked at him gratefully and then turned back to stare at Algeirr with hate in his eyes.

Captain Merendil's other eyebrow rose. This was a curious situation ... his instinct was to believe the young Dunedain over the Hillman, but he must force himself to be fair. And his first duty was to the Princess. He remounted his stallion and called to his men, "Guard these two well - I will ride to the Princess and inform her of the situation, and see what she wishes to do."

Algeirr waited breathlessly for the Princess to appear. What a fool he had been to panic and to bolt like this... But, even so, it was his word against the Tark's. That is, if only they wouldn't search him.... The emerald necklace concealed in his breast pocket seemed to burn his skin. The thought of losing it was as unbearable as the thought of his own death.

Here she was at last: the dreaded Witch, looking lordly indeed. Gimilbeth was seated on a high lady's side-saddle, her magnificent fur mantle spread all over the stallion's flanks and back and hanging half-way down to the ground. She narrowed her piercing eyes at Algeirr as if he were a rare species of a particularly disgusting insect. Then the ruby lips curled in a cruel smile.

"Ahh... so you have caught a spy. Hang him and let us ride on."

Algeirr gasped, not believing his ears. There was an uneasy silence. Captain Merendil frowned in annoyance and protested.

"With all due respect, my Lady, we can't do that. He may be a Hillman, but he still has the right to a fair trial. Let the driver state his accusations and let this man defend himself."

Gimilbeth shrugged her shoulders and replied icily, "We are wasting our time, Captain."

But Merendil was a stubborn man, veteran of many wars, gruff but just. Pointedly ignoring the Princess, he gestured to the young wagon driver and asked in his harsh, booming voice.

"Speak up, man... uhm, Callon, isn't it? Do you know this Hillman named Algeirr? Why do you call him a thief and a murderer? What proof do you have?"

Callon took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He realized it was his word against the Hillman's, and if he wasn't careful, the man might escape justice again. Callon was a young man, but one who was used to dealing with large, unruly animals - he knew how to keep his head. He tore his eyes off of the Hillman and spoke to the Captain, lifting his head up proudly and speaking in a clear, firm voice.

"I call him 'thief' because he stole from me. I call him 'murderer' because I heard his plans to kill me and my ... wife." Callon couldn't help the slight pause before the word "wife" - it was so unnatural to say that! - but hoped it went by unnoticed. He put it behind himself and continued. "And I heard him speak with the other brigands about killing and stealing from other unfortunate travellers." He then gave a brief account of what had happened to them on the road.

Callon noticed that the sentiment of the men seemed to be on his side and was encouraged. Algeirr noticed it too, and grew more alarmed. Men were murmuring quietly and giving each other "I told you so! That's a Hillman!" looks. Captain Merendil noticed it, too.

"Quiet!" he snapped angrily, and the men grew silent again. Turning to Callon, he asked, "Is that all? Your word against his?"

"I can describe the knife that he used to do this to me," said Callon, and pointed to the still-healing scar on his neck.

Captain Merendil's left eyebrow rose as Callon turned to face Algeirr. He spoke softly and with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"And my 'proof' is back in Cameth Brin - Eryndil, the king's man that rescued us from this ... this coward, is there now, asked by the King himself to be his personal counselor."

Suddenly Callon could stand it no more. He turned back to Captain Merendil. "Please, sir, please - just let me fight him in a fair fight! He doesn't know what fair is - he attacked us, unprovoked, seven to two - and one of the two a girl!"

He whipped back around to face Algeirr. "Have you moved up to attacking grandmothers yet, you coward, or are they too much for you?" he taunted. "Maybe you could handle a grandmother if it was ten to one, and you had a knife and she didn't!" Algeirr was furious, but his life depended on keeping his temper.

"Captain, what is this ..." he started, but Callon cut him off. "Fight me here and now, you coward!" Callon yelled at the man he hated. "I don't have any girls with me to protect now. Can you handle a fair fight?" he taunted, aching to get his hands on the man that had hurt his sister. He made a movement towards Algeirr, but was firmly held back by Captain Merendil's nephew.

"Be quiet, young man!" the Captain said sternly. "You are not helping your cause!" But he knew that this was not true - attacking women was something that the soldiers despised, and they respected Callon for wanting revenge for his wife's sake.

"I'm sorry, sir, but if your wife had been abused as mine was, you would want to do the same thing!" said Callon, forcing himself to calm down again.

Captain Merendil gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and then turned to Algeirr.

"And what do you have to say for yourself? We are listening," he said, forcing himself to put aside his feelings, which lay entirely with the young wagon-driver.

Algeirr willed his hands and his voice not to shake and replied, trying to sound persuasive.

"I see now that this young man is not mad as I have thought, but was greatly wronged indeed. I understand his hurt feelings. But I have nothing to do with this crime. I am no brigand, but a honest merchant. I have settled in Tanoth Brin recently, but I came from the East, from Dol Aglardin, not from the North. Gudhrun, the keeper of "The Sword of Elendil," knows me well and can vouch for me. I am not responsible for the deeds of some murderer who may look remotely like me. Be reasonable - this man is mistaken."

Callon started to protest, but Captain Merendil stopped him. "It looks like we shall have to bind this man Algeirr and take him back to Cameth Brin with us - for regular trial. We shall have Eryndil's testimony decide the matter." He nodded to Callon "When we return, you shall testify again in front of the King's judges."

Gimilbeth, who was getting progressively bored and impatient to go on, was not at all satisfied with the Captain's ruling. The Hillman spy - he should not be left alive! Who knows how much he had already gleaned about Nauremir's business?! And then the driver, Callon, the only one who had never met Nauremir before - she needed him on the journey East and was not going to let him return to Cameth Brin with the soldiers. She glared at Merendil.

"I see you tend to believe this liar, Captain," she hissed. Then she continued, her clear voice carrying on to the whole company "Let me make a small prophesy - once back in Cameth Brin, Broggha will connive to let his man go free, brigand and murderer as he is - just like his Chieftain. Now is the last opportunity for a fair trial. I suggest asking the driver to describe the knife the other used to wound him and then search the thief to find it."

Algeirr visibly paled and felt cold sweat trickle down his spine. It was not his knife he was worried about. He had lost the knife the very day he cut Callon's throat with it - he was never able to find the small weapon when Eryndil's men scattered his gear in the forest. But there was something far more damning to be found in his pockets than the knife....

"Sooo.." Gimilbeth drawled, "What did this knife look like, driver?"

Callon balled his fists, willing himself to stay calm. He thought back to that awful day less than a month ago, and saw again the knife in the brigand's hand moving in to cut slowly across his own neck, the same knife later marring the soft white skin of Caelen... He gulped and replied. "The dagger is of rather poor workmanship, double-edged, about a foot long. It has an ornate wooden handle, the pommel is shaped in the likeness of a snarling wolf's head - the fangs stained red by some dye."

"Search the brigand," ordered Gimilbeth. The ring of steel in her voice was now unmistakable. Her eyes were on Merendil, a clear message in their icy depths: "Don't you dare hinder me!"

Without awaiting Merendil's confirmation, several soldiers rushed to Algeirr. Desperate now, he started fighting back, but was soon subdued, his face once again pushed into the dirt. Judging by the Hillman's reaction, everyone fully expected to find the dagger straight away, but the knife Algeirr carried had a simple metal handle, and was shorter than the one described.

Gimilbeth frowned. "Search him further!" The small pile of Algeirr's possessions on the ground was growing, but nothing interesting appeared. "Let me go - I have nothing more!" came Algeirr's muffled plea. Merendil raised his hand to give further orders, when one of the soldiers kneeling by Algeirr suddenly exclaimed, "Sweet Eru!" There in his outstretched hand a pile of green stones set in gold glittered, light reflecting in millions of facets.

Gimilbeth spurred her horse forward, nearly trampling the prostrate Algeirr. "Give that to me, now!" she hissed. Snatching the necklace from the soldier she raised it high for everyone to see.

"Behold Elessya the Green!" she exclaimed, "the very necklace that my ancestor Numendil, Lord of Andunie, received as a gift from the Elven King Gil-Galad - ages ago when Numenor still ruled the world. What is the most precious heirloom of the House of Dauremir doing in the dirty Hillman's pocket?" The men around watched, gaping in awe.

Eyes flashing, Gimilbeth rose in her stirrups. "This man is a thief!" she cried, pointing at Algeirr. "Hang him!"

Merendil shrugged his shoulders, defeated. "I guess the evidence is sufficient now..." he muttered. He gave short orders to the soldiers.

"Accursed witch! You will end your life swinging on a branch as well!" Aldgeirr growled, shaking his fist at Gimilbeth.

"I doubt it," she replied sweetly, unperturbed, for she knew his words were empty.

Soon the company moved on, leaving the still-convulsing body hanged by the neck from a branch of a giant pine by the road.

[Gordis]

Chapter 10. The Lovesick Orc

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ridge above the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 2, 1347
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Private Saakaf, what's going on down there now?" Corporal Durburz whispered. The two orc spies had been observing the scene down below for some time. Protected from both the sun and scrutiny by the dense covering of fir trees, their observation spot was on a rocky ledge high above the road. The rest of the company was lying in wait farther down the road.

"Quite a disruption, Corporal, and I don't know what to make of it. Anytime the enemy wales the bloomin' daylights out of their own kind, is a good day for us," Saakaf chortled as he turned to Corporal Durburz, the obvious glee and sadistic pleasure heavy in his voice. "Maybe they'll kill him. What do you think?" He was almost panting in his excitement.

"Don't count on it, Saakaf," Durburz growled. "That Tark who fled from the Princess' main party is probably a thief. Though they might rough him up a bit, I doubt they'll kill him, if they can help it. You know what fools Tarks are."

"Getting more interesting, Corporal. A soldier has just smashed the runaway's face into the ground, and is now bootin' him in the ribs. This is rich!" Saakaf gurgled excitedly and then moved closer to the edge of the cliff. He was silent for some minutes. "Aww, looks like the scuffle's over, Corporal," he groaned in disappointment.

"Saakaf, have you guzzled up all the draught? If you have, I'll break in your skull, you mangy little scum!" Durburz snarled, angry that there would probably be no fighting that day.

"No, sir!" Saakaf felt a prickle of fear move like ice down his spine, but he forced himself not to show his apprehension. "Here it is! I have hardly drunk any at all! Saving it for you, sir!" His lips drawing back from his fangs in a hideous grin, Saakaf handed the flask to his superior.

"Good, you little snot!" Durburz guzzled down the drink, some of the liquid running down the corners of his mouth and dripping on his leather armor. "What is happening now?"

"The Princess just rode up. Ooo! Ain't she a pretty sight to see in all her finery! Her all royal and everything, riding on her side saddle, a splendid mantle trailin' down her horse's flanks and back and almost dragging the ground. OO, indeed! She is a beauty!" His voice was low, rank with lust. "When we kidnap her and deliver her to His Majesty, they'll be golden coins jingling in our pockets!"

"Saakaf, I don't know you manage to do it, but you get more stupid every day! Don't you know? We ain't going to be the ones to present her! It'll be the Hillmen chieftain who gets all the credit, while we do the dirty work! That's the way it's always been, the way it always will be! When will you ever learn?"

"Sorry, sir," Saakaf mumbled. "You can't blame me for thinkin', can you?"

"That's your problem, you don't think, Saakaf! Your mind is full of smut and nothing else! What are they doing now, you lout?" Durburz tossed down another hefty swallow of draught.

"I'm thinkin' the lady's wantin' to kill him, but her captain is not taking to the idea too well," Saakaf replied moodily. "What a rare plaything she would make," he thought, cursing his luck that the princess was so far above him and unobtainable. "She's a strong-willed creature who wouldn't quail a bit at the sight of blood! She should have been born an orc!"

Corporal Duburz glanced at the sunlight filtering through the fir branches above them. "Curse this sun! At least we have good cover here, but still that light hurts my eyes! Daytime work is not for me! What are they doing now?"

"Corporal, it ain't like we're going to turn into stone when the sun hits us!" Saakaf said, trying to lessen the tension between the two of them.

"Shut up! Your humor is not appreciated. Maybe you don't really need your tongue! While you still have it in your mouth, just tell me what's going on," Corporal Durburz growled. The orc draught was not doing much to sweeten his mood, no matter how much he drank, but it wouldn't do any harm to drink some more, he thought.

"Well, the captain has talked her out of killing him, that's for sure. Now one of the wagon drivers is havin' his say."

"I'm going to take a look for myself." Durburz slid closer to the edge of the cliff and peered down to the road below.

"What do you make of it, Corporal?" Saakaf ventured cautiously.

"It's a botched job, and I have a feeling that Broggha's man blundered someway and got himself caught!"

"What do you mean? What about the signal?" Saakaf asked, puzzled.

"You fool! Can't you get anything through your thick skull? I don't think there is going to be any signal! Besides that, there are far too many soldiers for our number to go against. Saakaf, here's what I want you to do. Report back to Captain Ashuk and tell him that if I'm not mistaken, Broggha's agent has been captured, and we need new orders. After you have reported, join up with me south along the ridge, where I will be keeping the Princess' party under observation."

***

After Private Saakaf had lumbered off along the top of the ridge, Durburz lay flat on the edge of the cliff and observed the road below him. In the past few minutes, the scene had become infinitely more interesting. His eyes lit up with a gleaming malice as the prisoner was escorted to the hanging tree. With each step Algierr took, the orc breathed harder. Durburz could scarcely bear the anticipation. His muscles were tense and straining with the urge to make his own kill. He dug his clawed fingernails into the shallow soil. When the noose was placed around the prisoner's neck, Durburz was panting in long, ragged gasps. The body dropped! When Algierr's neck hit the end of the rope, low snarls and growls erupted out of the orc's throat.

"Saakaf will hate himself when he finds out that he missed out on all of the sport," he chuckled to himself. Mind still transfixed, he watched the twitching corpse swing slowly from the tree branch. "Fresh meat," he licked his lips. That night when things settled down, Corporal Durburz would creep to the floor of the valley, cut the corpse free and make off with it. He would have his fill and then hide the body beneath a rock cairn. He could always get the remainder later, and none of the rest of the company needed to know. Only a fool shared when he didn't have to do so. It had been a good day, but the night showed promise of being even better.

***

Private Saakaf was more than a little apprehensive as he trotted along the ridge to the rendezvous with the rest of the company. He felt fear biting like a snake, bitter and harsh deep in his guts. Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong, and he was not quite certain how he could explain it all to Captain Ashuk.

"Ashuk won't like this," he grumbled as he arrived at the edge of a grove of young firs. A fire had destroyed the old growth a few years back, and now the new trees were thick and bushy. Pushing his way through the last of the branches, he walked out into a small clearing. The ridge narrowed into a bony spine here, the ground on both sides falling away into steep ravines, jumbled boulders and dense groves.

Smelling the air, he stopped by a large spruce whose top had been blasted out by lightning during some storm in the past. The night wind blowing from the northwest put him downwind from the company. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils wrinkling at the reek of filthy bodies blending with the aroma of wood smoke, earth and trees. He could even recognize the individual smells of a number of the men in the company. He knew the scent of Captain Ashuk all too well.

"I doubt any of us have had a bath since we were born... or even then," he chuckled. "Those tarks and even hillmen keep washing up - makes 'em hard to tell apart without their smell." He would not spend much time in reflection about that, though, for he was rapidly approaching the picket post. Even though he and the picket were in the same clan, of the same blood, and had known each other almost since they were whelps, still he had to stand at attention and give the password. Ashuk wouldn't stand for sloppy discipline. With a grunt and a nod, the orderly waved him ahead.

"Saakaf," the captain recognized his salute with a nod, "what news?"

"Sir, I don't know what to make of it..."

"Don't try to make anything of it! Just tell me what happened!"

"Sir," Saakaf stood so stiffly at attention that it looked like his spine had turned into an iron rod, "first of all sir, Princess Gimilbeth's escort is far too large for this company of only two hundred to attack with any hope of success."

"Rotten news! Anything else?" Captain Ashuk growled.

"Corporal Durburz bids me tell you that it is his opinion that the spy who was to give the signal for our attack is no more." Cringing, Saakaf watched the captain's eyes narrow, his jaw set as his face began to build to that thundercloud of anger which could erupt into a killing fury.

"Saakaf, what are you talking about!" the captain snarled.

"Sir, it's like this... Durburz saw a man take off running, but the soldiers soon caught up with him and brought him back to the main party. There was quite a bit of arguing back and forth about what to do with him. Princess Gimilbeth demanded that he be executed, but her captain of the guard was urging her to go easy on him. All that changed when he was searched and one of the soldiers found some sort of jewels - a necklace or something upon him. From all the excitement about the discovery, the jewelry must be worth a king's ransom!"

"Hmmmm..." Captain Ashuk listened intently as he reached a hand into the neck of his tunic and scratched his fleas. "Things are getting sweeter all the time. A necklace, you say, and very valuable? The North might be happy about this. Maybe it's some rare treasure from that sunken island where everyone says His Majesty was born!"

"Captain Ashuk, you really think that's true? He is THAT old?" Saakaf's beady eyes had popped open wide and he gaped at his superior officer.

"Saakaf, you simpleton! How would I know? A mere captain of a company of orcs is not taken into His Majesty's confidences! Don't ever ask me such a stupid question like that again." Captain Ashuk's beefy hand darted out and slapped Saakaf's helmet so hard that the orc was knocked to one side.

His ears still ringing, Saakaf gulped and righted himself. "No, no, sir, no sir, never again! Accept my apologies!"

"Saakaf, you are never going to rise above the rank of private. You will spend the rest of your wretched days cleaning stinking latrines! Appropriate, don't you think, for an idiot like you?" Captain Ashuk leered at him.

"Oh, yes, sir, oh yes! Very appropriate, sir!" Private Sakaaf resisted the urge to clutch his head and groan. His skull felt as though it was going to explode at any moment. He tried to think of something more pleasant to drive the pain from his head. Fresh manflesh, well-beaten to make the blood rise close to the surface, red and sumptuous... A female orc as lusty as he was. Rich booty, gold and silver... Tark halls and keeps belching up with flames and black smoke, then burning to ash... Nothing was working. His head was still throbbing as though someone were pounding him over the head. His old comforts didn't seem to help tonight. Then he put his mind to thinking about the most beautiful and wondrous thing he had ever seen in all his life.

The image of Princess Gimilbeth flashed through his mind. She was riding her magnificent horse with the caparisons streaming out behind it like banners floating off a standard. "She is magic," he thought as he felt his heart skip a beat. Her proud voice commanding her men, her face haughty and beautiful, her dark hair like the wing of a raven... He smiled in spite of the pain. "I must be in love," he thought, "in love for the first time in ever all my life! How can I endure this agony until I see her again!"

Captain Ashuk's bellow brought him back from his dazed reverie. "What else do you have to report? What happened to the man?"

"The princess ordered him hanged, and the last time I saw him, his corpse was swinging from a branch."

"This changes everything," the captain spat out through clenched teeth. "The company just has to follow the princess' entourage until we see a good opening. Then we hit them!" He rubbed his warty chin and laughed maliciously.

"I can follow her forever," Saakaf thought dreamily, "to the ends of the earth!"